Independent Australia’s contributing editor-at-large, Tess Lawrence, writes an open letter to Cory ‘The Beast’ Bernardi.
Dear Cory Bernardi,
I am a gay bisexual lesbian transgenderbender homosexual heterosexual ladyboy who dabbles in the dark arts and dribbles meat pies at the footy, so for all intents and purposes, I’m just your average Victorian/Victoriana, or Joe Blowjob.
I am sooooo in love with you, babe. Your hubby is a lucky bloke. You are my hero for what you said in Parliament the other day about gay marriage opening the paddock gates to bestiality. Spot on.
Tell me about it.
I got married to my gay hermaffrodite American-born partner in the USA a while back and we exchanged vows, rote our own prescriptions for the ceremony and all, and got the wedding garb second hand at a good price from the girls on the avenue who wanted to update their wardrobe anyway. So, Bob’s your aunty.
We flashed a bit of bling and I done the right thing by the Missus – he’s the girlie one – and I’m, well, I’m a bit ‘how’s your father’ if you get my drift. Wouldn’t know if I was Arthur or Martha and, being Aussie, couldn’t care less if I was neither or both.
Oh gawd, I’m waffling. Beasting about the bush, I suppose. Anyhow, we all went for a bit of a frolic in the famous bi-Central Park and cracked a couple of tinnies and some bubbly for the outlaws.
Until we got back home. They say that marriage changes you. And I am changed, Cory — I’m telling you straight, mate. I am a changed, whatever I am.
I wish we’d never got married. We’d lived together for years and that bit of paper has somehow torn us apart. I’ve heard about that happening from my abnormal friends. You know, a woman and a man living in the sin bin since Jesus was a boy and then, bingo, they get married because of their middle-aged kidlets — and suddenly it all goes wrong! Can’t wait to see the ridgeback of one another.
Tell you what. Dude, that’s what happened to us. No twoway threesome about it.
I can tell by your eyes that you’re a believer, and from your words you’re a wake up to what I’ve been thinking.
I felt as if you were reading my secret thoughts. You are so understanding.
How did you guess? Love your work, Cory. You are what I call a real man. I so get you.
Geez, I make myself wild, I’ll come straight to the pointless.
Ever since we got hitched I’ve been fantasing about making love to beasts. Beasties I call them; sort of a pet name. All day-o and all night, daylight come and me wanna go horny. Do ya read me, Cory? I like a bit of porn, so I can’t be too explicit in case the Pederal Police are listening in. I’m not into kids. I’m not one of those. Hang the bastards, I say.
Anyway the cops have got these systems where computers lock into certain key words, like ‘sex’ and ‘beasts’.
I had a bit of a squizzy on Google yesterday, just for a bit of r’n'r and keyed in those words – and they popped up hard and fast Cory – alongside your name all over the place.
You’re a legend, Bernardi. I reckon you’ll get a gig on The Farmer Wants a Wife. Oink! Oink! Nudge. Nudge.
Well, at least you’ve got us all talking about it; the whole world — even the Brits.
At least it’s out there now, Cory, and we have you to thank for that.
Why should New Zealand be the only ones? We aren’t 100% pure, either. We’ve got something to be sheepish about too, surely. After all, we’re shipping hundreds of thousands of them offshore just to be killed.
Crikey, I’ll reel myself in, spinner.
For example, whenever I spot a cloven hooved beast, I find my whoremones go crazy.
There’s this stud ox up the road from us and I’ve fallen in love with him. He’s got some fancy Scottish name that’s too long to moan to and so I just call him Bruce.
I keep nicking off and saying I have to go up the road for milk and I just lean on the fence and stare at Bruce for hours and hours. I know he senses me. I believe he feels the same way about me.
Every now and again, he looks up from eating, as if to ensure I am okay. He sort of winks shyly as he does this and sometimes he paws at the ground with one of his manly bullocky legs. It’s his way of waving, even if it is a low-hung wave.
I do fantasise about rutting with Bruce. I keep wondering if it would be a bit messy doing it, but, a sort of messy oxtail soup kind of thing, Cory. I guest you would have thought about all that in your research to prepare for your parliamentary speech.
But it’s not just about the sex Cory, you are absolutely right. I don’t want to just have sex with Bruce. I want to marry Bruce. I do. I do. I do. Even the thought of it makes me so happy.
Some people might think me a pillock to marry a bullock, but not you Bro. You are a man ahead of the times; a shaman of society’s mores.
But how to tell my better half that I now want to exchange nose-rings with Bruce?
The other day, as Bruce and I were having a bit of non-penetrating hoofplay, we got to mooing about our past lives. Bruce thinks he might have been one of us and I think I might have been one of them.
We’re even thinking about having an interspecies bodysexplant.
What happened was, I showed him pictures of Centaurs and Bruce looked at me in a way that he’s never looked at me like before. We both nodded. We were thinking exactly the same thing at the same time.
We will cut our bodies in half and exchange upper and lower parts. That is, Bruce will be half bullock and half man and I will be half man and half bullock, just like in ancient times.
I am off to India soon, on my way to a foundation meeting of the International Hunky Dory Cory Convocation of Interspecies Marriage, called by the Royal and Ancient Order of Buffalo Bill Interspecies Marriage supporters.
There are beasties coming from all over the world. It will probably be like Noah’s Ark.
Unlike the current Marriage Act, our bill will not exclude beasts that are straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, et cetera.
Whilst there, I will be meeting with several surgeons already deft in transgender surgery, to see what hope there is for Brucey and I.
If all goes well in the bollocks section of my beloved bullock, we might even be able to have progeny. If we do have little bullockettes, we will name one of them Bernard in your honour, if it’s a boy bullock and Bernadine if it’s a girl. Otherwise we will consider a surrogate cow.
I think my current partner already suspects something is up. We haven’t had sex in donkeys’ years and a few times I’ve trodden in Bruce’s huge oxpats and got home with stains on my collar and some of Brucey’s coarse hair on my lapel.
No bullocks, buffaloes or sheep or people were killed or injured or hurt in the preparation of this article, which is more than can be said for the fate of our poor live export boat creatures and the prejudice against gay marriage displayed by our politicians, not least the facile comments of Senator Cory Bernardi:
‘There are even some creepy people out there, who say that it’s OK to have consensual sexual relations between humans and animals. Will that be a future step?’
(By Tess Lawrence, contributing editor-at-large, who categorically declares she has never had sex with beasts but, yes, she has loved – and greatly – creatures great and small.)
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Australia License