I have read the aforementioned article and have Aargh to spare.

RSJS writes:

Once upon a time, when toothsome nectar flowed through the streams and rivers of New Zealand (none of this neologistic Aotearoa nonsense back then), when birds drank dew and farted rainbows and nary a cloud dotted the sky, Garth George grew into the man he once was, in a realm armpit-deep in egalitarian peoples of all races and ethnicities. Sadly, since political correctness arrived to shit into his pristine wilderness with a festering, splattering sphincter positioned between the buttocks of special interests and zombie politicians, Garth has been huddling under an umbrella under this torrential and chunky downpour, wondering where the Halcyon days of yore went. Because this pigfucker must have spent his youth severely abusing the Halcyon, washed down with some triple-distilled moonshine brewed up in the animal-sexin’ shed where he had “date night” with Flossy and a baked-bean tin full of aforementioned rocketfuel. He’s now a blind shell of a man, spitting bile at the world that is no longer shiny and clean. .

Now, I’m not too enamoured with society at the moment, but nor do I believe that before the eighties when “Political Correctness” became a phrase, then a punchline, then an insult, then a type of computer, that we were in Garth’s egalitarian paradise. Now being a white middle-class college boy I never experienced troubles in the seventies but by fuck I know it was there. Sam the Bald Egalitarian? Bullshit. There was poverty, there was discrimination and the casual racism that I grew up immersed in, and god help any poor guy who liked cock… What the PC movement did was try to end discrimination against all the people Garth probably considers to be subhuman, unChristian vermin. His utopia was one in which Aryans ruled and cock-gobbling jungle-bunnies knew their place, far and away from wifeykins with her silly notions of the vote. “Ha hah,” he’d say as she tried to convince him women could vote “That’s a good one, I’ll tell the lads. Now go shit me out another strapping rugby player woman, I feel a burning need to spawn a litter of thugs to prove I’m virile. And none of that “daughter” nonsense neither, try that communist shit again and you can both starve on Vulture Rock as god intended”. Frankly, that sort of codswallop about the world being better before it became politically correct translates almost word-for-word to “God I loved it in the days of the Raj when we could shoot the darkies with impunity and bash queers all the livelong day with not so much as a clip round the earhole from Constable Stabby, gor blimey”. What a closed-minded curmudgeonly clitoris that pockmarked mutant is. Wah wah the world isn’t like it was when I was permanently whacked on prescription medications while bowels-deep in a Captain Cooker. The government doesn’t represent the needs of me, a Grandpa Simpson caricature. I swear, bristle-face is one “Maaaaaaaatlooock” away from copyright infringement. And another of his beefs is that prison is nice to people, giving them a better quality of living than they had on the outside and it doesn’t torture their scaly hides enough. I want more torture and prison beatings, cries Garth. Bread and water, sodomy, violence. The rack, the Iron Maiden, the thumbscrews for hitchhikers and the choke-apple for cock-smokers, the red hot pokers for women found showing their faces outside their burqas… His disregard or even complete ignorance of homosexuality is indicated by the suggestion prisons should have same-sex guards to stop liaisons ‘tween staff and con, for he cannot imagine such couplings between godless heathens of the same gender presumably as he cannot imagine fornication outside of wedlock and god knows the queens and greasy diesel bull-dykes will never be allowed to marry, not on his watch…

I have a dream. When this artificially-hip cancer-tumour of a man, liverspotted of pate and vitriolic of vein, meets Clarence. Clarence will be the prisoner who went to jail due to the police’s crackdown (on Mister Georgie-porgie pie-eating twat’s insistence) on what even Garth calls “petty” offences (i.e. graffiti, or glue-sniffing, jaywalking, not being Garth, chewing gum, breathing loudly, liking Liza Minelli… but not running people over in mobility scooters as why Garth is a pillar of the community and should be allowed to mow down pedestrians blah blah huff puff gah). In prison he (Clarence, DO try to keep up) was fed stale bread and toilet water and made to lift pointy rocks all day with a bent spoon and enjoy Commandant Spanky’s pustulous cock all night. He is released bitter and shoulder-bechipped, supremely muscled, and with a sick, self-loathing penchant for yodelling buggery. Transformed from a harmless tagger into the Hulk, he stumbles upon Garth and clefts him in twain with a mighty butt-fuck extravaganza of faecal lubricant and fainting. Garth’s prized sphincter becomes Clarence’s new cock-ring and the poor old geezer is left in a pool of sundry bodily fluids from both parties, his Pekinese Yipyip lapping at his cooling intestines and pissing into his severed femoral artery so he finally chokes out his bilious last with dog-urine in his heart and hate in his thoughts at a prison system that allows monsters to roam free. His final scrabbling gestures will be an attempt to write a letter to the editor about rehabilitation but by then it is too late as his gristly blood-pump will have shoved the last of Yipyip’s pee up to his skull and he will be another 80kg of landfill for the PD monkeys to bury.

From this day forth I will pray that Garth will die with a head full of dog piss for his sins, fuck him and good night.

See, ranting is easy.