That unattributed quote was linked this week to a new production at Wellington's Bats Theatre, described as an "expressionist biography" of Muldoon. I hope this does not mean it involves the special artistic hell known as expressive dance, but I fear it could.
The thing is, I remember Muldoon, an astounding fact that may now seem a bit like remembering Napoleon, who shared his diminutive stature and pugilistic nature.
I neither liked nor admired him, and deplored his bullying behaviour; I thought he was a damned fool for enabling the notorious Springbok rugby tour of 1981; his constant references to "Rob's Mob", his imaginary millions of adoring admirers incensed me; but to call him evil is to go too far.
He was just a snappy little bloke who we made Prime Minister. Bad call.
You can't explain the past to younger people. They can't imagine the effect returned servicemen like Muldoon had on politics and policy here because they didn't grow up in the shadow of World War II.
And if you brought Muldoon back to life by some dire feat of black magic, he would not believe what we've done with this country.
Maddening as he was, vile as he could be, Muldoon would not have imagined you could get away with selling off the state's assets and depriving people of jobs in the belief that somehow the market would solve the social problems that followed.
Compared with some in the Act Party, I'd call him a softie.
We've had a fair few prime ministers in our short history, about whom I bet we know almost nothing. But if we're going to talk about evil, I'd call Richard John Seddon, whose statue graces Parliament's front lawn, a contender.
Well may the pigeons poo on the effigy of the man, pointing confidently towards heaven as if to hector God.
He was a rabid racist, a believer in the Yellow Peril who made sure the odds were heavily stacked against would-be Chinese immigrants and who likened Chinese people to monkeys.
He also opposed votes for women and, on both of those counts, his nickname, King Dick, was well earned. That said, it was under his watch that the first move towards social welfare began. Few people are entirely nasty.
On a more serious note, I am deeply worried about New Zealand Fashion Week.
Its founder, Pieter Stewart, this week warned that its days could be numbered unless the Government stumps up some cash. Plainly this is a desperate situation. I wonder how I can help.
Perhaps I should put myself down for an ensemble from the Starfish autumn winter 2012 collection, featuring jewellery made of resin and recycled plastic collected on beaches.
Having driven to Auckland and back in the past few days, I can appreciate this unusual concept.
State Highway 1 is littered from one end to the other with plastic drink bottles, tin cans and food wrappers, one long necklace of detritus proclaiming our true feelings for the environment.
Surely it could all be threaded together and draped around the neck of the Seddon statue, a fitting fashion statement from a posterity that has neither heard of him nor grasped the point of rubbish bins.
