My Hit Squad

I hate everyone today. I'm dreaming of my hit squad. I have bought the balaclavas and the Lear Jet and the boys are being trained, as we speak. Just can't decided on the full leather body suit, a la biker leathers, or black suits and sunglasses.

Personally, I'd go for mico-kilts and leggings, I'm a legs man, but we have to be practical, hey?

Someone annoys you, the boys just turn up. You know, for stupid people.

It'll be 3 strikes and you're out, before the hit-squad will be sent in to finish them off with oozies, what words and emails couldn't fix.

Those people who step out of doorways without looking. Slow walkers in the street.

"Microkilts are sooo 2001, Christian," said my assistant. "I'm glad u decided on something more classic!"

"They would be more Troy, circa 2004 than Mardi Gras, circa 2001," I said. "How do you feel about Shane Crawford drones?"

Workers who never pull their weight, who some how always to have a go at blaming you for their incompetence. People on their mobile phones speaking loudly on trams.

People who finish their sentences with ay. People who say Australia without the L.

I may have to have a sub-cub team stationed permanently in Queensland, you know what they are like. I picture them in black (running) shorts, with split legs and black singlets, you know what the weather is like? Boots. I think with knee guards and chin guards and elbow guards, just to strap them up a little, just for the look.

People who just stop when they are driving, when there seems to be no apparent reason. Peroxide blond middle aged women in four wheel drives who think they are driving tanks.