Paul Henry - tormented by retards
Can I just start by saying, members of the Broadcasting Parole Board, how grateful I am to you for releasing me back into the community. It's been a week now, and my new employer TV3 has been very supportive, and I'm sure I'll continue to be a good boy.
Really, though, it's only fair that I'm back. I mean goodness knows that for whatever crime I'm supposed to have committed I've certainly done the time. Talk about hard labour - have you seen Australian TV lately?
You'll never find a more wretched hive of flyblown old men with bladder control problems and frankly down-out- of-the-trees ugly women.
In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if . . .
Ah, but no . . . that's what the old Paul might have said. Not the New Paul. Restrained, measured with just the right degree of cheekiness. That's what they're paying me for, and that's what they're getting. Breathe. Breathe. That's better.
Still, you've got to see my point of view.
I just have this unique personality trait. I say what I think. And I say what other people think but don't dare to say.
If other people see an overweight person inhaling a hot-dog and slurping on a two-litre serving of cola-flavoured diabetes-enabler, those other people might tut-tut to themselves.
But some sort of filter stops them saying anything out loud. Civility, politeness, weakness, call it what you will.
But that's just not the way the good Lord made me. If that bloated lard-arsed waste of space comes into my field of vision I'm just as likely to call him out in public for the embarrassment he is. Or she. It probably will be a she.
Then again I might not. That's me, you see - unpredictable!
I just can't help myself - it's just the way I am!
I mean it's the way I was. Not now. I'm a good boy now. Comfortably numb. You don't need to worry about me. That's all past history.
Although really when you think about the things I used to say, it was sort of like having Tourette's syndrome, wasn't it? And no-one blames people with Tourette's syndrome, do they?
No, those people get a support group and a hug. Probably a government grant too.
So where was my support group when I subtly suggested the Governor-General didn't look like a real New Zealander? Where was my hug? Where was . . .
Yes, of course I'll calm down. Anyway, I'm not bitter. That's all behind me. Deep breath, Paul. Stay classy. Must. Control. These. Urges.
What are you doing?
There's no need for that straitjacket! I see it now - you're part of the PC Brigade, trying to silence me again. Moustache! Dikshit! Retard! You don't look like a New Zealander either! No! Get away! You'll never take me! Freedom!
What? Where am I?
Oh God, that was all a dream. A terrible nightmare. When will they stop? Why do my past victims continue to torment me so? Everyone I go, there they are.
I'll think I'll just get up and get a warm glass of milk, Susan. Susan? Susan Boyle? What are you doing here? Nooooooo!