Over at AIMN (Australian Independent Media Network) is a new piece I have written titled “PEACE IN OUR TIME”.
You may read it there if you wish.
Click the fucking link.
On my brief train journey to work this morning, looking at the passengers standing and seated around me, I began to notice the shoes the women were wearing, and I thought to myself, it occurred to me for the very first time, that outside of men’s ties, what utterly stupid, impractical, impossibly crackpot, items of so-called “fashion” they are.
What on earth is that thing for? Why do you have to, why do you choose to, tie those half dozen things up before you can walk in them? WHY ARE YOU CRAMMING HALF YOUR TOES INTO A SPACE THE SIZE OF HALF A VEGEMITE JAR WHILST LEAVING THE OTHER HALF EXPOSED?
WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT OF THAT?
The simple act of walking, one step after another, one foot at a time (or both if you’re feeling gay and joyful!), is reduced to a Sisyphean task of confounding futility, a bootless exercise of self-inflicted tribulation, torment and woe, your only triumph to be had in getting from point A to point B without toppling into a gutter …
“The official dress code is explained to guests after they collect a ticket for their film … It is generally understood that men must wear black tie with black shoes and women must be elegantly dressed with smart footwear.”
“Outside the Palais, 20-year-old Tami was one of many film fans hopeful of being given a spare ticket to the Tuesday-night premiere by a charitable delegate. She was carrying her high heels in a plastic bag.
“It says on your ticket that you have to be smartly dressed,” she said. “For women that means high heels. I wish we didn’t have to. They’re uncomfortable.””
There is nothing “smart” about three straps of leather and a heel the height of Hervé Villechaize that cause you to stagger about like a drunken wombat in the pursuit of “fashion”, and the people who make these things and expect women to wear them should all be stabbed in the fucking head with a pencil.
I was initially going to title this post “You Look Big I’Shues”, but even I have limits.
Having just done about 6 months work in the space of 2 months, Tongues is a little buggered and worn out, and will be taking a 10 day internet-free break.
I may even write some new stuff while I am away.
Or I may just drink a lot of beer, and get some sleep.
Flicked over to Channel 7’s “Sunrise” program briefly this morning, and it’s a live cross to “Kochie” from Turkey and he’s promising upcoming coverage of a “great ceremony” in the morrow.
It’s the Olympics for Dead People. Who came dead first. Who came dead last.
Professor Bruce Scates writing for The Age yesterday …
“The centenary should have been the time to widen the ambit of remembrance, to reckon with the aftermath of Anzac. A legion of blind and crippled and insane men and women, irreparably damaged by war, returned to Australia. For those who came home, and for the families who supported them, a new and equally exacting battle began: to raise a family on an inadequate pension, find work without an arm or eye, forget the nightmare of what one saw, and did, on Gallipoli or the Somme, Palestine or Flanders.
Promised a land fit for heroes, inexperienced men were set to work marginal land on worthless soldier settlement blocks. Promised the praise of a grateful nation, they faced the Great Depression. Many would survive the war, but not the peace. Throughout the 1920s, gassed men choked to death, cot cases perished in their beds, “nervy men” blew their brains out. Far from uniting a nation, as we are so often told, the war tore us apart and left a legacy of trauma.
These harsh realities of the aftermath of war do not lend themselves to the rousing rhetoric of princes or politicians. They highlight the obscenity of what has become a parody of remembrance, Anzac as carnival, commodity and re-enactment, a brand sold by tour guides, breweries, and supermarkets. In 1915, the landing failed. In 2015, we failed that generation yet again.”
Have a nice day.
Somebody’s left the gate open at the cunt farm again …
A terrifying troupe of terrorist teen tots and twenty-somethings had been planning to launch an extreme assault upon the Australian public on our nation’s finest and most revered of days, Holy of Holies, Oh Woe are We for We are Besieged by Evil!
They were going to go at it with a knife and a sword somewhere to avenge the death of some other dickhead with a name that sounded like a brand of Turkish nougat who bought a knife to a gunfight outside a police station a while back and got himself shot for his troubles.
As you would.
Our New Band of Brothers in Evil did speak often, and at large about their demonic plans for bloody savagery on our national Day of Mourning & Remembrance, and they did speak loudly, on Facebook and Twitter and other social networks, on blogs, texting and talking on their mobile phones, on Skype, and they were disgustingly adamant and unconcerned about the effect their vile intentions would have upon the otherwise genteel souls of our fair and most free land.
Most of their conversations did appear to come from the script of “Khartoum”, and are scattered with dark references to the flowing of blood, the slitting of throats, rolling heads, and infidels this and infidels that, and I suspect they also called each other “bro’” a lot, and did that lame rapper thing with the pointy-finger air-jabbing and the jazz hands.
So imagine their complete surprise, and their dismay, that their plans, hitherto unknown, highly secret, tightly kept plans to wreak this havoc became known to police and a bunch of these same police turned up at our dastardly dickheads front doors 4am one morning to make a few “inquiries”.
“Who snitched?”, our criminal crib-wetters must have wondered wide-eyed, casting furtive glances at each other, and wondering if their crew had been infiltrated by a mole acting on behalf of the agents of Zion.
Some of our dastardly clan of motley’s even claimed they had been “roughed up” and “mishandled” by these violently oppressive enemies of freedom from the Victorian Police Force during this melee, and photos were taken in evidence, showing small scratches and a few bruises here and there because, when you’re plotting to stab someone in a public place and run about like a lunatic shouting religiously inspired claptrap and stuff, the police should only ever be expected to tap gently at your door, politely ask to be invited in, and just proceed to whup you about the head with a Chux for a bit if you don’t make them a nice cup of tea and offer them a biscuit.
OH, THE BRUTALISM! OH, THE HUMANITY!
Silly little buggers.
Mid-morning Sunday last, I am watching ABCNews24, as is my wont, and, as also is my wont, my finger is hovering over the “mute” button on the remote just in case any Australian politician or “leading business figure” pops up talking slogans about bullshit billions here and bullshit billions there and gnarling and gnashing their squirrelly pebble gray teeth over what troublesome little bunnies we all are and how much easier it would be to run a country if it weren’t for all the fucking people in it.
My complete disengagement from Australian politics is almost complete.
There is a live-cross to Victorian Premier Daniel Andrews, a man I know nothing about beyond that, because, as far as state politics go, there are six of the goddamn things and a bloody territory, and I couldn’t give a flying fuck about any of them with all their backwoods, parochial “my state is better than your state” dribbly bullshit and carrying-on.
Andrews was speaking, favourably, to the subject of “medical marijuana” and as he spoke, I found myself … listening.
He was not reading from notes, of if he was, it was not evident, in fact, he appears to have been speaking “off the cuff”, and using full sentences to boot, and I thought to myself, “You actually sound as if you know what you’re talking about”, because he actually did, and then I think, “Shit. That doesn’t happen very often”, because it doesn’t.
He speaks of a boy, a young boy who suffers all manner of dreadful ailments and seizures, and Andrews appears to be acquainted with the actual circumstances of this boys’ life, and he speaks of this boy, of the boys’ parents, and of the ordeals they have endured, and he goes on for a bit about the benefits of this, and the benefits of that, and I listen to it all, something I very rarely do, and when he has finished, I thought, “That was good. That was about a real thing. Good.”
Can it be?
Can it be there may be individuals within this boggy swamp of our fetid body politic who can talk on and about a topic sensibly, and logically, without resort to carnival barker sloganeering and “I’m such a Smug-Cunt” chest-puffery?
Fuck me with a spoon.
The last politician I paid attention to when he had something to say was former Independent MP, Tony Windsor, and before that, Paul Keating.
Does anyone remember Simon Crean?
No. Why would you?
Shortly after Julia Gillard enlisted the support of Windsor and his fellow Independent Rob Oakeshott to form government and inflict her Raging Red Reign of Horror upon the innocently unsuspecting masses of this fair land, Windsor was interviewed on ABC’s “7:30 Report” by then host Kerry O’Brien.
O’Brien asked Windsor a question.
Windsor answered it.
“Shit! You just answered a question”, I thought to myself at the time. That doesn’t happen very often. Because it doesn’t.
O’Brien too looked a little taken aback, muttered a few “ums” and “ah’s”, shuffled a paper or two, and it was as if he were thinking to himself, “You bastard. I was expecting to have to go another two, three minutes to drag an answer out of you. You’ve fucked up my timing.”
When Tony Windsor (Windsor’s interview with Richard Fidler on ABC Radio’s “Conversations” a week or two ago can be downloaded from iTunes, or the ABC site, and I highly recommend you do) says Our Prime Descending Testicle did say he would do anything but sell his arse for the job, and Abbott says he did not, who the fuck are you going to be more inclined to listen to and believe, for Christ’s sake?.
If you expect people to listen to you, talk like a person, know what it is you are speaking about, get to the fucking point, answer the questions you are asked, and if you don’t know the answer, and you know you don’t know it, don’t make shit up, because you’ll only end up making yourself look and sound a complete fuckwit.
That’s not too much to ask, is it?
You don’t have to be Martin Luther King.
You don’t have to be Billy McMahon either. Or Bill Shorten.
Here endeth the lesson.
In other news of note I am currently choosing to ignore but others are not, Our Prime Descending Testicle skolled a beer, Julie Bishop wore a scarf, and Malcom Turnbull appeared on the cover of Australian “GQ” looking like an over-eager counter boy from “Wendy’s” circa 1983, and then this popped up …
… Don’t cry, Baby Jesus, only one nail left to go.
I am going back to sleep now.
Wake me in time for Armageddon.
It is end of financial year here at Global Corps Inc.©™, and so I do currently find myself in a swampy swamp of mucky spreadsheets, reconciliations, and stupid questions from cockwalloping fudpuckers who keep fucking things up for everybody else, and making my life a hazy haze of enduring confusions, ill vapours and frenzied fevres of the mind.
“How did that error work out, Ross?”, asks the Manager.
“We fixed it”, I say.
“Yes. We fixed it. We’re fixers. We fix things”, I say, giving myself a fit of the giggles.
“What?”, asks the Manager.
“Never mind”, I say.
This mob wouldn’t know if Groucho Marx were up them sideways with a feather duster. They’d probably think “The Dead Parrot Sketch” was a customer service training video and take notes.
Normal service shall resume shortly.
Do stay tuned.
The early 90’s, I worked for a market research company, part time, four hour shifts, nights, Saturdays, Sundays, and I did it purely for the extra cash, my “regular” job paid crap money, and I was jack of having fuck all.
We would ring people and ask their opinion of various products, or perhaps services they had used. Qantas was a client, so was Ansett. Understand this – Nobody in their right mind would willingly volunteer to spend a Sunday sitting on their arse in a fucking cubicle ringing one person after another after another, asking the same damn questions each time, and listen to some dreary knobhead whine about the fucking food they were served or the lack of legroom on their Brisbane to Cairns flight, such hardship men were not expected to endure, and so they would often share their travails, their tales of woe, and you would be obliged to listen. A little incentive helped in this respect, and that incentive was the penalty rate on offer, maybe double-time, maybe time and a half, I can’t recall exactly, but the couple hundred bucks extra I was earning each week came in very handy at the time, I can certainly recall that.
After about a year, I ditched it, it was driving me up the wall. Not exactly enthralling type of work, not something you’d think to yourself, “Gee, I’d like to do this forever and forever and forever”, not something that would ever strike you as a pathway to a career, but good enough to persevere with for a time to get you through a rough patch, maybe pay some expenses, some bills, do a few things.
I see young men and women working behind the bar of my local pub nights and weekends, the bottleshop counter, and often they’ll have a textbook open beside them, something to pore over during down times if they’re lucky enough to get any, and take it from me as I am in a position to know, those things are fucking expensive. A little extra cash can go to some very good use.
A little extra is a little too much in this day and age, say some, far too much to be dealt with, and so, some VERY CONCERNED citizens, Employers of Note, Great Men and Grand Women of Stature, Giants of Industry, Captains of Endeavour, Hard-Workin’ Hard-Dick MEN, Battle-Scarred salts of this, our Savage Earth, have gathered together, have reached out to their brethren, have raised their fists to the skies, and have shouted to the world, “THIS IS TOO BIG TO IGNORE!”
The “this” of course, is penalty rates.
“We’re sorry that we’re closed today”, they opine. “We’d like to be open to serve you”, they lament.
“We’d like to give local people jobs”, they sob, on their palms the stigmata of selfless sacrifice, the Wounds of Christ, their blood our water, our wine, and bled for our sustenance, and ours alone.
“BUT THE PENALTY RATES ARE TOO HIGH!”, they howl, their pain the sad, sickening sounds of desperately wounded animals felled by far more savage beasts than they.
“Tell Canberra something has to change”, they conclude, oh
If I were a violent man, I could imagine myself happily throwing rocks through the shopfront windows of any business that would display such a thing.
But I am not a violent man.
This bell has been rung before …
“Celebrity chef George Calombaris has entered the industrial relations debate, slamming penalty rates faced by restaurateurs under the federal government’s Fair Work Act as uneconomical.
Calombaris, who stars in the high-rating MasterChef TV show, has complained about the rates he will have to pay staff at his new Melbourne pasta bar, due to open this month, claiming it’s up to $40 an hour per worker on Sundays.
“The problem is that wages on public holidays and weekend greatly exceed the opportunity for profit.””
“[Luke] Mangan, who has built an $80 million food empire, also admitted his business was forced to employ more than 20 per cent of its chefs and waiters from overseas on 457 work visas due to a shortage of homegrown talent.
Mr Mangan, who operates restaurants in Singapore, Tokyo, Jakarta and the Maldives, said Australia’s high penalty rates were forcing many businesses, including his Sydney restaurant Glass, to close on public holidays.”
Our Prime Minister too, has had his own struggles …
““If you don’t want to work on a weekend, fair enough don’t work on a weekend. But if you do want to work on a weekend, and lots of people, particularly students, particularly young people, want to work on a weekend, you want the places to be open to provide jobs,” [Tony Abbott] said, pointing out that the hotel he uses in Melbourne closed its restaurant on Sunday night because it couldn’t afford to pay penalty rates and that he had found it difficult to find a bottle shop open over Easter for the same reason.
“I don’t begrudge people the money … but in the end there is a balance that has to be struck here and my preference will always be in favour of more jobs,” he said.”
It is admirable of our Prime Testicle not to “begrudge” these young folk the money they require in order to live, an honourable sentiment indeed, yet perhaps Mr. Abbott should be made aware that it is not just the young, not just students, but a colourful multitude of others, of all ages, of all qualifications and experience, who may well say things such as this, “Mum, there’s a couple Sunday shifts coming up, and I need the extra money, can you look after the kids those days?”, or the nurse who’s picked up a week’s worth or graveyard shifts, her husband’s job went offshore a couple months back, and he can’t get a look-in for a new one, and they NEED THE FUCKING MONEY IN ORDER TO LIVE.
It’s not “extra”. It makes it “enough”.
That is what makes people do it.
Here is Luke “Mr. 80 Million” Mangan again …
“In our age group, we just did anything, worked anywhere to get where we wanted to go,’’ he told The Saturday Telegraph. “Today I get apprentices’ mums calling and saying about Little Johnny, ‘you’re working him 50 hours a week’.
“My mum and dad would drop me off at the train station and make darn sure I worked 50 hours a week — work that out.’’
… Such fond, faded and sepia-toned memories of simpler times, when a man knew the value of a penny, and children would race billy-carts made from orange crates up and down the back lanes of inner suburbia on weekends or after school, and a boy was taught to work hard, taught the meaning of hard work, harder than any boy had ever worked before, for they be a whuppin’ in the offing he don’t, a hard-scrabble, scratching and scraping life, but the kids today …
They expect, that if you are going to ask them to work for 50 hours a week, you will fucking well pay them for it, and if you are not prepared to do that, then do the FUCKING WORK YOURSELF.
They expect, that if you are going to ask them to work till 12.00pm on a Sunday evening, they will be appropriately recompensed for working such unsociable hours, the hours that keep them away from their partners or their children, away from their friends, the hours they will work simply because, and for no reason other, that they NEED THE FUCKING MONEY IN ORDER TO LIVE, and maybe you could throw in a CabCharge voucher as well so they can get home without being bashed or raped on the way by some lunatic cunt.
If you are going to start a business, you are expected to comply with certain rules and regulations, especially if you are employing other people, and if you did enter into your business unaware that it’s nature would require you to pay your employees penalty rates for irregular hours, then you are a wanking twat and your business deserves to fail. You knew the rules when you entered the game. You don’t enter the game and decide you need some new rules simply because the existing ones no longer suit your sucking greed.
I do not expect this campaign against penalty rates from the folk of “Chambers Across Australia” to resonate particularly well with the average member of the wage-earning public, but one can never be too sure how such things may pan out given we have a federal government who seem pathologically obsessed in doing anything and everything within their power to fuck with people’s lives, whether it be through health, education, welfare or work.
A new underclass, they are the Morlocks, and we are the Eloi.
However … as the recently made redundant former Premier of Queensland, Campbell Newman did find out, in one very brief term of office, if, upon ascending to office, one of your first actions – in the name of fiscal purity – is to sack 40,000 public servants, you lose 40,000 votes.
If each of those 40,000 have one or more relatives, dependents or close friends negatively affected by this action, you lose double that, maybe 100,000, maybe more.
Do you really, seriously, want to fuck with the viability of so many other people’s livelihoods?
Be careful what you wish for, boys.
That night nurse may suddenly find herself all out of painkillers just when you need them most.
ABC News Breakfast Thursday morning crosses to a live interview on ABC Radio with Finance Minister Matthias Corman.
Corman is asked straight up if he were active in alleged discussions on calling a double dissolution.
He says he was not, and then continues that the only thing he has been active in is getting on with the job of government and addressing those issues that are of real concern to the Australian people today, which is jobs and the economy, and the mess we’re in, and the previous Labor Government this and the previous Labor Government that, and so forth.
After one particularly mind-numbing stream of incoherent babble, I mutter “Jesus Christ”, hit the mute button on the remote and decide this would be a good time to go have a shower and get ready for work.
We don’t need a double dissolution.
We need a double-barreled shotgun to blow these twaddle-peddling bullshit artists into political oblivion, and start advertising in Seek for replacements.
Essential: Ability to communicate complex issues in clear, direct language to a broad spectrum of stakeholders without resort to jargon, clichés, witless one-liners repeated ad nauseum at every available opportunity in a day, PowerPoint presentations, and incomprehensible, incoherent bullshit of no substance whatsoever.
Essential: A high degree of literacy and demonstrable numeracy, coupled with the ability to speak with authority, weight and gravitas over a wide variety of often weighty subjects of national import, to be informed with intelligent argument either for or against an issue, and to be prepared with peer-reviewed facts supported by clear evidence to advance that argument.
Do you feel lethargic, irritable, worn down, fed up, chewed up, spat out, and occasionally overwhelmed by the barely restrained impulse to throw fistfuls of your own poo at the television, drop your radio off a fifty-storey balcony and slowly drive your dog insane by constantly shouting the words “bone” and “walk” at it every couple minutes?
Welcome to the ranks of The Disappointed, their numbers are legion and growing larger by the minute, by the syllable.
Have you read all those articles, the ones that detail the various ways and whys in which people have come to be disillusioned with politics as it is today? Have you read the polls, and looked at the demographics, of how this group or that group just couldn’t be bothered anymore, and don’t pay much attention, it’s no longer even about them, so why waste precious time? Have you heard our politicians, when asked of this, reply that “Yes, they need to engage more with voters, and put more effort into selling their message”, which essentially means they need to find other ways to pull a few fast ones and hope nobody’s paying too much attention? Have you read or watched or listened to the aging hipsters of yesteryear (Richard Neville comes instantly to mind) bemoan the apathy and self-absorption of today’s young folk, they’re not out on the streets anymore, waving placards, marching, standing up for their beliefs, rousing choruses of “Kumbayah” echoing through the streets of our cities, people are throwing themselves in front of bulldozers, and handing out flowers to the PIGS, MAN, like FUCK, you know, … ?
And do you, after all this, ask yourself, “Who can fucking blame them? Why the fuck would any sane human being involve themselves with this shit?”
A perfectly reasonable assessment.
Laura Tingle in AFR March 20, 2015…
“… we don’t seem to quite be able to take in the growing realisation that we actually are being governed by idiots and fools, or that this actually has real-world consequences.
We finish the week with a Prime Minister who has lost his bundle and is making policy and political calls that go beyond reckless in an increasingly panicked and desperate attempt to save himself; a government that has not just utterly lost its way but its authority; and important policy debates left either as smouldering wrecks or unprosecuted.”
“It’s not just that voters don’t like Tony Abbott any more, or are angry about broken promises, they see the government as incapable of doing its job competently.
This is a particularly devastating assessment for a conservative government. The phrase the Coalition used before the last election was that voters needed to put “the adults back in charge”.”
With “adults” like these in charge, today’s young folk have sensibly decided to keep the fuck out of the way.
Today’s “young folk” are not apathetic and self-absorbed, ignorant or lazy as so many “old folk” would have us believe. With their lives before them, with hopes, dreams and ambitions, a world to live in and to experience, theirs are not hearts and minds drawn to the gas-belching swamp of contemporary Australian politics, where self-interest truly lies, where go the sad and the old, the rich and the privileged, driven by pure greed, by power alone, and by a cruel and punishing ideology which would have us all be slaves under their command, under their rule, and be thankful to them for it.
Why, you can be somewhat less than whole in either body or in mind, or both, and this government will let you work for a whole 99 cents an hour, how about that, aren’t you lucky, you lucky, lucky thing, you?
“We know that without honesty there is no trust and without trust there is no fairness and without fairness civil society cannot long survive.” (Tony Abbott, “Battlelines” 2009)
The young, the elderly, the working poor, the unemployed, the ill, the man in the far-flung rural area who has to drive three hundred miles in agonising pain to have an abscessed tooth ripped out and then three hundred miles back with a mouth full of bloody cotton swabs will not engage in a politic that regards them, that is forever telling them how wrong they all are, what a blight, a burden, an affront to economic efficacy, an affront to the ideal buffed and bronzed all-around true blue Larrikin Aussie Aryan descended from the long dead warrior heroes of Gallipoli they seem so desirous of.
This is a government whose sole purpose so far since taking office, whose central message it would seem, is to be forever telling the rest of us how completely shit we all are.
There’s nothing to engage with, or in. Nothing.
Absolutely fuck all.
When Independent Senator Nick Xenophon recently described Education Minister Christopher Pyne’s antics this week over higher education reform as “student politics”, he pretty much summed up the tenor of the entire government, a Playschool government whose host is irrevocably stupid, a clown, and whose cast members are mere “students of politics” who keep failing their exams, over and over and over, because they insist on scribbling crude penis doodles on their papers, and they keep running off to the toilet blocks with a Playboy magazine stuffed up their shirts, and a couple fags in their pockets for the afterwank.
We do realise we are being governed by “idiots and fools”, as Laura Tingle writes, and we realised it way before she or her media colleagues did. We did not ask for it. We certainly did nothing to deserve it. We wish it had not happened.
Our Prime Minister is an idiot.
We can not stoop to his level of idiocy by engaging with it. We must bide our time, and when our time comes, we must throw this mob out.
I try to avoid using phrases like “worst government ever”, but in this case, they may or may not be the worst, but they are certainly the dumbest mob of motherfuckers I’ve experienced in my lifetime.
PS – As I was writing this, news came through that former Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser had died this morning. Your assignment this week is to compare and contrast the former Prime Minister with the current incumbent. This will comprise 50% of your final assessment.
Here is Paul Keating’s statement on the death of Mr. Fraser …
“The death of Malcolm Fraser underwrites a great loss to Australia.
Notwithstanding a controversial Prime Ministership, in later years he harboured one abiding and important idea about Australia – its need and its right to be a strategically independent country.
He detested what he saw as our strategic subservience to the United States and our willingness to be easily led from the path of a truly independent foreign policy.
His public life also enshrined other important principles: no truck with race or colour and no tolerance for whispered notions of exclusivity tinged by race.
I always thought Malcolm would be around a lot longer. I must say, I wished he had been.”
Papers with penis doodles on them will not be accepted.
Illustration by Steve Griffin
I was idly flipping through the pages of “The Australian” yesterday (it’s a quick flip), at my local pub, quietly sipping a beer, when my eye did spy amidst the cluster of bylines and scribblings from a small flock of old white people on the “opinion” pages, an ode.
An ode of love. Of joy and of devotion. Of high praise for the constancy of spirit, the balance of mind, the purity of soul and embodiment of the rugged individualism of Man, One Man, Tony Abbott, Prime Minister.
The piece was penned by Maurice (You Can Call Me The Space Cowboy) Newman, a well-respected and highly sought-after spokesperson for the Views of The Oppressed, The Common Folk, the Dear Hearts and Gentle People who would otherwise cow and tremble, and timidly hold their tongues in defence of their conservative views for fear of the ridicule that would rain upon them from the Sneering Bigots of the Radical Socialist Left, and the self-anointed inner-city Generals of the Intellectual Elite forever proselytising their foul collectivist causes through the taxpayer-funded outlets of the ABC, and the unapologetically Leftist bias of the Fairfax media.
Mr. Newman is currently chairman of the Prime Minister’s Business Advisory Council, has studied intensively on environmental science via Wally’s Wide World of Webby Wonder, and begins his lusty appraisal of Mr. Abbott thusly …
“FOR the Left there is no greater hate figure than Tony Abbott.
After all, the Prime Minister is a liberal of the European school and embraces all the policy instincts and beliefs the Left despises. What’s more, Abbott effectively toppled Australia’s first female prime-minister, the Left’s beloved Julia Gillard, and it is determined to get even.
Abbott is a fiscal conservative. He stands for lower taxes. He believes in smaller government and competition. He wants freer trade, freer markets and fewer regulations. He encourages entrepreneurship and innovation, which run counter to the ideals of the collective. He sees a place for private education and private health. He is opposed to open borders. He believes migrants should respect our values and our laws. He is for work and self-reliance, not welfare. He’s a monarchist, a Catholic and, worse, not of the global warming faith.
Above all, for as long as he remains Prime Minister, he is an ever-present threat to the socialist legacy of the Gillard years.”
After which it all gets a bit weird and scatty, until Maurice concludes as follows …
“Too often the commentariat writes what it hopes rather than what is. Prejudice passes for analysis. So the government has a critical role in communicating the reality.”
There’s another nail in the coffin of satire.
Maurice’s spirited portrait of Dear Tony follows closely on the heels of a recent Fairfax report, a series of focus groups held with residents of western Sydney whose opinions on Mr. Abbott could be neatly summed up as “What fucking dickhead” …
“One woman declared: “He could be talking about the weather and you’d still think, oh… I don’t know.””
Tony Abbott talking about the “weather” is certainly a task for the imagination as it would indicate a sea-change of sudden awareness, a dawning consciousness of mind, of the environment in which he lives, the one that can and must, in accordance with the current Gospels of Our Good Government under His Tutelage, submit to our will, bend to our service, and be utilised for the material and financial benefits to our lives, and ours only, fuck the consequences, there aren’t any, never have been, not now, not ever, so there, nyah, nyah, your muvver wears army boots and sleeps in a swamp.
When a “conservative” columnist, that is to say, some smarmy, self-righteous, know-it-fucking-all, right-wing rich old cunt feigning only beneficent intent and infallibility of opinion, throws about the word “socialist” willy nilly, it becomes instantly apparent that what one is dealing with is one of those crusty, dusty and oddly sad relics from the long lost days of the Cold War, Mutually Assured Destruction, the Bay of Pigs, Stalin, Khrushchev, B.A. Santamaria babbling away on the television on a Sunday morning, here I am a twelve or thirteen year old kid wondering who and what the fuck this bald old guy’s going on about, and what happened to the fucking cartoons.
In their minds still, they are diving under school desks, covering their heads with their arms in case of nuclear attack, and yes, a desk will most certainly be a FUCKING GREAT BIG FUCKING HELP, WON’T IT?
A desk, or maybe inside a refrigerator.
In their minds still are mushroom clouds, hammers, sickles; on the horizon, the threat of a looming welfare state, the proletariat hordes clamouring at the doors of Government for more, sir, more, can I please have some more, where the Age of Entitlement is an Age no more, but an Era, spanning decade upon decade, until all the money is gone, and our children and their children, inheriting this financial wasteland, this perfect storm of socialist ideology, shall wander deserted streets, in ragged clothes, in rags, starving, their bellies slowly swelling from malnutrition, desperately seeking – Dear God, please make it so – just a small handful of dirt to eat on the off chance there might be a worm inside.
That Maurice writes “What’s more, Abbott effectively toppled Australia’s first female prime-minister, the Left’s beloved Julia Gillard”, is something further to observe and take not of, for it seems a proud statement of noble and just achievement, a celebration that, after the nation’s disastrous experiment with putting tits in the Lodge, the patriarchy has, once more, been rightly restored to its traditional position of power, as wholeheartedly endorsed by the electorate, and no more shall we endure the gaudy spectacle of some ginger cow flouncing about the lawns of Kirribilli House getting up to God only knows what with her fucking BOYFRIEND.
Maurice is a bit of a dick.
He continues …
“He [Tony Abbott] was denied the honeymoon normally granted to new governments. He has been called untrustworthy, a misogynist, a racist, a sexist, a homophobe, a bully and Gina Rinehart’s butler.
This demonisation was eagerly retailed by the leftist media. Groupthink reigned supreme.”
I have never heard of Tony Abbott being referred to by anyone as “Gina Rinehart’s butler’, but as far as the other labels are concerned, I do believe a quick straw poll up the local pub would conclude most patrons would at least agree with the “untrustworthy” and “bully” tags, as we have more than enough evidence, indeed years of it, undoctored by the Leftist hate-media, that he’s an insensitive, yammering bore, and a lying sack of shit, and proves it every time he opens his fucking mouth.
When over 50 percent of voters do not approve of the job you are doing, and how you are doing it, when over 50 percent of voters think you suck as a human being, that you are an “embarrassment” to the nation, that you are dishonest, it is not a supreme act of “Groupthink” in action.
It is because you are shit.
You have communicated your message, the message has been received by the masses, and the masses have told you, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck yourself, you’re shit.
I think Maurice has not quite received, or processed that message, however Maurice does strike me as a mite unschooled in real life matters, and yet to familiarise himself with a world in which facts matter, and fantasies do not, so perhaps he should tear himself away from his studies on Wally’s Wide World of Webby Wonder, and get out and meet some real people.
A man his age needs mental stimulation, and this disjointed piece of deranged gibberish proves he needs it fast.
However, if you put your mind to it, you can turn it into haiku’s, so all is not completely lost …
No greater figure
He remains Prime Minister
A bully butler
Since 1972, when I was thirteen years old, I have observed Prime Ministers from the late Gough Whitlam through Paul Keating through to the shambolic dysfunction and shrill, shrieking chaos of the Rudd-Gillard-Rudd years, but of the current incumbent, Tony Abbott, I have now come to the sad, but somewhat predictable, one could say inevitable, conclusion that Our Prime Minister’s Brain Is Missing.
In its place, an organ of purely intuitive compulsion, which, when prodded or stroked, no matter how strongly or gently, spawns an instantaneous stream of insensate gibberish, his words like spores from a brooding coral, jerkingly spat into the wider atmosphere layering everything beneath it with a thin, cream layer of oozing slime which, rather than reproduce, suffocates and destroys all that lay before it.
This organ, if it were donated to science, would probably reveal itself to comprise something resembling a lone, mushy pea atop a small, grey ball of gnarly gristle.
Our Prime Idiot of Team Australia, the Proud and Defiant Captain Courageous at the helm of the HMAS Cretinism, is revealed (again) to be but a simple-celled base organism whose incurious mind, absence of intellect, intelligence, understanding or empathy, has once more caused him to beach firmly on the scummy bog of the sandbar, the tide is out, and it must be coming up almost 18 months now, and the poor batty pillock still hasn’t managed to pull out of the fucking harbor.
Threatened by the mere whiff of criticism, it sniffs at the air, senses only danger from enemies both seen and unseen, and it sprays its territory with involuntary squirts of poisoned perfumed panic, proceeds to snarl at shadows, and lunges in for the kill, a-hollerin’ and a-bellowin’ and full of piss ‘n’ vinegar, a Warner Bros. cartoon hybrid of Yosemite Sam, The Tasmanian Devil and Marvin the Martian, spinning, shouting and blowing shit up just for the fun of it.
One of the latest grains of sand that has lodged itself in the bony arse-crack of Our Dear Leader has been thoughtfully provided by the kind folk and gentle people of the United Nations who have had less than praiseworthy things to say about Australia’s treatment of refugees … oh, pardon me – ILLEGAL, QUEUE-JUMPING, ECONOMICALLY OPPORTUNISTIC, BABY-DROWNING, MOTHER-FUCKING, BOMB-THROWING, SPEAR-CHUCKING, KEBAB-MUNCHING SAND-NIGGERS FROM TERRORSTANOVSKLOVIA FUCK OFF WE’RE FULL IF YOU DON’T LOVE IT LEAVE IT YOU BUNCHA DARKIE CUNTS LEAVE OUR VEGEMITE ALONE! – and Tony has ever-so-maturely responded by saying “Australians are sick of being lectured by the United Nations”, which essentially, boiled down to basics, means “Fuck off”. I do not recall having ever been “lectured” by the United Nations about anything, but perhaps my invitation got lost in the mail. Tony’s spastic jerk-spit of the dummy has drawn a response from the United Nations’ Special Rapporteur, Juan Mendez, which one could easily summarise as a rather surprised and somewhat forlorn, “Really?”
I do suppose the Prime Minister’s swaggering pose of macho bluster shall go down well with the tabloid-reading, Andrew Bolt loving, foreigner-afearin’ folk out there in Fuckyomama Flats – here’s a shout-out to the Rattail family, onya Jethro, Sheila, how’re the kids? – but speaking purely for myself, as I can speak for no others and will not claim to, I find it fucking embarrassing.
“Sick of being lectured?”
Oh my, it is to laugh.
I am sick of forever being lectured by the political classes that I do not, and have not, and the same goes for you all, worked hard enough, and we should all work harder, and for longer and for less. For much, much less. Because we’re shit.
I am sick of forever hearing the political classes speak of the aged and the elderly as a challenge that must be conquered, a problem for which there must be found a solution, a burden to be offloaded.
I am sick of the endless assaults upon the hard-working men and women at the frontlines of our essential public services – the nurse who wakes you at 4.00am in the morning to change your drip and hand out the painkillers, the cops and the medics who are called to attend an incident at a ramshackle and run-down fibro-house in Shitsville where the walls are stuffed with crack and needles and trash litter the floor and a guy on a four-day ice binge has just shot a hole through his girlfriend’s vagina and the face off his twelve-month old son – and these men and women should accede to lower wages, no penalty rates, and fewer entitlements because … it’s for the good of the fucking country, you know? Suck it up, boys and girls and DO. YOUR. DUTY.
I am sick of the hollow-words and fraught handwringing from the political classes about the plights of the underprivileged, the bruised and the battered, the broken, the spent souls of violent struggle, oppression and abuse, the ones with their shoes full of blood, minds destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, and how we, as a nation, should do more to alleviate their circumstances by the provision of services, whilst at the same time, existing services are defunded, terminated, ripped, shredded and torn into non-existence.
I am sick of being expected to take people like Peter Dutton seriously. Or Christopher Pyne. Or Joe Hockey.
Or Bill Shorten.
I am sick of listening to the political classes dismiss science as an irrelevance, climate change as a “cult”, and who will then bleat to us, all doe-eyed with modest sincerity, about their devotion to a religious “faith”, a “faith” which preaches tolerance, charity and understanding, whilst at the same time they give the impression they’d willingly fuck a baby in the arse with the blunt end of a Coke bottle for a buck or a vote or a happy headline and hearty endorsement from their media brethren.
I am sick of being part of nation where 60% of the population think asylum seekers should be treated far more harshly than they already are (perhaps beaten to death with an ivory pick-axe and their corpses delivered into a pit and covered with cow excrement), and where a Government willingly obliges by further institutionalising obscene rites of torture, dismissing as fantasies tales of sexual abuse and physical assault, dismissing as exaggerated claims of grievous mental illness, deprivation, neglect, and all for no other reason than to prove a pathetic political point … “We’re tough.”
So thinks the average 14 year old adolescent psychopath getting its “don’t fuck with me” kicks from dousing kittens with hydrochloric acid.
I am sick of a loutish and boorish, thuggish pig of a Prime Minister who persists with the nescient delusion that poverty, homelessness, drug abuse, sexual abuse, and those born to, and who remain in remote communities because it is their culture, their environment, their land, is somehow evidence of a “lifestyle choice” being freely made.
As for the United Nations, they have produced a report, a report about which we will do nothing, and are obliged to do nothing, perhaps we will shrug sheepishly and say, “Yeah …. but, but, awwwwww”, but it is not exactly as if we are all about to be beaten about our heads with a wooden spoon and sent off to bed without our supper.
I am sick.
Sick of all this.
And of much, much more.
Mostly, I am sick of Tony Abbott.
And Bill Shorten.
Look what you’ve made me do …
I have seen the sights, the sounds, and the shape of the Future and it is Shit.
The Intergenerational Report released yesterday by the Abbott Federal Government has made it perfectly clear to us all, in the starkest possible terms, that this country faces challenges ahead, in all aspects and walks of life, that must, and can, only be met by all of us willingly engaging in a broad, national conversation about the sacrifices and pressures we must all endure in order to remain a strong, secure and economically sound nation into the near and distant future, for the sake of our children, for the sake of theirs, and for all that lies ahead, all that can be ours, all that can be theirs, if only we, all Australians, men and women, are willing to grasp the opportunity to do so now, before it’s too late.
In short, there are far too many old cunts fucking it up for the rest of us.
They piss off out of work as soon as they lose a couple teeth, and spend the rest of their miserable fucking lives playing upsy-downies on their Harvey Norman faux-leather recliners, watching Dr. fucking Phil, and blowing their fucking pensions on the fucking pokies up the local RSL and the fucking bingo and a fucking five buck schnitzel with fucking mash and mushy peas from the fucking bistro and then they go get a fucking bus home for practically fucking nothing because they’ve got a fucking pension card, and they think, they smugly fucking think, they think they’re fucking entitled to it all and it’s the fucking rest of us who’re footing the fucking bill for it.
Well, FUCK OFF.
It’s all there in black and white – “increased pressure on health services, aged care and the environment.”
A whole generation is about to be held hostage by the selfish, snippety demands and needs of hundreds of thousands of enfeebled old coots with their fucking hands always held out for a fucking freebie, or a fucking deal on something, simply because they’ve got less life ahead of them than behind, and they think they’re SO fucking special.
Go to any hospital, any hospital at all, any time of night or day, and I guarantee that’s all you’ll see. Old people. Every fucking where. Having a wobbly wander up the fucking corridor on their taxpayer-funded fucking walker and probably thinking they’re on some kind of grand adventure to some fucking where. Taking up space, taking up time, taking up precious resources that could be far better utilised elsewhere than forever pandering to the incessant whims of these endless zombie hordes of senescent leeches. There’s one of them, just laying there, doing absolutely fuck all, for all intents and purposes dead to the world and everything and everybody in it, mouth agape, a slimy string of drool the flavour of last nights custard and todays chicken gravy falling, lava-like, from its withered fucking lips, the old cunt should’ve been dead years back, and it’s us, the hard-working, decent Aussie bloke or sheila whose taxes have kept the dusty old bitch breathing for as long as she fucking has.
We have young Australians, just coming into their prime, moving from the greasy shadows and dim lit moods of anxious adolescence to adulthood, yearning for opportunity, throbbing with effervescent hope and a simple, naïve and uninformed joy at what may lay ahead, embracing all manner of new experiences and sensations, and what use is it, what is the point of a public health system, if some poor thirteen year old kid, doing just that, stumbles into a hospital emergency room one night with a pineapple stuck up his arse and can’t get a fucking bed because the place is up to the hilt with dribbly old relics sucking up all the fucking plasma and hovering morphine like there’s no fucking tomorrow, the only comfort to be taken in that is that for some of them, there won’t be, but what’s the fucking point?
“Retirement” for these sucked out, paper-skinned sponges is just another word for freeloading, where they think they can spend the remainder of their days sprawled out on a cheap fold-up K-Mart Homemaker chair outside a caravan in a coastal park, sucking on longnecks, idly gumming sausages from a can, and all at the expense of the taxpayer, and this shit can go on for twenty, sometimes thirty fucking years, yeah, nice work if you can get it, buddy-boy, but it’s about time we put a fucking stop to it, it’s rubbish.
If I had my fucking way, I’d get all these wasted public-purse sucking doddery fucking arse-leaking parasitic drones, throw them into a pit and flamethrow the fucking lot of them into a great steaming pile of stale musk and lavender scented ash, and there would go your “ageing burden on the economy” once and for fucking all, don’t you fucking worry about that sunshine, but then maybe that’s just me.
Here is a photograph of some useless old cunts with their fucking hands in the fucking air …
We’re probably paying for this fucking malarkey.
Dullness of mind had me neglect to mention that this blog received a shout-out a few weeks back from podcast “Something Wonky”.
You can subscribe or download the podcast (it’s free) from their website, or via iTunes. I have a suspicion that alcohol is freely consumed during its recording, and I understand perfectly.
The vile treatment afforded the Human Rights Commissioner Gillian Triggs this week moved me to shoot off a letter to the Sydney Morning Herald. It was not published, which did not surprise me, as the subject drew a great deal of correspondence, most of it in a tone similar to my own …
“The contempt shown to Human Rights Commissioner Gillian Triggs by Tony Abbott, George Brandis and the chap with the “man’s voice” who thought he should be heard is matched only by my contempt for them. Their cowardice, their ignorance, their obfuscatory tactics, their bellowing bleats of confected outrage, and violently worded assaults on an individual who was hired to do a job and did it. And did it well, if the noisome vapors of their empty protestations are anything to go by.
I would not trust these so-called “men” with a box of crayons in a public toilet not to deface the walls, as it would seem hey have an uncommon knack for defacing not only human rights, but common decency and responsible adult behaviour as well.”
Jason Wilson of The Guardian believes Tony Abbott is becoming ever-so-slightly unhinged …
“[T]hese days, Abbott sits for much of the day in his office in Parliament House pondering national security, Islamic State and reading Winston Churchill”.
John Lyons’ report in the Weekend Australian gives an unmistakable hint that Abbott is becoming ever-so-slightly unhinged. As his government comes down around him, he’s indulging in reveries of statesmanship, burrowing into Churchill’s Memoirs of the Second World War and polishing up his speeches.
I strongly disagree. Mr. Abbott is not “ever-so-slightly unhinged”. He is barking off his fucking trolley batshit insane.
Previous observations I have made, of predictions, clairvoyant in nature, that have subsequently proven to be true, have convinced me that I have now become a God. And therefore, and thusly, I do say unto you, take heed of the following …
The leaks that are proving so damaging to the current Prime Minister may, perhaps, eventually be traced back to the offices of one Scott Morrison, former Minister for the Institutionalisation of Child Abuse and Torture, and current Minister for Social Engineering, but NO! NOT HE! Oh! NO! NO! “The Prime Minister has my full support, Leigh, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the Prime Minister has my full and unconditional support. And we are focused. On getting on. With the business of Government. And the issues. The real issues. That matter to Australian families today. We’re not going to be sidetracked by these twisted media sideshows.”
Current Communications Minister Malcolm Turnbull shall subsequently contact Morrison to congratulate him on such a splendid and spirited defence. They shall “ho-ho” most heartily, and much joshing of good nature shall to and fro’, until finally, they agree to shortly meet at a time of mutual convenience to share a goblet or three of fine mead, and some premium fruits, and meats and other rare and moreish delicacies of delight.
Not long after this, Prime Minister Tony Abbott shall be told to pack his bird and fuck off to buggery.
Andrew Bolt, News Corps’ resident expert on Peace, Love and Understanding, shall Howl! Howl! Howl!, beat his breast in most savage grief, and breathlessly abhor the vile slanders and disgraceful slurs that did attend the brief Rise and Fall of this fine and honourable, upstanding Christian man, Young Tony Abbott, and blame everything on the ABC, that fucking ABC, that fucking, … FUCKING. FUCK!!!!
Fairfax media’s resident crusty ol’ squirt from a half-cocked gun, Paul Sheehan, shall extol the virtues of the ex-Tony Abbott, via the character of his wife, and of his daughters, and a portrait of a virile man, a fine man of sound character, a man whose every sacred sperm should have been taken as a blessing upon our sour and ungrateful faces, shall emerge, of a man cuckolded by the tawdry forces of a deeply flawed and feminised world, so typified by that foule and oft-mentioned speech from former Prime Minister and footsoldier for Satan. Julia Gillard on misogyny, and … um … ah, fuck it, I couldn’t be fucked finishing the fucking sentence, you know how it goes by know, fill in the fucking blanks your own fucking selves …
Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull shall inform Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey that his services are no longer required, and they will now be performed by Scott Morrison, with Foreign Minister Julie Bishop retaining her position. Mr. Hockey shall spontaneously burst into big, wet tears and shout, “IT’S NOT FAIR! IT’S NOT FAIR AND YOU KNOW IT AND YOU CAN ALL GET FUCKED I’M NOT PLAYING ANYMORE I’M NOT IT’S NOT FAIR AND YOU CAN ALL GET FUCKED!”, after which he will be forcibly escorted and removed from the premises by security. Mr. Hockey will subsequently resign his seat, and retire from politics altogether.
Twelve months later, Mr. Hockey appears as a contestant on “Dancing With The Stars”. Two episodes into the season, the franchise is cancelled due to bad ratings.
There you have it. The future in a nutshell. Now that I’m a God, I should know.
In gratitude for the blessings that I have so seen fit to bestow upon you mere mortals, I command you now go forth and find me some virgins to bless. I’d like to bless them somewhere private, so you’ll need to build me a big barn or a shed or something. Something with big, heavy doors. A dungeon would be nice. I’ll pick the shackles. And bring me some towels. Lots of towels.
Nooks? No, I don’t need “nooks”. I can’t bless a virgin in a “nook”, I’m a God, Gods don’t lurk about in fucking nooks. Wake up to yourself, you stupid bastard.
Why are you eating fish? You should eat fish tomorrow.
That’s a nice lamp.
I’ll have that.
The Herald-Sun’s resident psychedelic prose stylist and expert on measured impartiality in the media, Andrew Bolt, had this to say just recently about Fairfax’s coverage of the current Canberran Witch Trial of Human Rights Commissioner Gillian Triggs …
“I wonder why a single Liberal voter would buy a paper so committed to presenting only one side of a debate.”
Think on that for a second.
Think on that for two …
If you’ll excuse me …
I am going to go home, and crawl, softly sobbing to myself,
Into a corner,
Where I shall mutter, incoherently,
Slack-jawed, gape-eyed and dead of mind,
In a warmly spreading puddle
Of my own darkening pee,
And play with my penis for a while.
PS. I might order a pizza after and go rearrange the deck-chairs on the porch.
So said former Prime Minister Julia Gillard to a murmuration of dodgy “journalists” some time back, when said “journalists” had been doing little else but for the duration of her reign. Crap about her past, crap about her partner, crap about her wardrobe, crap about crap, a whole lotta crap, and fuck all substance.
Now we have a whole new brand of crap being written about the current Prime Minister and his Government, only this crap is all about us. We’re fucking it up for Tony and Joe and Co., we’re deliberately fucking it up out of selfishness, out of greed, a sense of entitlement to past favours that are well beyond their use-by date, and can no longer be extended because INTERGENERATIONAL THEFT, and we ought to damn well wake up to ourselves and take our medicine, no matter how vile, toughen the fuck up, and accept “the gift” of good government we are so generously being offered for our own good, but, more importantly, for the good of the country, and to ensure future generations will not grow up a pack of overfed, bedwetting nancies.
I was flipping through a copy of “The Courier-Mail” the other day (it’s a quick flip), and found myself glancing over a piece of crap from News Corps resident expert on media bias, Andrew Bolt, aka Whistler’s Motherfucker.
Motherfucker had this to say …
“THE ABC is trying to destroy Tony Abbott. Its bias — actually unlawful — has never been so ruthless.”
One could easily accuse Bolt of being a tad tunnel-visioned, but that would be a grave understatement. He’s the whole fucking tunnel, and it’s closed both ends.
On he rattles …
“Most dramatic was the flagship 7.30 program’s hostile interview of Treasurer Joe Hockey.
Host Sarah Ferguson kicked it off with a contemptuous statement lightly disguised as a question: “Is it liberating for a politician to decide election promises don’t matter?”
Then there was Lateline host Emma Alberici, who asked a Coalition MP: “Do you think voters are really stupid and can’t recognise a lie when they see one?””
There are perfectly legitimate reasons such questions need be asked, something about holding a government to account when they say a whole bunch of things prior to an election, and all of them, all of them, turn out to be pure bullshit after. Getting to the point by asking a direct question on the actual subject under discussion rather than farting about the shrubbery and hearing a whole bunch more bullshit from these clowns is an extremely effective way (if I may say so) of helping viewers not scream at their television sets in a foaming rage of frustration and scaring the shit out of the family dog.
Motherfucker goes on to wail …
“It [ABC’s Insiders Budget Special) actually had three Leftist journalists against a lone conservative: Laura Tingle, Lenore Taylor and host Fran Kelly up against poor Niki Savva.”
“Poor Niki Savva”.
The Left. Leftist. These are now proper nouns. I’m fucked if I know what a “Leftist” actually is, but I’m sure Bolt would have me pegged me as one. In the singularly focused and hysterically obsessive mind of Whistler, “The Leftists” exist as dark and alien forces of pure evil, a corruption of both mind and body, a shape-shifting shadow of millions upon millions of desperately lost souls, all connected, one hive mind in a fugue state, bent on the dissemination of falsehoods, of fears, and intent on spreading their consciousness sucking tentacles into and across every aspect of life, of work, of enterprise, and bring them all crumbling down through a bleeding heart holocaust of the warm ‘n’ feminising fuzzies, all of this assisted by strangely cloaked bodies foreign of darker hues. You have now entered The Twilight Zone.
The man is a fucking idiot, he’s the village idiots avoid.
“If a Left exists in Australia at all, now, it’s simply as a shorthand description of those who don’t agree with the prescriptions of the modern Right, which seems primarily interested in reversing many of the intellectual and democratic gains of recent decades and centuries and restoring and confining power and privilege to the few rather than the many. To be labelled “left-wing” by the modern Right is probably an endorsement that one’s ideas are sound.
In the end, the Left exists largely in the Right’s own mind – as a straw man onto which to project its delusional and self-interested chatter.” Russell Marks, November 2014, The Monthly
The second tent in this clapped out circus of typing monkeys belongs to the withering remains of Fairfax, whose daily editions now more resemble pamphlets and wherein you will find the plodding inanities of their very own resident hyperventilating antiquity, Paul Sheehan.
Earlier in the month, Sheehan wrote a sorta-kinda “defence” of Tony Abbott in 843 words telling us all what a nice woman Tony’s wife Margie is, and how we’re going to be seeing much, much more of her dragging about with Tony on the hustings because EVIL PETA CREDLIN RUN AWAY AND HIDE.
In this piece of crap we learn that Margie drives herself to the shops, does her own shopping, drives herself to and from Canberra, don’t have no truck with fancy airs ‘n’ graces, has a job, has kept it, is a “patron” of some things, and has been married to Tony for 26 years.
Gag me with a spoon.
What Sheehan is trying to communicate with this crap in unclear to me. Vote for Tony because he has a nice wife? “Policies can win the day”, he adds. Perhaps he’d prefer Margie outline these “policies” to an increasingly frazzled and fed-up electorate, because every time Tony tries, he royally fucks it up.
You may also have seen Gerard “Ol’ Man Underpants” Henderson on ABC’s Insiders program just recently (Sunday 22nd February), going mano o mano with notorious Stalinist and Terrorism Apologist David Marr, one of the few journalists we have who can actually write, Gerard getting himself worked into a tetchy snit trying to fend off perfectly valid criticisms of Abbott with crap, all to no avail, and finally whining, all sad and plaintive like, “Well, why don’t we just blame everything on Tony Abbott”, aw-gee-shucks, not fair, I’m taking my bucket and spade and I’m telling Mummy.
It’s pathetic. It’s crap.
Three spoilt brats having a sook.
Their “Chosen One” has been found wanting, by the public, by his own party, his bovver-boy shadow-boxing antics the club-footed manoeuvres of a feeble mind rattling with fevred imaginings and fantasies of power, control, of “His Way” or the Highway, “His own worst enemy” as Julie Bishop allegedly told him after 40% of the tribe voted to banish him to Coventry in favour of an empty chair, our Prime Minister has been revealed to all and sundry as a man whose thoughts run no deeper than a scribble on a sandwich-board, and every time he opens his mouth he proves it.
Yet to these three sad fuckers, these desiccated fartleberries clinging to the greying arse-hairs of their conventional mainstream media outlets, their Prime Minister (and he is theirs, not ours) is a veritable fount of Wisdom, Intelligence, Strength, and Virility, a potentially Inspirational Leader for Troubled Times who has had the misfortune to be shunned, snubbed, by a greedy and ungrateful populace unwilling to embrace personal sacrifice for the future of the Reich, and scrape and bow in subjugation to its rightful rulers.
It’s our fault Tony is a dick.
Janet Albrechtson of The Australian says so.
Fuck off, Janet.
My father, 86, had a fall last week and spent three days in hospital. “Shit”, I say when I am finally told of this. He had fallen out of bed. I find myself wondering if “falling down” is a common cause of death among the elderly. Falling down and catching colds.
Last time he had a fall, a couple years ago, I wrote this, and in lieu of anything further to say about the current state of public affairs which wouldn’t be a repetition of myself, here it is again …
I have now reached that certain age in life, neither that of pink-cheeked youth nor that of cackling decrepitude, but an age in life where the implications of “the fall” have begun to loom darkly within these, my withering lobes; “the fall” being that penultimate finality prior to death, as in, “so-and-so had a fall and died in hospital several days later after complications set in.”
As in –
fallingad a fall and wound up in hospital with a blood clot on her brain.
As in –
William Holden tripped over a throw rug, and fell onto “the sharp edge of a bedside table causing a deep cut on his right forehead followed by profuse haemorrhage”.
As you would.
I have imagined myself falling over the escalator at the local shopping centre, for example, plummeting fifteen metres onto the Sauvignon Blanc racks of the B.W.S. below, my shattered body studded with slivers of broken glass, a glittering crystalline hedgehog oozing an alcoholic raspberry-coloured brulee, some very strange fruit indeed.
My father had a fall during Christmas.
Eighty-four, and with emphysema, he took it upon himself to do a spot of decorating, to hang a bauble or two outside in the spirit of the season, a season which, for him, in an instant, turned quite silly.
A hammer in one hand, a nail in the other, he perched himself on the top of two steps, lost his balance, and promptly slid off them, banging his head on a concrete footpath, scratching up his arm and leg breaking the fall, and then crawling back up the steps onto the verandah and then into the house where he was found, shortly thereafter, leaning against the wall in the hallway by my mother.
“What the bloody hell happened to you?!”, she asked.
“I fell”, he said.
“I’m getting the ambulance!”, she says.
“I’ll be fine. I’m alright”, he protests, in the manner of all such men the world over.
“BUT YOU’RE COVERED IN BLOOD, YOU STUPID BASTARD!”, she says, in the manner of all such women the world over whose unenviable task it is to make men of such manner the world over wake up to their fucking selves and go see a fucking doctor.
And so, off he duly and dutifully went, six days in hospital, then out and back home, and back to normal, just as if nothing had ever happened, and here I am wondering how the blazes, by what streak of pure good fortune it was, he didn’t wind up dead.
From “the fall”.
For, truth be told, I imagine no such fine fortune for myself.
I see my own fall, my fatal fall, as mundane of place and spectacular in execution, a split-second exercise in post-modern balletic blood-letting, a Twyla Tharp inspired pas seul of sudden collapsing human.
It begins, in unexpected response to a sliver of soap in the shower, with a full turn on the ball of one foot, followed by a rapid whirling about of the whole body, then a surprisingly brief yet tantalising petit battement before a staggering jeté en avant grand propels me through the glass of the shower screen, a shard of which slices clean through both carotid arteries leaving my head hanging by a few shredded strings of ragged flesh, a neon arc of the brightest crimson spraying, Pollock-like (but with a little more attention to detail), across the dull white walls of the bathroom, and out across the carpet of the bedroom floor before, finally, my skull cracks against the vanity cabinet, a seepage of clotted lumps of black-red brain matter dotting the porcelain like an avant-garde garnish.
This was one jump that clearly wasn’t ending with a plié.
But it’s a good fall I believe, and it’s mine.
I’m thinking of rigging the bathroom with cameras just in case it happens and you miss it.
It might just start a trend.
Our Prime Minister is a chastened man. He has listened. He has learnt. A kinder, gentler polity shall henceforth be embraced, and a far more collaborative, consultative, and collegial fellow shall he be, for he’s the jolly good captain, a steady hand on the tiller for these times of toss’d and tempestuous seas.
It’s all bullshit, and we know it.
But it feeds the “chooks”, so to speak, and the little fuckers do come a’ runnin’ and a cluckin’, predictably and most excitedly to quaff it all, every crumb, they chumble indiscreetly and most rough, then gob it back at us in the form of immaculately manicured soundbites and talking heads talking to talking heads talking, in “opinion” pieces, in analyses (a form of “opinion” with the occasional fact or three thrown in for substance and prestige), “unnamed” sources, luridly melodramatic pleas for peace and understanding in our times, and wearisome fossicks through the numbles of mythical beasts in search of some revelatory “meaning” to it all.
If I read or hear or see one more of these “reports” about the why’s, where’s, and how’s of this current government’s infecundity, and the “real” reasons for Tony Abbott’s trip down the tin-brick road to insolvency, I feel I shall be compelled to seek out the offending member or members of this said media cabal, and slap the lot of them upside their fucking heads with a mallet.
Much ado about nothing writ hysterically large and at numbingly tedious length, and all of it saying much the same thing for reasons that need no further explanation.
Don’t tell us what we already damn well know, and why we have come to know it.
Somebody out there loves you, but we think you’re a cunt.
No amount of News Corp propagandising on your behalf will change that. Not now.
Listen, you dog, you pussy, you skank ho’ nickel and dime crack-bag of ideological fuckwittery and crackling spoof … It’s YOU.
YOU. Are. The. Problem.
You may be a fighter, but you ain’t no fucking dancer.
We’re not buying your policies because your policies are crap. Simple.
The justifications you claim for these policies are hallucinatory, a cruel chimera of callous indifference, wilful ignorance, and gasp-inducing stupidity and pretence, and we’re not buying it.
“One of the things the Labor Party did not do during the campaign was to highlight the extent to which Tony Abbott is capable of changing his mind on important elements of policy. The climate change policy was one of them. If he’s changed it once he can presumably change it again. Indeed, he did tell us that he doesn’t always say what he means … I think Tony Abbott would do what he felt he needed to do to get into power or have power …” Malcolm Fraser, Q&A, 2012
There is this …
“I’ll leave social media to its own devices. Social media is kind of like electronic graffiti and I think that in the media, you make a big mistake to pay too much attention to social media,” Mr Abbott said.”
Then there is this …
“The Abbott government has created a hub of 37 communication and social media specialists to monitor social media and offer strategic communications advice costing taxpayers almost $4.3 million a year.”
As my grandmother was oft wont to say, “You’re all over the shop like a madwoman’s shit, mate”, and our nostrils are beginning to burn, are eyes are beginning to water, our ears are ringing with the echoes of hollow words dully muttered over and over by rote, and we’re beginning to realise just how much shit there’ll be to clean up after you’ve done with voiding the manky pits of your dead, dull mind atop the already pounding heads of the constituency.
“Abbott has proven so incapable of clear policy thinking, so unwilling to consult with even his own ministers and advisers, and so poor at communicating that he has to go,” wrote the CFR (Council on Foreign Relations) senior fellow Joshua Kurlantzick, a US specialist in south-east Asian politics.
“Abbott’s policies have been all over the map, and the lack of coherence has often made the prime minister seem ill-informed and incapable of understanding complex policy issues,” he wrote – The Age, February 11, 2015
There is this …
“[Tony Abbott} announced he would be implementing new measures to fight domestic and family violence. On Tuesday he announced he would create a new national advisory panel on domestic violence and appointed [Rosie] Batty and retiring Victorian Police Commissioner Ken Lay as its founding members.
He also announced he would elevate domestic and family violence to an urgent agenda item for the Council of Australian Governments. He said he would urge the Council to agree on a framework for a national domestic violence scheme.”
Then there is this …
“Batty has said that these announcements are meaningless unless Abbott takes action to reverse the cuts he has already made to crucial domestic violence services …
The cuts she refers to are to family violence services as well as homelessness and crisis accommodation services across the country. Altogether, the cuts are worth $300 million. Several services across the country will be forced to close after having their federal funding slashed or even removed in its entirety.
The cuts also mean that specialised staff across the country that are trained in assisting victims of domestic violence will be displaced. These services assist women and children fleeing violence in a variety of ways; from providing crisis accommodation in a safe and secure environment to providing legal assistance with domestic violence apprehension orders …
… The family violence and homelessness sector is already unable to accommodate the tragically high demand in Australia, and these cuts will see even more women and children denied support.”
You’re a cunt, Tony.
You have no policies, only punishments. You do not seek to govern, you seek to rule. You thrive on the disorders and despairs of others, fear is your aphrodisiac, loathing a love letter perfumed with the blood of disabled babes, the chaos of the underclasses a contemptible slander on your strivations to the Übermensch. You are The Overman, and in your world, everyone knows their place and keeps it, and if they do not, one will be found for them, and that place shall be decided by the heft of their wallet, the rattle of their chains, the number of their slaves, and the avarice that glints in their eyes, they who whisper sweet visions of many little murders of the soul, to bring the great unwashed to heel, to their heel, so they may be crushed for base entertainments, to satisfy the savage indulgences of The Rich and The Powerful in their habitual fits of cruel whimsy.
You’re a cunt, Tony. You are a liar.
Your words are stuttering, stammering bleats of vacuous inanity undeserving of the air that carries them, blurted squalls of self-referential nonsense where you have cast yourself as Leading Man, The King, The Captain, and we are the extras, abhorrent enemies of your New Order to be quashed in this monochromatic, small-screen extravaganza of wanton idiocy and self-righteousness, your words carry nothing, no weight, no authority, no intelligence, nothing.
You’re stupid, Tony. You are a fool.
Whenever you open your mouth, you prove it.
We do not like you.
We have made that clear.
You have made it clear you do not like us.
The spin doesn’t work. We’re not listening. We’re all tuckered out, and feeling slightly nauseous, and we’re no longer paying attention. You’re full of it, and we’re done.
You have placed the “policies” you are so desperately trying to sell us – the boots that you would have forever stamp our faces – in the hands of errand boys sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill that’s already been paid.
We’re sending them back, marked “Refused”.
“Work not completed to specifications. Shoddy craftsmanship. Sub-standard raw materials. Tacky finish.”
And because you’re a cunt.
“I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves.
Alas, the time is coming when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man.
‘What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?’ thus asks the last man, and blinks.
The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small. His race is as ineradicable as the flea; the last man lives longest.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”
From awful to fucked in the space of one brief week, Prime Minister Tony Abbott, our Dear Leader, the walking, talking testicle of contemporary Australian political life, and embodiment of everything that is, and has been wrong with it these last several years, has morphed toot sweet from the once proudly simian gaited and throbbingly tumescent Cock ‘O’ the Walk and King of the Hill to flaccid impuissance, an instant noodle body-slammed into a bowl of his own steaming hot faeces.
Communications Minister and former Prime Ministerial hopeful Malcolm Turnbull now wakes every morning, and smiles, broadly, deftly tap-dancing his way from bed to shower, belts out a chorus or three of “Puttin’ on the Ritz”, follows it up with a softly gleeful rendition of “Singing in the Rain”, and fantasises about ramming the thick, block head of his most loath’d nemesis Cory Bernardi into a wood-chipper.
Foreign Minister Julie Bishop’s nipples stiffen and tingle with coldly exquisite anticipation at every paragraph of ridicule and criticism of Abbott she reads, licks her lips, and trippingly tra-la-la’s her way down to the nearest high class fashion district to shop for new blouses and matching pearls, some sensible shoes, and other items of elegantly understated garb to best befit a Prime Minister in impatient waiting.
Former Prime Minister Julia Gillard, still with steel in her veins, and who bore the brunt of Abbott’s base, savage primal brutalism, and never once cracked under his witheringly incoherent barrage of gonad-driven misogynistic hatred and contempt – “Make an honest woman out of her” – finishes watching another episode of “Game of Thrones”, lets her hair down, throws back her head, erupts with peals of glorious laughter, and says to her mate, “Tim? Fuck me ten times, Tim. Fuck me till I weep.”
North American citizen and billionaire media mogul Rupert Murdoch, Tweeting fool, boils with decrepit and aging rage and demands, DEMANDS, to blame it all on the barren bitch who runs Abbott’s office (the women are destroying the joint), instructing the always compliant polyps who cling to the increasingly desiccating organs of his Fish Wrapper Paper Empire to confect some righteous outrage over the whole goddamn thing, GODDAMMIT!, and help him elect a new Prime Minister to his liking. News Corpse. Morality on page one, tits on page three, on page thirty-seven, you can find an advertisement for sex call lines where a fifty-two year old woman on a disability pension will mimic an eight year old in a school tunic so that you can pull yourself into a sock for sixty bucks, all major credit cards accepted.
“Quality journalism”, I think he calls it.
“There is something about the state putting the power to bully into the hands of subnormal, sadistic apes that makes my blood boil.” Gore Vidal.
You’re fucked, Tony.
Clap hands. Clap hands.