Promiscuous thoughts of Colin Craig

I pine for Colin. Not Pine Tree Colin. Not me. None of that real bloke – break your nose and put it back and never talk about it stuff. No. I’m thinking more of a little man in a suit who, with those bedroom eyes called me hither from those billboards the last election.

It might have been the radiant moral purity emanating - I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t help thinking thoughts. Naughty promiscuous thoughts, whenever I think of Colin Craig. I guess I just have a special affection for people who say extremely bizarre things or maybe it’s just that we kiwi girls are, if you listen to Colin, so easy. According to the mad Latin – this is true. Which I find interesting, if slightly offensive. His theory is that the only way we have a sustainable population base is because the girls take the initiative – if mating were dependent on the conquest skills of Kiwi blokes, according to his anthropological studies conducted in pubs in Whangarei, we’d be extinct by the middle of the century.

But academia bores me. My mind is on Colin. He won’t take my calls. It’s two in the morning I drive round to his but John Banks and Dotcom are there.

Dotcom wants to give him money to support compulsory sterilisation of all politicians. He wants to organise supporters for a rally.

Colin tells him he’ll need at least a hundred bucks a head because that’s what it cost him last time he tried to organise a spontaneous outbreak of outrage in the populace over the anti-smacking law.

John has a bunch of flowers and a Mexican quartet singing songs of evangelical love to Colin on the balcony above.
Colin insists that he has chosen marriage as an alternative to a gay life. John says he’ll jump into bed with anyone as long as they’re paddling their cabbage boat somewhere politically advantageous to himself. He can’t see why Colin is getting so uptight.

The Mexican quartet start singing ’50 ways to leave your Lover’ in Spanish accents.

Dotcom asks John if he’s trying to tell him something. John thinks he might have been but he’s forgotten.

Dotcom leaves to get his inflatable tank and says when he comes back everyone will be very very sorry.

Dotcom gone, Banks declares his ability to change his ways. He says he can change teams, change games, pitch or catch whatever Colin thinks would work and couldn’t he just pop in for a quick cup of tea and a chat?

Colin calls him a pervert and says he’s already betrothed to Mr. Key, who is also married and has never been seen anywhere near Dotcom at the casino. He says that if John Banks doesn’t leave him alone he’ll call the police.

At which John Banks sputters: ‘ Transexuals, bisexuals and transvestites are not wanted in the police. The last thing we need in this country is policemen walking the beat wearing lipstick and pantyhose.”

I wonder if this applies to women – and also want to remind him that he already said this in 1992 but then remember he has short and long term memory loss.

Colin starts throwing the pot-plants at John who retreats to his helicopter and is attacked at about 20 metres altitude with a barrage of fireworks. The helicopter crashes and deflates the blow up tank and Dotcom, who is left with a permanent injury.

Dotcom decides to ring Nick Smith to see if he can get any action from ACC. The cell phone rings from deep under a rock surrounded by freshly dug turf. John looks a little embarrassed – or nervous – it’s hard to tell.

Michelle Boag shows up and says that she is Dotcom’s pakeha kaumatua and would anyone like a jar of plum jam. Strangely Michelle Boag is the perfect solution to quell anybody’s ardour and I’m relieved to find my promiscuous tendencies once again under control.

I head home for a cuppa with the mad Latin to whom I am happily unmarried.

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