SMELLY TONGUES

Beyond the soft palate

TONGUE OF THE DAY

Written by Ken Morris and originally posted on the Facebook page of  the Anglican Parish of Gosford

“Hello world.

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”.

MENTAL MAGIC

Feeling anxious?

Depressed?

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…

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MAGIC!

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.

TALKIN’ SHIT ON THE TEE-VEE

“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.

End position.

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 …

zaky1

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.

FFS

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.

HAIR OF DICKHEAD

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.

BEARD

ST ELSEWHERE

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.

THE BIG ISSUES

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.”

Smart?

“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.

ST ELSEWHERE

Over at AIMN (Australian Independent Media Network) is a piece I wrote last week titled “Fairy Bread Is Not A Vegetable”.

You may read it there if you wish.

Oh, go on

TONGUES AWAY

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.

Nobody’s perfect.

TONGUE OF THE DAY

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.

FASTER, FASTER, YOUNG AUSSIE TEEN “SAND ‘N’ SANDAL” DESERT EPIC ENTHUSIASTS, KILL, KILL!!

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.

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MAYBE I’M AMAZED

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 …

Turnbull

… Don’t cry, Baby Jesus, only one nail left to go.

I am going back to sleep now.

Wake me in time for Armageddon.

NOT DEAD, ONLY RESTING

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.

“It’s fixed?”

“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.

MOTHERF#CKERS

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.

But no.

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

so,

so,

so,

forlornly.

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.””

And …

“[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.

food here penalty rates

KILL ‘EM ALL AND LET GOD SORT THEM OUT

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.”

And …

“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.

original

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

SPACE COWBOY

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

SICK OFS

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 …

 vomit-194

Arsehats.

EVERYTHING IS SHIT

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 …

 Seniors exercising

We’re probably paying for this fucking malarkey.

BEFORE I FORGET

Item 1.

Dullness of mind had me neglect to mention that this blog received a shout-out a few weeks back from podcast “Something Wonky”.

cover170x170“Something Wonky” is a weekly political podcast presented by Dave Gaukroger and Jeremy Sear, who previously wrote the “Pure Poison” blog at Crikey.

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.

Item 2.

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.”

Item 3.

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.

I AM A GOD

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 Eyes of God

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.

Therefore.

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.

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