Well, what's worse? This afternoon I felt the beginnings of my `Martin Bryant' anxiety attack (if you believe the conspiracy theorists, Bryant was an incompetent marksman who didn't know an automatic rifle from a 2B pencil, and he was dropped in the shit after someone else popped all the diners at the Broad Arrow. But I digress), the one where I imagine "how many Pinks could I send to Bob if some SAS goon dropped a Steyr in my lap right now?" while I was walking down the Bourke St Mall. Harry, if you can hold on until the Erection, write your deepest danky doom dark doomy dank thoughts on your ballot. I intend to write vague, cryptic threats on mine, threatening to kidnap, tie and gag the prettiest senator and the ugliest senator and then indulging in some disney copyright violation by making a 'beauty and the beast' video, complete with fur and Linda Hamilton.

So who liked the cat?