As soon as you heard about his alleged affair, the image formed in your mind, intrusive, unbidden. Barnaby Joyce having sex. Now, I don’t know about your imagination, but in mine it wasn’t pretty. And the more you try to push it away, the worse it becomes. There’s only one solution to banish this ugly vision forever. You must face your fear, stare down the HORROR until it relinquishes its grip on your poor battered mind.
To wit, dear reader, I’m about to do you a favour. Picture Barnaby, our lobster incarnate, face craggy and pockmarked like an enormous mutant strawberry, downing a Viagra and breathing heavily as he prepares for congress with his chosen partner, about whom we know absolutely nothing. Given that he, she or they have been veiled from sight by an extraordinarily judicious media, we can take the liberty to pencil in her form (let’s assume for the sake of argument, it’s a her). She looks like a 1920s courtesan in her mid-50s, well past her prime, her eyes droopy from the opium she’s been smoking, make up slightly smudged and with an expression of ennui heavy enough to obliterate any horror that she has seen, or will see. Barnaby of course is oblivious to any of this, clearly concentrating more upon the moist indentations upon her person. Barnaby is close now, his flannelette shirt abandoned on the floor with a pair of too-short shorts and oh Jesus, a pair of what would have been white Y-fronts if it weren’t for those awful, awful stains. Thank God, they disappear out of sight as he tosses his Akubra on top. The socks stay on. Of course.
Barnaby’s lips are pulsing a violent red now as his rock-hard, veiny penis throbs against his chest like the mallet against the bass drum of an enthusiastic high school grindcore band playing way too fast. There’s nowhere left in the red section of the spectrum for his face to flush as it pushes further into the infrared, then full circle into true violet. Sweat streams down his face like a braided river. He leans into his courtesan friend, tugging at the strings of her silk kimono, which falls open allowing a couple of tentacles to escape. They coil languidly around his flabby thighs and draw him close and they fall backwards onto her bed, which incidentally and somewhat incongruously is covered in a 70s bedspread of ruched nylon. He manoeuvres his phallus into her cloaca and then they’re at it, juddering violently like a turtle with epilepsy or some ungodly coupling of an alien squid being with an unhealthy would-be-pensioner, which of course is exactly what is happening. As he nears climax, his eyes, nose and every vein and capillary on his face bulge. His mouth opens wide and then he screams: “CARP!”
At last, long, long, long, long last, it’s over and they spring apart and lie, heaving and covered in green speckledy slime, on their backs, and for the first time you can see the neon white glow of Barnaby’s underbelly. He lights up a cigarette. She meanwhile has maintained her grip on her cigarette holder throughout.
There you go. You’ve seen all there is to see now. You need never think of Barnaby fucking again.
You are welcome.