William S. Burroughs, “A Thanksgiving Prayer”, 1986
In the decade during which I have been in the employ of a corporate concern, a multinational, I have witnessed people, too many to name, who have suddenly found themselves rudely and unceremoniously shuffled into irrelevancy, unemployment, deemed excess baggage or incompatible with whatever budgetary constraints are constraining the budget at whatever time, after working five, ten, twenty, even thirty years of their lifespan for said “concern”.
“Redundant” is the weasel word applied in such circumstances, which typically come about when a company undergoes or announces it is to undergo a “restructure”, which, as those of us living in the real world know, means one thing and one thing only – they’re going to sack a shitload of people and ship the work offshore where it’s cheaper.
When such news is delivered, recipients can react in a variety of ways. Anger. Resentment. A sense of betrayal; in some cases, even grief, that the work they do, that they’ve done, how they have gone about the doing of it, is no longer required, is no longer useful, and is no longer of value.
It is hard news to take.
Yet none (at least, to the best of my knowledge) ever reacted by trying to wreck the place before they left it.
There was no dancing on tables during spontaneous piss-ups, or breaking of legs, or the removing of shirts and beating of hairy man-boobs with clenched fists whilst bellowing how everyone can all get fucked. No, there was none of this. No foul-tempered, sulky, sooky ‘n’ sour spoilt-brat hissy-fits were sprayed at whoever may have been unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity at the time the news was given.
Most thought it unfair, which of course they would. Some simply shrugged with resignation, having expected it anyway, and some just didn’t care much at all, as they’d been there so long they’d grown sick of it. Some people in management got called “cunts” I suppose (especially the Americans), and a few may well have told a power-that-is on the odd occasion to take his/her job/company and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but everything and everybody soon settles down and gets on with business, either the taking care of it or the leaving of it, and doing so with a necessary modicum of restraint and decorum.
Which brings me to this small knot of squealing dickheads we’ve been hearing of, from and about the last couple months, a small knot of squealing dickheads from the rank of our body politic who were turfed from their jobs not long back because they were shit at them, and they haven’t shut up since.
Tony Abbott, Joe Hockey, Eric Abetz, and Kevin Andrews.
In less than the two years they held them, these men were sacked because they were crap at their jobs.
They were incompetent in their work.
In the weeks since those events, we have borne embarrassed witness to the childishness of Abbott in the immediate wake of his usurpation, all glowering scowls and dark, sullen glares; we have listened to Joe Hockey’s specious delusions of grandeur, his sense of self-importance, and we have heard how both men, by their own assessment, were blessedly infallible in their words and actions, all of them, and how their untimely demise sprang not from any faults or failures of their own, but from grim and grubby deeds of treachery done dirt cheap on the sly by forces of pure evil.
Former Minister for Something I Can’t Remember Anymore Because He Was Crap At It, Eric Abetz, has had a few petulant grumbles to make on these shenanigans among other matters, as has former Defence Minister, Kevin Andrews, who still hasn’t quite managed to come to terms with the description “former”, and who yesterday saw fit to gift our nation his sage and sound advice – no doubt gleaned from years upon years of arduous study – on how to correctly prosecute a ground war against IS in Syria, advice that shall no doubt be pounced upon and devoured with gusto by the gormless gits currently in charge of the world’s military, because socially conservative, anti-gay, rabidly anti-abortion suburban Christian barristers are really shit hot at planning wars in desert ratholes they can send other people’s children to die in.
It’s the sheer gall of their ego’s, the fictions they’ve fed themselves as facts, the absorption in their own self-righteousness, the wilful ignorance on world matters they insist on showcasing and sharing as hard-won wisdom, the indulgent parade of bruised egos and damaged pride, and the conviction they seem to have that this, that they, still matter to us, and should matter to us, when most of us would prefer they just shut up and leave us all the fuck alone, we’ve been there already, enough, enough.
What a sad and sorry quartet of sore losers are these; graceless, bitter and undignified in defeat, still dishing up the same old hits ‘n’ memories to an audience who’ve long since changed channels.
I rack my brain trying to remember what it was they did when they had their jobs, and can think of nothing significant, nothing of real, tangible, substantive purpose beyond the chanting of clichés and the peddling of stereotypes, of clumsy and bellicose vindictiveness, of cruel judgments made and swingeing corrections imposed; these mutts could dish it out alright, but dish it back, they’re off like a bag of ha’penny crackers.
Here in the real world, where lives, not ideologies are lived, where the work we do is not just an abstract notion or mere statistic under consideration for a report, the likes of Andrews, Abbott, Abetz and Hockey may do well to reflect that, aside from themselves and a few like-minded, mouthy muppets in the media, no one gives a fuck about what they think on a thing anymore or why, nobody wants their opinion, and above all, nobody is in the least concerned about how they felt or still feel about losing their jobs (because they were rubbish at them), so could they suck it up, shut up and shove the fuck off and stop giving us all the shits.
You are no longer in the game.
I understand there is a thoroughfare in Sydney, a road, a brief stretch of vehicular track upon which, if one chooses to travel along it, allows fair commuters of that fine city to spare themselves the Lovecraftian horrors and unrelieve’d tedium of the fifteen minutes precious, irreplaceable time otherwise wasted in transit had they chosen to go the rat-run instead.
For this “privilege”, our fair commuters are charged a fee of five dollars and some change – each way – and I wonder whether I live in a bloody country full of fucking idiots; that I have taken craps which have lasted fifteen minutes, and that fifteen minutes is not a significant amount of time in any circumstance unless that circumstance involves rushing your wife to the hospital because she’s about to give birth to triplets on the back seat, “TAKE MY FIVE BUCKS! NOW!!”, but in any other circumstance, paying five bucks for fifteen minutes of time sounds like either (a) an offer from a very unfussy streetwalker having a post-clearance Christmas sale, or (b) a VERY BIG CON of the highest order.
I wonder how we, as a civilisation, have come to this, where such things as these are presented to us as if they were gifts to be savoured, blessings bestowed and showered upon us, favours granted, for our benefit and ours alone, and do I live in a bloody country full of fucking idiots for buying this shit, for allowing them to be sold it, to be time and time again gulled and shamelessly cozened into thinking this brand of bunco and others like it, these rackets, these weasel songs of numbing-to-the-senses spin ‘n’ sting, spruiked and shilled by flimflam men and women of no repute but their own, of no worth, of no substance, of naught to anything beyond a brazen talent to conjure, and conjure again, ways and means by which they can help themselves to our money for the provision of the illusion of something that is really nothing and not worth two-fifths of fuck-all.
“But you save FIFTEEN MINUTES!”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with it, put it in a fucking BANK? Is there a BANK for that? A TIME BANK? Does the “extra time” pay out on my deathbed with special features, free spins, a jackpot and a lap-dance? IT’S FIFTEEN MINUTES, you pack of thieving scumbags, I’m keeping my five bucks, I’m going the long way, you don’t like it, you can FUCK OFF!”
A “service fee”, a “levy”, a “toll”. An “administration fee”. A “processing” charge.
These things are all that shall speak to the legacy of those who gave them to us, the white-shirt, blue tie cognoscenti of the corporate/managerialist classes, blank of face and dull in speech, absent and anonymous of character, chaotic in morals, banal in taste, insubstantial in every facet of their being; that’s their light in that nondescript office building, burning late and long into the night, where the big things are rarely, if ever managed at all, only little things, where everything is an optional extra, and the small stuff sweats a high tide 24/7, sweats an ocean, and it’s all a feller can do just to keep treading water to keep hisself from drownin’ in it all.
“What do you do for a living, Daddy?”, asks the child of The Administrator.
“I’m … er … I’m … in management”.
“Yes, but what do you do? Like, Tommy’s dad is a truckdriver, Sam’s dad is a builder, and Mitchell’s dad is a ‘lectrician, what do you do?”
“I’m an Adm – … I’m a, um, I do. Um. Ah. I … You’re too young to understand. Why don’t you go ask your mother?”
The tragedy of this?
We’re stuck with it.
We’re stuck with them.
The errand boys of big business, the clerks from central casting, the gormless goons on high in Head Office.
Their numbers are legion, far greater than ours now, those of us who choose to actually work for a living.
Always looking for an angle. A way in to where you already are, where you’ve already been, there’s always a way in, and they’ll always find it, and each and every time they do, they’ll find a way to charge you fifty bucks to use the key you already have to get the fuck out of the house you already own, and then they’ll have you send them a “Thank You” note for their troubles.
It’s nothing personal. Just business.
“BUT, BUT, WHAT IS THE WORK YOU DO, DADDY?!?, implores the child again, crying now, red-faced, in confused frustration.
Daddy knows the “work” he does is no “work” at all, no type of work fit for a “man”, nor woman neither, no.
So Daddy steals downstairs one night, late, and without a sound.
He puts the barrel to his eyeball, then he fires off a round.
“What did your dad do for a living? Before this happened.”
“I dunno. Office stuff. I dunno. There’s this guy who writes this blog in Australia reckons people like my dad are just a pack of thieving scumbags”.
“I dunno. Ask me mum … I dunno.”
Ivan Leslie Sharp, born September 19, 1928, died at 4.00pm on Wednesday, November 4th, 2015 in Bankstown Hospital after complications arose following a serious fall in October. He was 87 years old. His funeral service was held Friday, November 13th, 2015.
In his working life, from the 1940’s to the 1990’s he was a commercial artist and a signwriter.
A tradesman. A craftsman.
He is survived by his wife of 57 years, and a choleric and oft ill-tempered son of 56 years of age, and some other relatives here and there, most of whom I never knew I had, and maybe, neither did he.
I may have more to offer on this subject (and, other, unrelated topics) over the coming days and weeks, but for now …
In light of the recent tragic events that have struck your fine town, its citizens, its sons, its daughters, may I offer you, as their proud representative, my most sincere condolences for this senseless loss of so many innocent lives.
It is at times like this when a townspeople can find themselves gripped with a sense of futility, of hopelessness over the sheer bewildering mindlessness of such an act of violence, a sense that nothing can be done, nor undone, and mere words incapable of describing the malaise of remorseless melancholy that can overwhelm the sturdiest of spirit.
It is also at times like this, when we should recall, that as we do leave one room, so we do enter another, and whilst our sorrows can never be fully left behind, we can take them with us into this new room, this new room of hope, of renewal, and an opportunity may beckon us help repair and soothe the troubled souls and hearts of our stricken brethren.
Allow me to make this modest proposal –
A “pop-up” style of retail establishment, both company-owned and franchised, named “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) ©, (franchises are now available in your area!) specialising in providing immediate, convenient access (sensitively and respectfully located) to a wide and quality variety of merchandise, products and gifts with which the public can find practical and expedient ways to express their sense of tragic loss and immeasurable grief.
From the simplest floral arrangement, or even a single rose, to the most ornate bouquets, from a basic teddy bear to the rarest Barbie, “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) ©, will be the one-stop shop for everybody’s public mourning needs, a place where even memorial Hashtags can be purchased in minutes (in single units or bundles), expertly crafted by our highly experienced team of editors, writers, and digital artisans, who guarantee viral results within hours or your money refunded*
We have candles from all over the globe, of all shapes, sizes and scents, ribbons made from the finest Turkish tapestries, handcrafted chocolates from Belgian chocolatiers, even Freddo frogs, all of this and much, much more from which one can choose to make their solemn offering/s of public remembrance and prayers (“Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) © specialise in custom prayers for all occasions/locations).
The unpredictability of events such as those which did recently befall your people, and the fast pace of modern life in these times are often inconveniently incompatible, and can make for uncomfortable interruptions in otherwise orderly days, and a “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) © store in your town, in your state, will guarantee your citizens shall never be at a loss again when tragedy strikes, when a teddy bear or a condolence card will always be at hand in an instant.
I am sure you will agree with me that a “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) © store in your state, even (if demand were high enough), every state of America would provide a confident, secure and tranquil reassurance to the men, women and children of this glorious and blessed country, that respectful offerings and oblations, of the highest standard and quality, are just a moment away, and that all “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) © staff will share their grief, feel their loss, and selflessly dedicate their time to help salve the souls of those whose memories are wounded and in need of assuaging, with expert advice and gift suggestions.
Additionally “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) ©, will donate a percentage** of all profits earned to any Foundation or Beneficent Trust that may have been established, or is intended to be established in memory of those sadly lost.
In closing, may I once more offer you my humblest and heartfelt sorrow at what has taken place, and at the loss of so many sweet, innocent lives.
Yet, though our tears may fall and sting, though our wretched grief subsume all other of our senses for what may seem eternal, truly it is where our memories have fixed our love for those now gone from this life that “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) © can help us to profoundly express.
Please contact me if you are interested.
CEO, “Can I Buy A Feeling?”™ (Pending) © Ltd.
“The UCC shooting is the 45th school shooting in the US this year, and marks the 142nd school shooting since the Sandy Hook school shooting in December 2012, according to the gun control group Everytown for Gun Safety.”
Malcolm Turnbull is addressing the media.
I am sitting at the kitchen table in the dining room of my parent’s home in Sydney’s south-west, my mother is in the living room watching a murder mystery on ABC One titled “Vera” when the program is interrupted by a “flash” of news, news that Malcolm Turnbull will shortly be addressing the media.
He will be challenging the incumbent Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, for the leadership of the Federal Liberal Party, and for the Prime Ministership of the country. He will be challenging tonight.
This “flash” of news becomes rolling coverage and keeps a-rolling for the rest of the night, thoroughly pissing off my mother who shall now never know who murdered who or why in the show she was watching, and she makes her feelings about this known to me more than once over the next few hours (as mothers are wont to do), whilst I am left to my own thoughts, chief amongst them this, “He (Malcolm) would not be doing this if wasn’t absolutely certain he had the numbers.”
He has the numbers.
I feel a sense of relief at this turn of events, a great sense of relief, and, about 11.30pm, I finally bed down for the night to the baying of various callers on ABC Radio 702 lulling me to satisfied slumber with howls of betrayal and outrage and anger over what has been done to “their” Tony, and how none of them, ever, ever again, will be able to bring themselves to vote for the Liberal Party, ever, ever again, not after this, and I think, “So, you’ll all be switching to Labor and the Greens now, will you?”, how I wish they’d take their oh-so-righteous, instant knee-jerk apoplexy and moral “outrage”, shove it and shut up.
So precious. So very delicate.
I do not own a computer, and my phone is not smart, and I am in Sydney for two weeks (unexpectedly) “managing” my elderly parents, one of whom is in hospital, so I am spared the incessant white noise of social media during all of this, and I am spared the views of people whose views don’t count to me; I am spared tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of words explaining to me what has just happened and why, what context I must place it, how I must feel, and who I must feel it for, and instead, all I am left with is a sense of relief.
What has just happened and why?
A tiresome and tedious fool has been expelled from the Palace, banished from the Kingdom, he had no hand to eye co-ordination, his slapstick was shit, and every time he flicked the switch to vaudeville, the auditorium exploded.
Tony was a silent movie star playing to a dark theatre, and the rest of us had all long ago fled to the talkies.
Tony was a fucking idiot, and he had to go.
It was reported, by whom I cannot recall, that upon being told he was to be challenged for the leadership by Turnbull, Abbott asked, “What do you think I should do?”, and this, this forlorn and bootless plea, this pitiable yelp alone stands as a simple, yet exquisite measure of this “man” made as he always was and always will be, in the image of a child.
“What do you think I should do?”
“You’re in charge. Don’t you know?”
The tabloids fired up Photoshop after his deposition, doing a few tricky things with Turnbull, with Shorten, and they cranked up their pun generator for a couple days, but overall, it really did feel as if their hearts were not truly in it, and now that their boy was gone, not only did Rupert have no one to order around anymore, neither did they have to continue their desperate defences of Abbott’s unrelenting talent for saying and doing things that made both him, and the country, a laughing stock and embarrassment across the globe.
The obituaries have not been kind …
“He will not be missed. He should not be praised. He was a failure selfishly wishing that the world would fail with him. We can only hope his like will not be seen again.” The Saturday Paper, Editorial
There will be more of them, at least of the ones that matter, but it may take some time for these to fully develop, to ripen, for all the tawdry facts and fantastic fictions of these last two years to be laid bare, and to fully explore his failure as a man, and as a government, to do him the justice he so truly and richly deserves, to dish back at him the contempt he so freely and frequently dished out at us, a contempt ably illustrated by his assuming the portfolio of “Minister for Women”, a ministry he did nothing with, but claimed purely as a juvenile, middle-finger “Fuck You” to every woman in his past personal and political life who had ever dared take issue with his infantile brand of lip-smacking, nod-and-wink patriarchy.
That’s Abbott, the little fella in the kitchen banging away on a saucepan with a wooden spoon, driving the adults crazy but they won’t shut him up lest he have a tantrum; his entire life and political career one long, continuous “Fuck You” to anyone or anything that challenged his view of himself as some Golden God on high, wise, noble, all-knowing and just, infallible, in charge or taking over, and, as former PM Paul Keating once noted, “wrecking the joint if you don’t give him the job”, then proceeding to wreck it anyway because he can’t think of anything else to do.
“The man does not want to be who he is, and thus, when he can do anything he wants, he became a force of destruction and failure.” Guy Rundle, Crikey
Thank God that’s over.
Of course, there are some in the media, print media mostly, who have been moved to decry his fate, the usual suspects; they have turned to poetry and prose, hymns, elegies, and soaring symphonies of praise they have offered up in honour of their favoured saviour, but nobody with eyes or ears or who has been conscious in this world over this brief time is buying that shit anymore, not least without laughing a lot. Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on Andrew Bolt, went all Jodi Picault a couple days ago and made himself cry.
People laughed a lot.
Former Liberal Minister For Something I’ve now forgotten, Eric Abetz, marked the occasion of Abbott’s removal by declaring “The King is dead, long live the King”.
Rather, let’s grab a shovel, dig him a hole, and dance on his fucking grave.
Fuck you, Tony Abbott.
You were shit.
Three weeks ago, my 87 year-old emphysemic father did topple, in a most unseemly and indelicate fashion, face-first onto a heavy wooden dining table, and then did flip backward onto the kitchen floor, causing two bones in his neck to fracture, necessitating a quick visit to the hospital via ambulance where stitches were sewn across the bridge of his nose, and a neck brace fitted to him which looks like something from a science-fiction film – “Alien” came to mind first time I laid eyes on it.
He did lay there for two weeks, looking like one big, bruised, broken vegetable until, early last week, he was transferred to an aged care transitional facility where he is to be slowly re-introduced to the novel concept of walking without falling over (firstly, stand up while hanging onto something), and moving his head about.
This little episode did require my presence in Sydney for an extended period to deal with all manner of things (not least, a 77 year-old mother who is deaf, and cannot hear anything across a phone line), and during which time I had no computer or internet access (because I do not own a computer and my phone is not smart, not so much the affectation of a Luddite as it is my continued penchant for exploring the uncharted and challenging extremes of mind-numbing procrastination within the known – and unknown – dimensions of this, our infinite universe ).
This is about the fourth or fifth fall he has had in as many years, and if things keep going on like this, I may suggest to him that if he likes acrobatics so much, why doesn’t he just go join a fucking circus?
I understand we have a new Prime Minister, that his name is Malcolm, and he speaks in complete sentences.
How’s that working out for people?
Melbourne, today …
MOTORISTS and passengers can expect a hellish ride into the city Friday morning with roads jammed, trains cancelled and trams packed.
Metro workers are walking off the job between 10am and 2pm but services will start thinning from 8.15am and are not expected to resume to full capacity until 4.30pm.
VicRoads and Public Transport Victoria have urged those who can stay home to do so, with road congestion to be at peak hour levels all day long.
The stoppage will bring seven hours of chaos with 300,000 passengers disrupted and almost 700 train services cancelled.
Europe, now …
I see millions of hands
They are raised to the sky
I see millions of hands
They are raised to the sky
I see visions of outrage
I see visions of outrage
We are questioning peace
In the absence of god
We all pray to police
Oceans of people
Oceans of souls
Oceans of people
Oceans of souls
Europe is falling apart
“Eurovision” Laibach, 2014
The Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, comments …
“We saw yesterday on our screens a very sad, poignant image of children tragically dead at sea in illegal migration,” Mr Abbott told ABC radio. “Thankfully we have stopped that in Australia because we have stopped the illegal boats.”
Such a mensch.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee. – John Donne
Federal Immigration Minister Peter Dutton was on the television yesterday morning, on two channels that I noticed, twice, his gape-mouthed, dead, dull-eyed stare its usual blank and impenetrable fortress of vapid dumb, he’d been wound up with his talking points for the day and nothing, nothing, would sway him from his course, an insistent stream of hollow nonsense, bullshit and bluster, weary clichés and sulkily defensive hostility.
At one point Dutton accused Fairfax and the ABC of conspiring to topple the Abbott government by reporting news with news in it, such as the Australian Border Force fuck-up in Melbourne last Friday, another one of those masterstrokes in public relations our government has come to specialise in and which we, the citizenry, so abjectly fail to appreciate them for time and time again.
I stop listening, and the words “taking responsibility” come to mind. I leave the room, go have a shower (an apt thing to do after hearing or seeing Dutton at any time), and get ready for work. By the time I get there, Dutton’s all over the fucking internet, being rightfully lambasted and widely mocked for his remarks, and for generally carrying on like a sooky cunt.
To date, Dutton’s career as a government minister has not exactly been covered in glory, his exploits have heralded no fanfares and inspired no heroic monuments be established in his name; instead, as one Fairfax scribe noted “in a government which prizes making a goose of oneself, Dutton excels.”
Let us also not forget that, as the former Federal Health Minister, he was regarded, by health professionals, as “the worst health minister in 35 years” and “will be remembered as the dullest, least innovative and most gullible for swallowing the reforms from his think tank … Although I am glad he has been demoted, it would have been good if he was still around to take responsibility for the current chaos he has caused.”
To put it unkindly, the man’s not worth a pinch of shit, and we all know it.
Let us also not forget that, as the current Immigration Minister, Dutton joins a long and undistinguished line of callous and unfeeling arseholes who have, for almost 15 years now, been enabling the rape, torture and physical and psychological abuse of already seriously damaged men, women and children by flinging them off to corruptly governed foreign islands so as to sate the primal fears of a nation whose populace now seems consumed and diseased by cowardice and new tribal hatreds, hatreds lovingly nurtured and fed by the frenzied illogic of the white trash on heat in our tabloids, and their political equivalents.
Let us not forget this …
“The story of Beth, a young refugee who was released into the Nauruan community in May. Allegedly Beth, whose name I have changed, was sitting on the beach with some other women when local men gave her a drink. Beth began to feel woozy, before being dragged into bushes by two or three men and raped. They then poured fuel on her and set her alight. I have seen photographs of her after the assault. Her left breast is so badly burnt that the skin has blackened and lifted from the flesh.
As a result of the rape, Beth became pregnant. A solemn Christian, the thought of abortion appalled her but she decided to go through with it. Beth was flown to Brisbane for the termination where, not long after, she attempted to hang herself with a bed sheet. She is now back on Nauru.”
Let us not forget this …
“We, as a country, are effectively running overseas prison camps filled with people who have committed no crime, camps where abuse and neglect and maltreatment are routine, where the exercise of power is arbitrary and accountability is non-existent.”
Yet on such topics, Immigration Minister Peter Dutton has this to say …
“In Australia, the Department of Immigration and Border Protection, and the minister’s office, did not respond to detailed questions about the sexual assaults … and conditions on Nauru for settled refugees.”
Not worth a pinch of shit.
Given that our government of the day has always argued against gender quotas in parliament, insisting that ministerial positions within it are accorded on “merit”, and, as one person put it, “being the worst [at something] is the best you’ve got”, as it is in Dutton’s case, the definition of “merit” becomes as shaky, flaky and psychosis-inducing as our onion-eating, coal and chimney-sweep fetishist Prime Minister, and one realises, one knows, that no media report of any kind, from any channel, could wage a better “vendetta” against the current government than its own members.
All they have to do is talk.
And we respond …
“You people are shit”.
“Peter fucking Dutton”.
“Bit of a dickhead, that one”.
Dr Kevin Donnelly is a Senior Research Fellow at the Australian Catholic University and the co-author of the Review of the Australian Curriculum. Donnelly taught for 18 years in government and non-government schools and was a branch president of the Victorian Secondary Teachers Association. In 2004 he was chief-of-staff to Liberal Party Minister Kevin Andrews.
Here is Dr. Donnelly on ABC’s The Drum holding forth in support of our Prime Minister’s latest example of Mad Cunt People Skillin’ by doing his “Nope, Nope, Nope” thing on marriage “equality” …
” … many of the arguments in favour of same-sex marriage are flawed. Those wanting change argue that defining marriage as involving a man and a woman discriminates against lesbians and homosexuals.
Ignored is that there are many examples where society and the law allow discrimination to occur. Women-only gyms and clubs are allowed to exclude men and those under 18 are not allowed to view X-rated films and videos.”
I’ll just leave that “logic” lying there for you people to ponder on, because it’s got me fucked.
No matter how many tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of words have been written or spoken about this woman and her history of immoderate extravagance, there is no “sniff test”, no “pub test”, no context one need put it in, no perspective to be applied, there is only this, and always has been only this ….
“You spent $5000 bucks chartering a fucking helicopter to go a ninety minute car drive because you were late to a fete? OH, DO FUCK OFF, YOU STUPID FUCKING CLOWN!”
If only that were the headline the first time, and for the few days after, we would not have had to endure the last three weeks of front page photographs and footage of the woman, looking like The Joker playing Cruella deVille in a bawdy vaudeville pantomime – “Bite your pillow Australia, I’M STRAPPIN’ ON AND GOIN’ IN DRY!”
“BOOOOOOO!” the audience respond and recoil in unison. Some even flee the theatre.
A few weeks before all these shenanigans, the host of ABC News Breakfast interviews former Liberal leader John Hewson on various things, and asks Hewson if he is disappointed, if he despairs, the current level of policy debate and discussion in politics, its lack of substance.
Hewson replies that he does, and that he has observed its slow and steady degradation over the past twenty years or so, and I think to myself, “Yes, I too have noticed”.
Not too long before this, Creepy Rupert’s stable of News Corp arse-rags were all a-flutter with excitement that Federal Opposition Leader, Mr Brown Paper-Bag, had been summoned before a Royal Commission into something-something unions and asked questions on matters nobody but they seemed to give a flying fuck about, a matter that has since incuriously and understandably disappeared from the news cycle to make way for all these lurid tales of the aforementioned old bat Bronwyn and her ratty delusions of aristocratic grandeur.
And while Mr. Paper-Bag’s Royal Commission appearance provided the work experience folk at the Photoshop and Pun Departments of Rupert’s papers oodles of jolly good fun for a day or two, a rather subdued announcement was made at that same time that a whopping great open-cut coal mine is to be constructed on a food bowl, and I think to myself, “Are you fucking kidding me? Really?”
Our Prime Minion also declared war on “wind” a while back, but unfortunately for the rest of us, the opening salvo in this war on wind would not consist of blowing his and Joe Hockey’s head off with an air rifle.
Tony got the shits with windmills, and he’d like the rest of us to have the shits with them too.
Jesus H. Christ.
Imagine a run-down, dilapidated amusement park.
In that park is an out-of-control carousel, spinning and spinning and spinning, careening this way and then that, a kaleidoscopic frenzy of speed, tawdry colours and bright lights, and on that carousel are the cast of inmates from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, all of them drunk or off their medications and whooping it up something wild, hanging on to their horses for dear life, laughing, screaming, waving their arms, the organ music’s at max volume and it’s always out of tune.
Welcome to Australian politics.
Each day, it lurches from deliriously, impenetrably weird to full-blown shrill psychosis and back again; one moment it sits quietly in a corner cackling to itself in a warm puddle of its own pee, and the next it’s flinging it’s poo at anyone and everyone in sight, barking at shadows, hollerin’ batshit crazy things at random passers-by, it’s where “Medication Time” never comes, never has and never will, for there are no pills for this.
Waleed Aly writes a column in Fairfax’s Sydney Morning Herald, observing …
“Labor refuses to prosecute a difficult argument. The Coalition cannot prosecute one without finding an enemy to prosecute along with it. But no one is inviting us into a civil exchange. Perhaps with our instant online outrage and shallowing media cycle we’re not the best guests. Sure, I’ll accept that. But politicians aren’t merely self-interested combatants. They’re custodians of our political culture. And on that score there’s a problem because it’s never been easier to win politically by destroying politics.”
Aly notes that “Our disillusionment with politics is now complete”.
When 70% of Australians polled think leaders of both major political parties are about as useful as a couple eunuchs in a flophouse; when only 8% of Australians get their news from traditional print media, and almost 50% of those do not trust that media; and when the influence of this media is so rapidly declining that its public persuasion factor is almost nil, one may be more inclined to think that it not so much disillusionment with politics, but outright contempt, and a large, sloppy return serve of it to those in government and media who regularly see fit to regard the Australian public with same.
As Rodney Tiffen noted in his Inside Story article from June …
“ … the main medium that picks up on the tabloids’ coverage is commercial talkback radio, which then amplifies the papers’ sense of outrage even further. It should be remembered, though, that their elderly listeners are quite similar to the readers of the tabloid newspapers. Together, the two media form a self-aggrandising and self-referential noise machine, and their volume and bluster should not be mistaken for outreach.”
Tiffen goes on to add …
” … there is an increasing sense of editorial desperation among the Murdoch papers as their commercial plight worsens. Like a one-trick pony, they try ever-bigger versions of the old sensationalist ploys. Politically, the result is even less willingness to report fairly on parties and views they don’t support. Where there was once a populist touch, now there is just a grinding predictability. Where there was once a profitable balance between sensationalism and credibility, now the confected outrage and the beat-ups rarely hit home.”
None of these trends and statistics come as any surprise, for they perfectly reflect my own attitudes toward politics as it is played today, and those in the media who “report” on it, and confirm that I am, most definitely, not alone.
Which begs the question – Who are these people writing for?
Themselves and each other.
And the politicians who still think we’re paying attention to what these alleged “influential” columnists and “opinion-makers” have to say.
As Hadas Gold and Michael Hirsh noted in Politico last year …
“The combination of hyper-polarization and social-media frenzy has created a situation where it seems every spin-meister’s message and TV ad is exaggerated to such absurd lengths that they’ve effectively become meaningless—especially because they’re addressing audiences that are either (a) already fully committed on one side or the other, a choir that doesn’t need preaching to or (b) such sophisticated users of social media that they just don’t buy the crap any more.”
Nobody need read an entire column by anyone in (as Tiffen describes them) “our media’s stable of largely interchangeable and wholly predictable columnists” to know which way they’re whistling and how goes the tune. The headline, the byline, a quick glance at content, reliably daffy keywords are guaranteed to crop up every time, repeatedly, like “leftist” (whatever the fuck that means), and you’re done.
I have often wondered of these so-called “commentators”, the likes of Paul Sheehan or Andrew Bolt or Janet Albrechtson, precisely who they think the fuck they are that their opinions are supposed to matter to anyone who’s not already going to agree with them on a thing, because those who don’t never will.
My opinion on a thing is not fed by the opinions on that thing of others, but by facts, reportage, statistics, peer-reviewed, certified, actual information. WHAT. WE. KNOW.
When Federal Employment Minister Eric Abetz writes a column for Fairfax Media all a-frettin’ and a’fearin’ on the certain moral delinquency that shall arise in the wake of marriage equality (should it ever come to pass), not only shall I not read it, I shall also be inclined to briefly despair at the state of a media whose dearth of talent is such these days, that it would choose to publish such shit.
Or when the likes of Rowan Dean are given space anywhere in a nation’s mainstream press media to air their simple-minded and insubstantive sniggerings, or former political parrots Amanda Vanstone or Peter Reith in The Sydney Morning Herald, and don’t even get me started on Maurice “You Can Call Me The Space Cowboy” Newman in the “The Australian”, not paying attention becomes mandatory.
When “the politics of policy” matters more than the policy to the players, when it becomes nothing but an unending bellowing ululation of frenzied irrationality and fear, when criticism becomes treason, when the tactics are always dirty and the umpire’s always on the make, the audience stop listening, the game is rigged and we know it, it’s a sting, a gyp, a monkeyshines hustle, we know when we’re being diddled and played for patsies and we just ain’t buyin’ this crap no more.
“The Abbott government’s failure to implement so many of its own pre-election promises has contributed to a perception of it as an inefficient government. It has also experienced some very public reversals and botches on policy, including the Medicare co-payment, delaying payments for unemployed young people, cuts to the age pension, race discrimination law, jobseekers applying for 40 jobs a month, deregulation of higher education, and Tony Abbott’s signature paid parental leave policy.” – Sally Young, The Sydney Morning Herald
We do not perceive these things in the context and perspective from which our politicians and their pimps and panders in the mainstream press would like us to, we perceive them in the context and perspectives of our lives as we live them, and as we know others do, and the perception has lead us, has led a great many, to the conclusion that this government is shit, and there ain’t nothin’ no-one can do or say that will change that as long they continue to keep proving it to us every day by carrying like a pack of full-retard fuckwits.
Goodnight and good luck.
The above image was auto-generated based upon Facebook information, and you can get your very own front page here. I must say when mine turned up, I did laugh. Aloud.
It is another time, and it is another place, far, far away.
New laws rule this land in this time, and these laws must be upheld by das Volk to ensure the safety of the nation from those who would destroy it, those who would corrupt the minds of its young, befoul the tender flesh of its frauen, and recast the very soul and substance of its culture and the state, the cities and the towns, into a libertine haven for convicted scoundrels and a university for budding crooks.
The laws of the land do so decree that those who would besmirch our national character, those who would sully our people’s most sacred beliefs and institutions, those who would choose either to destroy the industries that keep us strong or hold them captive to their socialist ideologies of anti-government activism, who would forsake and deliver the sovereignty of our shores to the mongrel hordes of primitive, backward medievalism, who actively work against the good will of the government to safeguard the welfare and security of our country and its citizens, shall now be purged from our midst forevermore, silenced, suppressed, broken, starved of resources, to be left utterly defeated and beaten, and to be banished from both our eyes and our ears, by whatever ways and means possible.
Into this time and place, situate such people as Tony Abbott and Scott Morrison and Peter Dutton, Kevin Andrews and others of similar mindset, lawmakers and enforcers all, public figures of esteem and rectitude who, as Christians, have not the duty to allow themselves to be cheated, but the duty to be fighters for truth and justice, and to uphold the law.
In this environment, ask yourself, would any of these be the kind of men to hide the Jews in the attic, or would be they be the kind of men emptying bullets into the heads of das Juden faster than they could unload the clip?
Resplendent in their tailored Hugo Boss leather greatcoats, jackboots, peak’d cap, endorsed by and endowed with the full authority of the state and its laws, would they be gleefully kicking the carcasses of their enemies and of the sick and weak and deformed into shallow mass graves, and congratulating themselves on a “difficult” and often “confronting” task well executed in the name of prosperity, economic austerity, and the will of the people?
“Every day, the [Immigration] department and the Australian Border Force within it will create, receive and use critical and important information including intelligence and personal information. Much of this information will be sensitive and complex.
“It is therefore necessary that information secrecy and disclosure arrangements should be in place not only to protect information but also to enable the disclosure of information in appropriately controlled circumstances.” – Peter Dutton, Federal Immigration Minister
WE STOPPED THE BOATS!
“The receptivity of the masses is very limited, their intelligence is small, but their power of forgetting is enormous. In consequence of these facts, all effective propaganda must be limited to a very few points and must harp on these in slogans until the last member of the public understands what you want him to understand by your slogan.” – Adolf Hitler
Now imagine, if what you have just read were published in a mainstream news outlet or publication, or broadcast on the ABC television or radio, and imagine, just imagine, the outrage which would ensue, the high-keened chorus of frothing whimpers that would sweep all else to insignificance.
It may sound a little like this …
“That is an absolutely outrageous, offensive, utterly disgraceful, and highly disrespectful thing to say about any current member of this government, or for that matter, any sitting member of parliament. To suggest that we are in any way similar or comparable to a regime as evil as that of Hitler’s is not just an unforgivable slur upon the ethical, moral and professional standards of our elected representatives, but a vile, vile, and deeply disturbing statement of disrespect towards the millions of innocent men, women and children who suffered and died horribly under that regime. To say that our policies resemble in any way, in any way, those of Nazi Germany is just … just … totally unacceptable in this day and age, quite frankly, and statements such as those don’t belong in any intelligent debate or policy discussion.”
Outrage and offense, the impertinence and cheek, it’s a nice and easy tactic to divert attention from matters of actual substance; it’s the shit that makes the flowers grow, where column inches soon become yards, and indignation the headline of the day, bought to you by the White Trash on Heat from the tabloid commentariat, who’ll never let an opportunity to go full dudgeon over a spot of name-calling pass by, especially if it’s directed at the side of politics their media masters have told them to shill for.
Just let us speak not of this …
Social workers, doctors, nurses, teachers and humanitarian staff who have worked inside Australia’s detention centres have united in an unprecedented show of defiance against new laws that could see workers in detention centres jailed for speaking out about abuses.
“If we witness child abuse in Australia we are legally obliged to report it to child protection authorities. If we witness child abuse in detention centres, we can go to prison for attempting to advocate for them effectively. Internal reporting mechanisms such as they are have failed to remove children from detention; a situation that is itself recognised as a form of systematic child abuse.”
Or of this …
“A four-year-old girl who began exhibiting behaviour consistent with a child who had been sexually assaulted, including sexualised dancing and pulling her pants down to invite adults to insert their finger into her anus. Despite child protection workers assessing her to be at “high risk of ongoing sexual abuse”, the submission said the immigration department did not remove her from detention.”
The Minister shall determine the appropriate controls and circumstances under which such information shall be disclosed or released, and it will be at the discretion of the Minister and the government under which he serves to determine whether the disclosure of such information is in the public interest, or is not.
“Child abuse on Nauru was first publicly reported in an anonymous submission (#183) to the Australian Human Rights Commission (AHRC). Prior to this submission, despite evidence provided to the AHRC, child abuse was never disclosed. We now know there were multiple incidents of abuse that had occurred by the time these organisations gave evidence but they chose not to report it. – Viktoria Vibhakar, former senior child protection work for Save the Children on Nauru.
I repeat, the Minister shall determine the appropriate controls and circumstances under which such information shall be disclosed or released, and it will be at the discretion of the Minister and the government under which he serves to determine whether the disclosure of such information is in the public interest, or is not.
“I do not think there is as much unhappiness in us as vanity, nor as much malice as stupidity. We are not so full of evil as of inanity; we are not as wretched as we are worthless.” – Michel de Montaigne
We’ll keep Australia safer, safer than it’s ever been before, and we won’t be having no desert-nigger lovin’ raghead sum-bitches comin’ into our fuckin’ houses just so they can piss on our rugs and shit on our lawns, goddammit. We’re the rain to wash this scum off the earth, we are the swords fashioned from bright bolts of lightning plucked from thundering skies on whose blades heads shall roll, we are the ones who decide who comes here and the manner in which they come, we are the ones who will decide who stays, who goes, who is, or is not, Australian, we are judge and we are jury, and we call upon you, our fellow Australians, to be our executioners, in thought, word and deed, on our side, with us, not against us, and whosoever chooses not to gather with us, shall be given good and righteous cause to scatter from our collective wrath.
“Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves” – William Shakespeare, “King Lear”
We can stunt and dull our senses with the psychological thalidomide of asinine entertainments and “moral” panics, we can redact our hearts and hide our minds from themselves, we can spit our collective contempt upon the faces of the feeble, the frail, and the a’feared, we can choose to live every minute of our future as a memory of our past, but nothing, nothing, will ever, wipe these sordid stains from our history or from our souls.
“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
Written by Ken Morris and originally posted on the Facebook page of the Anglican Parish of Gosford …
Nothing about this young man’s [Zaky Mallah] appearance on this show [Q&A] worried me. Nothing about his reply to the Minister worried me.
What did worry me was the assumption that a young angry Muslim man could not be making a good point badly, he could only be making a bad point well.
This assumption was evident immediately from Tony Jones and confirmed by subsequent commentary and media, including an interview with the Muslim Waleed Ali.
You need to take a very stilted view of his amateur communication to derive some sort of threat. Angry with the Minister’s dismissive opportunistic and melodramatic role abuse, Zaky got hot in the head and tried to explain that it is precisely that kind of automatic dismissal without adequate facts, that feeds the radicalisation of some. He stated this in the positive present tense as an actuality. If he had had media training (like everyone on the panel) he might have stated it in the future conditional and with a qualification. (‘It is statements like the Minister has just made that could see radicalised young people make the mistake of going to join ISIL.’)
I have read the transcript of his trial and I find nothing to indicate that he was acquitted of previous matters on a technicality. On the contrary, I find the court’s record of this young man’s life profoundly sad and moving. He was orphaned early and got gradually onto the wrong side of the tracks where young men (of many cultures) develop, through experience of authority, a mistrust and anger for it. He developed a specific attitude towards ASIO and immigration officials when he was denied a VISA to go back to his country of origin to attend a wedding and to meet the woman who had been selected for him according to custom, as his wife. (The custom being that both parties have a right of refusal of each other.) Things went from bad to worse and he served a term in gaol for the threats he made.
I have been meeting young men like this throughout my life as a youth worker. They are angry at their parents, angry at police, angry at teachers and angry at everyone who crosses their path. But their anger is not the sum total of their humanity. It is a symptom of a combination of events, misplaced elements of temperament, unmet attachment needs, immature emotions and the unpredictable lighting of a fuse. And yes, rarely…once in a thousand times, it is a symptom of something I can’t really identify…that looks like pure evil.
What we saw on the program was a tiny microcosm of how I think some radicalisation happens. This damaged angry young Muslim man was confronted with a Christian white power figure who, without access to anything other than, as he admitted, a vague memory (which was wrong), pronounced that young man’s guilt and announced his punishment of banishment from the country Zaky says he loves. In front of a national audience, and without a shred of shame. It was a shocking and appalling display by the Minister.
And so a nation bears witness through the lens of our now-distorted view of people like this young man. We respond as Germans responded to young Jewish men in 1939. We respond through the prism of the lies we have been told and the stereotypes we have been fed. We couldn’t hear his humanity because his Muslim-ness was shouting too loudly at us. To our bent minds when Muslims get angry they don’t speak more truth, they only speak more terrorism.
I am ashamed of this country at the moment. I am ashamed at the (mostly) white, suited, male, middle-class politicians from the LNP/National/Labor coalition who now rule this country with one mind, informed by the bigotry and cruelty that they all fostered in us. I am ashamed that we have become both blind and deaf to fundamental truths. I am ashamed that, in the quest for the populist vote of misinformed xenophobia by ‘stopping the boats’, we have also managed to stop up any remnants of our national spirit of empathy and compassion.
Legislation that by-passes the oversight of the courts to condemn someone on the basis of ‘intelligence’ is wrong, but will be passed because it supports the oligarchy of the powerful on both sides of politics. Intelligence of course, is the same unblemished reliable kind of truth-telling that assured us Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction and Dr Muhammad Hanif was a terrorist. Intelligence would be the commodity that completely failed to observe that a man named Man Haron Monis, whose madness and violence was hardly a secret, was still walking the streets…until he took people siege and ended two innocent lives. Intelligence is the raw data for drones carrying death. Intelligence resulted in Guantanamo Bay water-boarding.
It’s lucky I’m a white Christian middle-class male saying this. If I was a young Muslim boy the foot of the ABC and the nation would be down my throat by now.”
I have nothing further to add, beyond “Well said, that man”.
Are you mental, mad, is there a screw loose on your cupboard door, a plank missing from your deck, a wheel off your trolley?
Are you overly fond of cats, and do you carry big wads of crumpled newspapers around with you in plastic bags?
Throw away those pills! Cancel that therapy!
Our Federal Social Services Minister has found the simple solution to your sorrows…
Now, if that doesn’t work, sure as shit nothing will, so you may as well face up to it and hang yourself from the living room light fitting, you fucking loser.
“The ABC is out of control and must be reformed!”, howls Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on taste and restraint, and O! how he doth howl, often and most loudly. His frequent allies in this noble quest – from the mighty Gerard Henderson, to stout and doughty Piers Akerman, from the audacious Janet Albrechtsen to the staunch daring of Miranda Devine and beyond, gallants all – steadfast and true in their brave crusade. This fearlessly outspoken consortium of Brothers and Sisters in Adjectival Febrility remain unwavering in their pursuits and arrayed, united and opposed, to the multiple perfidies of progressive advocacy that have lodged deep within the bowels of the nation’s public broadcaster and must, now and forevermore, be purged.
Begin position …
The ABC has consistently and wilfully betrayed its charter and its key, core constituents, those men and women of Australia on whose behalf it is expected to serve, to educate and inform – the Common Man and Common Woman of this land, the working man and woman, the mother, the wife, the modest and the humble.
The ABC’s news and current affairs content, on all platforms, has revealed itself repeatedly, and over time, to be fatally biased toward a disruptively radical “left-wing” liberal-social agenda by embracing and promoting without question positions of extreme anti-capitalism, anti-industry, and anti-family agitprop, to name but a few, as the preferred, prevailing paradigms of our time.
The nation’s public broadcaster has arrogantly forsworn its clear responsibilities to this charter by engaging in, and encouraging, base rumours, confected smears, slurs and vile slanders against the government of the day and the current Australian Prime Minister in particular, and elevating such things to the status of “news”, which they are clearly not.
The established orthodoxies which have served as the foundation and bedrock stones of our nation, and the nation’s citizens since Federation, are sneeringly dismissed as merely the antediluvian obsessions of naïve bumpkins and yokels, their traditional values, mores and morality reduced to the stuff of parody and satire, and sheer common decency regarded as a joke out of fashion and out of time, a fetish for simple-minded fools.
Nothing is ever what it simply is, or of its times, according to these, and countless other diligent Media Hounds for Truth, Justice and Wanting Everything Their Own Fucking Way All The Time, but rather, each item of “news” and the manner in which it is presented must be assigned, by them, a context serving some underlying political, religious or social ideology, whether that context be deduced from a facial expression, a random turn of phrase, or the sandwich and coffee someone’s just had for lunch.
To their critics, the ABC charter is an unholy mash of Marxist screed and Gaian enviro-ganda, its intent and ambition to thwart our minds with the language of misunderstanding, to alter our perceptions with catastrophic visions of our futures, to blind us with science, to expose our most senior government members to ridicule and scorn, seed our minds with doubt and mistruths, and to arouse and pervert our desires just to prove we’re depraved.
It is not just an organisation, mostly a broadcaster of news with news in it, and occasional entertainments of widely disparate quality and interest, but a “movement” now, an ideological concentrate of pure “leftist” evil and irresponsibility, a grotesque malformation of orthodox mores and virtues, an amorphous accretion of base tumescence, smearing its fusty scent across all things decent, and of righteous virtue, upstanding temperance and unostentatious reserve.
The ABC’s latest vile crime against propriety and couth occurred on June 22nd’s episode of “Q&A”, a program of negligible quality and import which usually comprises a bunch of heads talking at and over each other about the issues of the moment, mostly in what appears nothing more than frenetic pursuit of achieving “quip of the night”, or making a headline the next day for being the biggest dickhead on the show.
On this momentous occasion, a brief and tepid exchange of words between a dickhead in the audience and a government minister on the panel resulted in said dickhead having a “Who? Ya muvver?!” moment, tetchily saying the type of thing one would expect a dickhead to say, which was promptly ruled out of order by the show’s host, who then quickly wrapped up and called it a night.
“O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.”
“What side are you on?!” bellowed our Prime Minister in discombobulated outrage by way of response to this event, all a-flutter in his mind with choleric vapours, and, soon enough, his rallying cry was dutifully picked up and echoed through the august journals of the people and of the land, demanding action be taken, apologies issued, investigations launched and retribution sought to ensure that our ABC shall never again be taken hostage by such barbaric forces of pure evil, and that our nation’s citizens shall never again be subjected to such expressions of deviant tyranny on the national broadcaster at the expense of Team Australia.
Or dickheads saying stupid shit on the tee-vee.
“Pollies get away with spouting rubbish because we let them. If we as a society have the collective attention span of a gnat, and obsess more about who’s stabbing whom in the back on the reality programme du jour than the future of our country, we can’t complain if politicians talk down to us or treat us as mugs, and if the media reports name-calling as serious political news.” – Terry Barnes, The Guardian.
Never let it be said that the White Trash on Heat who currently comprise our body politic and their media cohorts won’t abandon all sense of perspective on a thing in a heartbeat in favour of inchoate squeals of beleaguered rage and protestation over trivialities to deflect any substantive discussion or debate about issues of actual import, those things that affect real people out here in the real world.
No, let us not be thinking, let alone speaking, of the wholesale trashing of industries, the destruction of jobs, the demonisation of the young, the criminalisation of unemployment, and of poverty that our government are so enthusiastically engaged in; let us not be thinking of the shattered cheekbones of battered women denied refuge because funding no longer allows it; let us not think of our abandonment of human rights, the tortures and travails we inflict on the confused minds and soft bodies of women and children fleeing foreign conflicts; let us not think of the desecration of our lands and environments when we can be thinking of the money to be made from them; let us think not on these, or any other such things when we can find lazy solace in the easily confected outrage of the righteous where reality exists solely as a means of fulfilling an ideological end, and if it does not, reality will be duly denied.
You can’t handle the truth.
So let’s make some shit up.
Beat those drums of terror, dance to the discordant rhythms of fear and of loathing, come comrades, sing songs of battle, of defeat and of glorious victory over our most loath’d enemies, for they are closer than we think, much closer, and they do walk among us, in stealth and in silence …
Attention-seeking trolls talking shit on the tee-vee.
“Nurse, pass me the rubber underpants. I’m spending the night under the bed.”
For fuck’s sake.
I read the news today, oh boy.
Bronwyn Bishop, Speaker of the House has admonished Gillian Triggs, President of the Human Rights Commission, saying “If you do wish to be a political participant, then you have to be no longer a statutory officer and stand for office”, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.
I see Scott Morrison, former Minister for Immigration being interviewed on television, and he speaks of “on-water operational matters” in regards refugees and won’t answer a question, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.
Somebody in the office has wished me “Good morning”, and inquires as to the going of my day, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, before muttering “F-f-f-f-f-f ….. Fine. Thanks”, in reply and moving on.
The Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey talks of housing affordability and good jobs for good people, but does it in such a way that has most everybody thinking, “For fuck’s sake”, and thinking it over and over and over again every time he speaks. Our Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, speaks disconcertingly of windmills he has witnessed, tilting portentously over the lands, ever-growing in number, and spreading all manner of wretched maladies and miasmic blights to rattle the minds of the countryfolk, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.
Opposition Leader Bill Shorten is probably doing something somewhere right now that I’m not currently paying attention to, but if I were, I’d probably think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.
A sausage roll and an orange juice for lunch has cost me eight bucks fifty, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, I can remember when they were about a buck each back in the day.
Watching ABC TV’s “The Drum” a couple days ago, and Rowan Dean is on the panel again, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”, a little bit louder now, just a little bit louder, and then there’s a snippet from an interview with current Immigration Minister Peter Dutton coming up, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”, and lunge for the remote control so I can hit the mute button, and then I get up and go to the fridge for a glass of wine, and I find myself looking at the dirty dishes in the sink and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake” before sitting back down, and hoping Peter Dutton has fucked off, but he hasn’t, so I light a cigarette and wonder if I should listen to some music instead.
A schooner of James Squire ale at my local pub costs $7.60, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, I could buy a bottle of wine for that, but I pay it anyway, and I’ll pay it again, and again, because, well, for fuck’s sake, these are drinkin’ times, hard-drinkin’ times, and a man could go crazy thinking on this stuff, all this stuff they sayin’ and doin’ that don’t make no lick ‘o’ sense, an’ I don’ wanna be no crazy ol’ man mutterin’ at walls an’ yellin’ at fenceposts and pickin’ fights with squirrels.
No sir, I don’t.
Maybe Gerard Henderson will be on ABC’s “Insiders” again this Sunday.
FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
I have been ill for most of the week, and now I am not.
Normal service shall resume next week. Perhaps.
However, I am in an intolerant frame of mind (illness will do that), and feel a need to say something, and this is it …
CAN WE HAVE AN END NOW PLEASE TO THE “SLAP-ME-I-AM-A-PREENING-WANKER HIPSTER BEARD FASHION THING” AS IT HAS NOW BECOME FAR TOO BLOODY SILLY FOR WORDS AND IS BEGINNING TO GIVE ME THE BOWL-SHATTERING SHITS EVERY TIME I SEE ONE THANK YOU VERY MUCH GOODBYE AND HAVE A NICE WEEKEND.
FUCK OFF YOU.
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.