Differentiate or Drop Dead

My inbox and DMs are a cesspool of Liberal Party cry babies, snivelling over the election’s crushing verdict. Their howls could wake a coma patient, but the truth cuts deeper than their crocodile tears.

Here’s the autopsy, served raw:

Giles: Labor’s a latrine! I hate the direction of our country.

Kenelm: What would you prefer?

Giles: I don’t know. Not Labor.

Kenelm: Giles, it’s no lark watching the Liberal Party slit its own throat. The conservative cabal is at the helm, steering full-tilt into a maelstrom. Dutton, Nicolle Flint in Boothby, Basic in Mayo, a whole herd of them—smashed to smithereens. You know marketing’s old iron law: differentiate or die. But conservatives? They’re socialism’s bootlickers, polishing Labor’s jackboots while the nation chokes.

The cure? Unleash the reformist classical liberals and libertarians—men with ideas and spines, not rudderless jellybacks. Socialists lurch left and classical liberals steer right. Conservatives? They barely nudge the brakes, drop the wheel, and mumble for directions without a clue as to the destination.

Election results? A neon epitaph for their cowardice and ineptitude. Look at Labor—not even a referendum spanking on The Voice slows their shameless gallop. Boldness conquers. Wallflowers wither.

Giles: What does reform even mean?

Kenelm: Reform? It’s the bloody, dripping heart of centre-right classical liberalism, the only alternative to socialism, and the country’s famished for it. Here’s the slaughterhouse cut:

Gut the welfare state, one ruthless slice at a time. Ditch the progressive tax’s stranglehold for a flat tax that rewards grit. Start a business with five-plus hands? Year three, opt into a 20% flat tax if you keep them hired. Got four kids and a marriage that doesn’t crumble? 20% tax—breeds homegrown families, flips off immigration bloat, and kicks Family Law hyenas in the teeth. Five kids, same man? 10% tax for life. New industry? 20% tax, no fuss. Turn university R&D into gold mines, not grant-sucking black holes.

Choke Medicare by freezing rebates. The Uniparty’s been doing this for years anyway. Let doctors hike fees till patients scream. Cut GP clinics loose from Medicare’s yoke and torch private health red tape. Watch insurers and GPs rush to fill the void.

Pick one backwater town per state, crown it a tax-free Valhalla—no corporate tax, no income tax, no GST, no fuel excise. No welfare, Medicare, or NDIS handouts either. Live there, work there, prosper there. Capital cities can watch the exodus.

Rubber-stamp citizenship for deep-pocketed investors, battle-tested foreign moguls, and lab-coat geniuses. The rest? Ten years to citizenship, no welfare until they are citizens. Native title? Slap a three-year guillotine. Unsettled claims revert to the Crown—90% will evaporate. Burn the built-in racism of “Aboriginal corporations”. Let every race stake native title. If you were born here, you’re native after all. Remote Indigenous dumps rotting in jobless squalor? Transition out subsidies. Offer trade skills for those who seek a better life in the towns. Let the 670 or so “on country” settlements become ghost relics to Whitlamesque paternalism.

Offer parents education vouchers. Let them shop schools like they shop for a star-rated fridge. Post school rankings—best soar, worst crash. Shut the Federal Department of Education. It’s a bureaucratic tumour. Energy? Rip out subsidies and bans. Let coal, gas, nuclear, wind, and solar compete for cheap, steady and clean supremacy.

Crank defence to 4% of GDP. Double-down on the U.S. alliance, funnel billions into forward-projection tech and local R&D. Every soldier gets a 20% tax opt-in. Recruit like there’s no tomorrow. Store fuel for trade and tanks. Hack down the import walls—Trump’s dead right about our beef swindle. Free trade, no alibis.

The fallout? Public servants and corporate zombies will bleed higher taxes. Small businesses will explode as workers bolt from soul-crushing desk farms. The welfare state will wither and free enterprise will thunder. Folks will be wealthier, happier and more fulfilled.

This is the Liberal Party’s last gasp: a reformist battering ram powered by liberalism’s molten core. Conservatism’s spineless whimpering is a funeral dirge.

Differentiate, you gutless wonders, or your party is just maggot chow.

Giles: (Flicks over a grinning selfie, clueless as ever.)