SMELLY TONGUES

Beyond the soft palate

Category: AUSTRALIAN POLITICS

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.

BLOW YOUR MIND AND PULL YOUR OWN HEAD OFF!

The Herald-Sun’s resident psychedelic prose stylist and expert on measured impartiality in the media, Andrew Bolt, had this to say just recently about Fairfax’s coverage of the current Canberran Witch Trial of Human Rights Commissioner Gillian Triggs

“I wonder why a single Liberal voter would buy a paper so committed to presenting only one side of a debate.”

Think on that for a second.

Think on that for two …

Australia needs Tony

Mind blown.

Now.

If you’ll excuse me …

I am going to go home, and crawl, softly sobbing to myself,
Into a corner,
Where I shall mutter, incoherently,
And sit,
Slack-jawed, gape-eyed and dead of mind,
In a warmly spreading puddle
Of my own darkening pee,
And play with my penis for a while.

PS. I might order a pizza after and go rearrange the deck-chairs on the porch.

DON’T WRITE CRAP

So said former Prime Minister Julia Gillard to a murmuration of dodgy “journalists” some time back, when said “journalists” had been doing little else but for the duration of her reign. Crap about her past, crap about her partner, crap about her wardrobe, crap about crap, a whole lotta crap, and fuck all substance.

Now we have a whole new brand of crap being written about the current Prime Minister and his Government, only this crap is all about us. We’re fucking it up for Tony and Joe and Co., we’re deliberately fucking it up out of selfishness, out of greed, a sense of entitlement to past favours that are well beyond their use-by date, and can no longer be extended because INTERGENERATIONAL THEFT, and we ought to damn well wake up to ourselves and take our medicine, no matter how vile, toughen the fuck up, and accept “the gift” of good government we are so generously being offered for our own good, but, more importantly, for the good of the country, and to ensure future generations will not grow up a pack of overfed, bedwetting nancies.

I was flipping through a copy of “The Courier-Mail” the other day (it’s a quick flip), and found myself glancing over a piece of crap from News Corps resident expert on media bias, Andrew Bolt, aka Whistler’s Motherfucker.

Motherfucker had this to say …

“THE ABC is trying to destroy Tony Abbott. Its bias — actually unlawful — has never been so ruthless.”

One could easily accuse Bolt of being a tad tunnel-visioned, but that would be a grave understatement. He’s the whole fucking tunnel, and it’s closed both ends.

On he rattles …

“Most dramatic was the flagship 7.30 program’s hostile interview of Treasurer Joe Hockey.

Host Sarah Ferguson kicked it off with a contemptuous statement lightly disguised as a question: “Is it liberating for a politician to decide election promises don’t matter?”

Then there was Lateline host Emma Alberici, who asked a Coalition MP: “Do you think voters are really stupid and can’t recognise a lie when they see one?””

There are perfectly legitimate reasons such questions need be asked, something about holding a government to account when they say a whole bunch of things prior to an election, and all of them, all of them, turn out to be pure bullshit after. Getting to the point by asking a direct question on the actual subject under discussion rather than farting about the shrubbery and hearing a whole bunch more bullshit from these clowns is an extremely effective way (if I may say so) of helping viewers not scream at their television sets in a foaming rage of frustration and scaring the shit out of the family dog.

Motherfucker goes on to wail …

“It [ABC’s Insiders Budget Special) actually had three Leftist journalists against a lone conservative: Laura Tingle, Lenore Taylor and host Fran Kelly up against poor Niki Savva.”

“Poor Niki Savva”.

The Left. Leftist. These are now proper nouns. I’m fucked if I know what a “Leftist” actually is, but I’m sure Bolt would have me pegged me as one. In the singularly focused and hysterically obsessive mind of Whistler, “The Leftists” exist as dark and alien forces of pure evil, a corruption of both mind and body, a shape-shifting shadow of millions upon millions of desperately lost souls, all connected, one hive mind in a fugue state, bent on the dissemination of falsehoods, of fears, and intent on spreading their consciousness sucking tentacles into and across every aspect of life, of work, of enterprise, and bring them all crumbling down through a bleeding heart holocaust of the warm ‘n’ feminising fuzzies, all of this assisted by strangely cloaked bodies foreign of darker hues. You have now entered The Twilight Zone.

The man is a fucking idiot, he’s the village idiots avoid.

“If a Left exists in Australia at all, now, it’s simply as a shorthand description of those who don’t agree with the prescriptions of the modern Right, which seems primarily interested in reversing many of the intellectual and democratic gains of recent decades and centuries and restoring and confining power and privilege to the few rather than the many. To be labelled “left-wing” by the modern Right is probably an endorsement that one’s ideas are sound.

In the end, the Left exists largely in the Right’s own mind – as a straw man onto which to project its delusional and self-interested chatter.” Russell Marks, November 2014, The Monthly

The second tent in this clapped out circus of typing monkeys belongs to the withering remains of Fairfax, whose daily editions now more resemble pamphlets and wherein you will find the plodding inanities of their very own resident hyperventilating antiquity, Paul Sheehan.

Earlier in the month, Sheehan wrote a sorta-kinda “defence” of Tony Abbott in 843 words telling us all what a nice woman Tony’s wife Margie is, and how we’re going to be seeing much, much more of her dragging about with Tony on the hustings because EVIL PETA CREDLIN RUN AWAY AND HIDE.

In this piece of crap we learn that Margie drives herself to the shops, does her own shopping, drives herself to and from Canberra, don’t have no truck with fancy airs ‘n’ graces, has a job, has kept it, is a “patron” of some things, and has been married to Tony for 26 years.

Gag me with a spoon.

What Sheehan is trying to communicate with this crap in unclear to me. Vote for Tony because he has a nice wife? “Policies can win the day”, he adds. Perhaps he’d prefer Margie outline these “policies” to an increasingly frazzled and fed-up electorate, because every time Tony tries, he royally fucks it up.

You may also have seen Gerard “Ol’ Man Underpants” Henderson on ABC’s Insiders program just recently (Sunday 22nd February), going mano o mano with notorious Stalinist and Terrorism Apologist David Marr, one of the few journalists we have who can actually write, Gerard getting himself worked into a tetchy snit trying to fend off perfectly valid criticisms of Abbott with crap, all to no avail, and finally whining, all sad and plaintive like, “Well, why don’t we just blame everything on Tony Abbott”, aw-gee-shucks, not fair, I’m taking my bucket and spade and I’m telling Mummy.

It’s pathetic. It’s crap.

Three spoilt brats having a sook.

Their “Chosen One” has been found wanting, by the public, by his own party, his bovver-boy shadow-boxing antics the club-footed manoeuvres of a feeble mind rattling with fevred imaginings and fantasies of power, control, of “His Way” or the Highway, “His own worst enemy” as Julie Bishop allegedly told him after 40% of the tribe voted to banish him to Coventry in favour of an empty chair, our Prime Minister has been revealed to all and sundry as a man whose thoughts run no deeper than a scribble on a sandwich-board, and every time he opens his mouth he proves it.

Yet to these three sad fuckers, these desiccated fartleberries clinging to the greying arse-hairs of their conventional mainstream media outlets, their Prime Minister (and he is theirs, not ours) is a veritable fount of Wisdom, Intelligence, Strength, and Virility, a potentially Inspirational Leader for Troubled Times who has had the misfortune to be shunned, snubbed, by a greedy and ungrateful populace unwilling to embrace personal sacrifice for the future of the Reich, and scrape and bow in subjugation to its rightful rulers.

It’s our fault Tony is a dick.

Janet Albrechtson of The Australian says so.

Fuck off, Janet.

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SOMEBODY OUT THERE LOVES YOU, BUT WE THINK YOU’RE A C#NT

Our Prime Minister is a chastened man. He has listened. He has learnt. A kinder, gentler polity shall henceforth be embraced, and a far more collaborative, consultative, and collegial fellow shall he be, for he’s the jolly good captain, a steady hand on the tiller for these times of toss’d and tempestuous  seas.

It’s all bullshit, and we know it.

But it feeds the “chooks”, so to speak, and the little fuckers do come a’ runnin’ and a cluckin’, predictably and most excitedly to quaff it all, every crumb, they chumble indiscreetly and most rough, then gob it back at us in the form of immaculately manicured soundbites and talking heads talking to talking heads talking, in “opinion” pieces, in analyses (a form of “opinion” with the occasional fact or three thrown in for substance and prestige), “unnamed” sources, luridly melodramatic pleas for peace and understanding in our times, and wearisome fossicks through the numbles of mythical beasts in search of some revelatory “meaning” to it all.

If I read or hear or see one more of these “reports” about the why’s, where’s, and how’s of this current government’s infecundity, and the “real” reasons for Tony Abbott’s trip down the tin-brick road to insolvency, I feel I shall be compelled to seek out the offending member or members of this said media cabal, and slap the lot of them upside their fucking heads with a mallet.

Much ado about nothing writ hysterically large and at numbingly tedious length, and all of it saying much the same thing for reasons that need no further explanation.

Don’t tell us what we already damn well know, and why we have come to know it.

This government is shit. You’re awful, Tony. You’re fucked.

Somebody out there loves you, but we think you’re a cunt.

No amount of News Corp propagandising on your behalf will change that. Not now.

Listen, you dog, you pussy, you skank ho’ nickel and dime crack-bag of ideological fuckwittery and crackling spoof … It’s YOU.

YOU. Are. The. Problem.

YOU.

You may be a fighter, but you ain’t no fucking dancer.

We’re not buying your policies because your policies are crap. Simple.

The justifications you claim for these policies are hallucinatory, a cruel chimera of callous indifference, wilful ignorance, and gasp-inducing stupidity and pretence, and we’re not buying it.

“One of the things the Labor Party did not do during the campaign was to highlight the extent to which Tony Abbott is capable of changing his mind on important elements of policy. The climate change policy was one of them. If he’s changed it once he can presumably change it again. Indeed, he did tell us that he doesn’t always say what he means … I think Tony Abbott would do what he felt he needed to do to get into power or have power …” Malcolm Fraser, Q&A, 2012

There is this

“I’ll leave social media to its own devices. Social media is kind of like electronic graffiti and I think that in the media, you make a big mistake to pay too much attention to social media,” Mr Abbott said.”

Then there is this

“The Abbott government has created a hub of 37 communication and social media specialists to monitor social media and offer strategic communications advice costing taxpayers almost $4.3 million a year.”

As my grandmother was oft wont to say, “You’re all over the shop like a madwoman’s shit, mate”, and our nostrils are beginning to burn, are eyes are beginning to water, our ears are ringing with the echoes of hollow words dully muttered over and over by rote, and we’re beginning to realise just how much shit there’ll be to clean up after you’ve done with voiding the manky pits of your dead, dull mind atop the already pounding heads of the constituency.

“Abbott has proven so incapable of clear policy thinking, so unwilling to consult with even his own ministers and advisers, and so poor at communicating that he has to go,” wrote the CFR (Council on Foreign Relations) senior fellow Joshua Kurlantzick, a US specialist in south-east Asian politics.

“Abbott’s policies have been all over the map, and the lack of coherence has often made the prime minister seem ill-informed and incapable of understanding complex policy issues,” he wrote – The Age, February 11, 2015

There is this

“[Tony Abbott} announced he would be implementing new measures to fight domestic and family violence. On Tuesday he announced he would create a new national advisory panel on domestic violence and appointed [Rosie] Batty and retiring Victorian Police Commissioner Ken Lay as its founding members.

He also announced he would elevate domestic and family violence to an urgent agenda item for the Council of Australian Governments. He said he would urge the Council to agree on a framework for a national domestic violence scheme.”

Then there is this …

“Batty has said that these announcements are meaningless unless Abbott takes action to reverse the cuts he has already made to crucial domestic violence services …

The cuts she refers to are to family violence services as well as homelessness and crisis accommodation services across the country. Altogether, the cuts are worth $300 million. Several services across the country will be forced to close after having their federal funding slashed or even removed in its entirety.

The cuts also mean that specialised staff across the country that are trained in assisting victims of domestic violence will be displaced. These services assist women and children fleeing violence in a variety of ways; from providing crisis accommodation in a safe and secure environment to providing legal assistance with domestic violence apprehension orders …

… The family violence and homelessness sector is already unable to accommodate the tragically high demand in Australia, and these cuts will see even more women and children denied support.”

You’re a cunt, Tony.

You have no policies, only punishments. You do not seek to govern, you seek to rule. You thrive on the disorders and despairs of others, fear is your aphrodisiac, loathing a love letter perfumed with the blood of disabled babes, the chaos of the underclasses a contemptible slander on your strivations to the Übermensch. You are The Overman, and in your world, everyone knows their place and keeps it, and if they do not, one will be found for them, and that place shall be decided by the heft of their wallet, the rattle of their chains, the number of their slaves, and the avarice that glints in their eyes, they who whisper sweet visions of many little murders of the soul, to bring the great unwashed to heel, to their heel, so they may be crushed for base entertainments, to satisfy the savage indulgences of The Rich and The Powerful in their habitual fits of cruel whimsy.

You’re a cunt, Tony. You are a liar.

Your words are stuttering, stammering bleats of vacuous inanity undeserving of the air that carries them, blurted squalls of self-referential nonsense where you have cast yourself as Leading Man, The King, The Captain, and we are the extras, abhorrent enemies of your New Order to be quashed in this monochromatic, small-screen extravaganza of wanton idiocy and self-righteousness, your words carry nothing, no weight, no authority, no intelligence, nothing.

You’re stupid, Tony. You are a fool.

Whenever you open your mouth, you prove it.

We do not like you.

We have made that clear.

You have made it clear you do not like us.

The spin doesn’t work. We’re not listening. We’re all tuckered out, and feeling slightly nauseous, and we’re no longer paying attention. You’re full of it, and we’re done.

You have placed the “policies” you are so desperately trying to sell us – the boots that you would have forever stamp our faces – in the hands of errand boys sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill that’s already been paid.

We’re sending them back, marked “Refused”.

Reasons?

“Work not completed to specifications. Shoddy craftsmanship. Sub-standard raw materials. Tacky finish.”

And because you’re a cunt.

Tony.

????????

“I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves.

Alas, the time is coming when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man.

‘What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?’ thus asks the last man, and blinks.

The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small. His race is as ineradicable as the flea; the last man lives longest.

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”

YOU’RE FUCKED, TONY

From awful to fucked in the space of one brief week, Prime Minister Tony Abbott, our Dear Leader, the walking, talking testicle of contemporary Australian  political life, and embodiment of everything that is, and has been wrong with it these last several years, has morphed toot sweet from the once proudly simian gaited and throbbingly tumescent Cock ‘O’ the Walk and King of the Hill to flaccid impuissance, an instant noodle body-slammed into a bowl of his own steaming hot faeces.

Communications Minister and former Prime Ministerial hopeful Malcolm Turnbull now wakes every morning, and smiles, broadly, deftly tap-dancing his way from bed to shower, belts out a chorus or three of “Puttin’ on the Ritz”, follows it up with a softly gleeful rendition of “Singing in the Rain”, and fantasises about ramming the thick, block head of his most loath’d nemesis Cory Bernardi into a wood-chipper.

Foreign Minister Julie Bishop’s nipples stiffen and tingle with coldly exquisite anticipation at every paragraph of ridicule and criticism of Abbott she reads, licks her lips, and trippingly tra-la-la’s her way down to the nearest high class fashion district to shop for new blouses and matching pearls, some sensible shoes, and other items of elegantly understated garb to best befit a Prime Minister in impatient waiting.

Former Prime Minister Julia Gillard, still with steel in her veins, and who bore the brunt of Abbott’s base, savage primal brutalism, and never once cracked under his  witheringly incoherent barrage of gonad-driven misogynistic hatred and contempt – “Make an honest woman out of her” – finishes watching another episode of “Game of Thrones”, lets her hair down, throws back her head, erupts with peals of glorious laughter, and says to her mate, “Tim? Fuck me ten times, Tim. Fuck me till I weep.”

North American citizen and billionaire media mogul Rupert Murdoch, Tweeting fool, boils with decrepit and aging rage and demands, DEMANDS, to blame it all on the barren bitch who runs Abbott’s office (the women are destroying the joint), instructing the always compliant polyps who cling to the increasingly desiccating organs of his Fish Wrapper Paper Empire to confect some righteous outrage over the whole goddamn thing, GODDAMMIT!, and help him elect a new Prime Minister to his liking. News Corpse. Morality on page one, tits on page three, on page thirty-seven, you can find an advertisement for sex call lines where a fifty-two year old woman on a disability pension will mimic an eight year old in a school tunic so that you can pull yourself into a sock for sixty bucks, all major credit cards accepted.

“Quality journalism”, I think he calls it.

“There is something about the state putting the power to bully into the hands of subnormal, sadistic apes that makes my blood boil.” Gore Vidal.

You’re fucked, Tony.

Fucked.

It’s delicious.

Clap hands. Clap hands.

TREASURER FOR SALE

Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey, a.k.a “The Sook Who Walks”, a.k.a “Mr Exploding Pizza Head” is suing Fairfax media for last year’s front-page headline “TREASURER FOR SALE”. Mr. Sookie Pants claims the headline implied he was whoring himself out to the wealthy members of the North Sydney Forum for a fistful of pennies in return for political favours, or maybe a blowjob and a cuddle in the car-park.

Mr Hockey claims that, as a result of the articles published on May 5, he has been “greatly injured, shunned and avoided and his reputation has been and will be brought into disrepute, odium, ridicule and contempt”.

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“For gor’sake, stop laughing: This is serious!”
(Stan Cross, 1933)

P.S. If you readin’ this, Joe, I is just a po’ white workin’ boy from the ‘burbs yo, and I ain’t gots no money for fancy lawyers and suchlike, but if you ain’t a-likin’ what I is a-writin’, how’s about I buy you all a pizza, and rearrange a few chairs and tables on da sidewalk to yo’ likin’, and we can calls it fair square? You like anchovies? I does.

YOU CAN’T STOP THE STUPID

Let us begin:

No. 1.

When I was in a public hospital for the month of August last year, the total cost of my treatment, care and the operation I had was $NIL. I was charged $39.77 for a four-week course of antibiotics upon my discharge.

Prior to my admission, I went to my GP who, after a few minutes of stethoscoping (that is now a word), said she was ringing an ambulance and I was off to the hospital. My lung was infected. The care and treatment I had during my stay was exemplary, the commitment from all staff to their work I could not fault (although the curried mince I had for dinner one night was somewhat suspect, but curry mince always is, and it’s a fucking hospital, not a boutique hotel, of which I was well aware).

Now, here’s the thing. In my 56 years of life, that was my first experience of hospital as a patient (excepting of course, the day I was born), and the first operation I had ever had.

As I have been working – constantly from 1976 to the present – my “bill” had been pre-paid.

It is (as Paul Bongiorno notes) called the Medicare levy.

My GP does not bulk-bill, so I am already paying a “co-payment”.

I have no objection to paying a higher Medicare levy (especially if it were to include dental care), but as far as I’m concerned, this government, and the Whirling Dervishes of policy within it, can take their gibbering con-job, and flat-out lies and bullshit about “co-payments” and the “burden” to the economy the sick have now apparently become in this brave new world of “leaners and lifters” and, not to put too fine a point on it, blow it out their collective arses.

As Lenore Taylor notes in today’s Guardian Australia

“The facts suggest Medicare is not in crisis. Its costs are rising but not careening out of control. It might need changes, but the only reason Medicare would not “survive” is if a government deliberately chose to kill it.”

Pardon my bolding.

No. 2.

In his continuing bid to be crowned the “Dumbest Motherfucker in the History of Australian Politics, (a rather crowded field of contenders at present) Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey – a.k.a. The Honourable Member for The North Sydney Forum, “has raised the prospect of people living until 150 to explain why Australians should accept cuts to government benefits and pay a greater share of their health costs.”

Mr. Exploding Pizza Head  – a.k.a. The Sook Who Walks – went on to say, “There’s great news on the horizon for Australia,” Mr Hockey said. “The fact we are living longer is great news. It’s kind of remarkable that somewhere in the world today, it’s highly probable that a child is being born that is going to live to 150. That’s a long time.”

If you enrol to vote at age 18, and live to 150, Federal elections were had every 3 years, you would vote in 44 federal elections, and endure 44 federal election campaigns. Add state elections to the mix, and you’d be up to near 100. Add council elections, and people only vote in those to avoid the fine, and you’d probably be voting for someone, somewhere, every 12 months.

“Great news on the horizon”?

Please kill me.

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YOU’RE AWFUL, TONY

Some of what you’ll be reading and hearing about during 2015 …

Tony Abbott’s low approval rating and personal unpopularity will generate oodles of chin-stroking commentary on the “why’s” of it, and the “how” of making it better, with much focus being on his perceived “woman problem”, which will no doubt, in the minds of many, boil down to the conclusion that it’s the women who have the problem, they should know better and wake up to themselves.

Columnists and television’s talking heads the nation over shall ponder the Prime Minister’s apparent absence of “people skills”, agreeing and disagreeing with each other, writing another column, taking offence at something, writing another column, and generally fusspotting about full of their own self-importance and the intractable certainty of their own opinions.

News CorpsGreg Sheridan shall perhaps write another touching piece about the Tony Abbott he knows, all teddy bears and puppies and pajama parties, and the Herald-Sun’s Andrew Bolt shall fret most publicly in a freestyling howl of primal anguish, a clothes-drenching flopsweat of skin-pricking anxiety consuming his every observation in every blogpost and column, and conclude that it’s all the fault of the ABC.

Wise words of gentle guidance and friendly suggestion shall be warmly proffered to our Prime Minister by such notable scribes as Janet Albrechton, Niki Savva, and Miranda Devine on matters of grooming and presentation and such, all of whom have seemed more than willing in the past to serve as the “go-to” people PM’s go-to when they’re looking to set wrongs to rights and the “how” of going about it all.

Fairfax’s Paul Sheehan will blame everything (again) on Julia Gillard and her “misogyny speech” from way back, and Peter Hartcher will continue to be dreary, predictable, state the obvious, and bore the crap out of everyone who reads him.

In other news, you may have noticed last year that Foreign Minister Julie Bishop was introduced to Photoshop and the two of them hit it off so well, a glossy magazine did a feature about it.

This was so well received in some quarters that News Corp’s tabloids will, in 2015 (and they’re already well on their way), devote an entire page every week, sometimes two pages, running a full-length soft ‘n’ sparkly pic of spunky Jules wearing something fuckably spectacular, and leaping to the defence of ol’ Tone every time he says something that gives the impression he thinks women are just shirt-ironin’, shelf-dustin’ jism-jars with soft, jiggly bits up top.

Which seems about every week now anyway, so you can expect to see many more of these “Boner for the Bishop” fluff-pieces in News Corps’ publications from Brisbane way on down to Ballarat and beyond over the new year.

Additionally, much handwringing shall ensue from these same quarters over the alleged failure of this Liberal government to “sell” its policies to the voting public, and all of it shall conclude that it is no failure of the government, but rather, the failure of a selfish and over-entitled voting public to accept, as its due, its penance,  an arse-splitting whuppin’ for having made a little whoopee all these years when they could have been working; for a snooze on a Sunday morn’, or calling in sick to work for a day or two when the chemo has run you ragged, and you can barely raise your head from the pillow you bludging bastard it’s all your own fucking fault you’re sick and you should have taken better care of yourself cunt now shut up and die.

That we actually earn money for and from our labours shall also be a topic up for discussion, for it is now perfectly obvious to all, those in the know (so to speak), that we all earn far too much and ask far too much of our haggard and ignobly put-upon employers (our men and women of constant sorrow), and we should be prepared to accept far less, make fewer demands and “just do it” for the sake of the country, for improving productivity, for economic resilience, and also because not to do so will give filthy-rich whiny white fat cunts the willies.

We shall be instructed by The Daily Telegraph and The Courier-Mail and The Herald-Sun and other publications in that fine stable of Paper Dollies that our country’s future security and prosperity, our very survival, is now fatally imperiled by the outrageous and outrageously unsustainable demands of pensioners, invalids, cripples, single mothers, the poor (both working and non-working), the homeless, immigrants, blacks, Muslims, the obese, the unemployed, people who park in handicapped spaces when they’re not handicapped, crazy old cat-ladies in attics, all of whom have had it far too easy for far too long, and have some serious ball-bustin’, cheese-faced-bitch karma due to them for not pulling up their socks, cleaning behind their ears, and sacrificing themselves on the altar of the secularised  Calvinist work ethic. A little avarice never did no one no harm.

Just ask Alan Greenspan.

Australia’s one and only national newspaper, “The Australian”, shall continue to resemble a newspaper, yet closer inspection shall reveal an increasing number of column inches (column creep?) given over to ugly displays of self-congratulatory spoof and wankery, infantile “nyah, nyah” snipings at its media rival Fairfax, and the always good for a “WTF” moment – brattish tantrums about the ABC, and the grumpy sulks and searing “Who? Yer muvver?” rejoinders to its critics. Gerard Henderson may talk about what Robert Menzies would do if Robert Menzies were Tony Abbott, and Media Editor Sharri Markson will continue to go “LOL! OMG! LOOKA ME! LOOKA ME! LOLS!” and get told to fuck off a lot.

Listen.

All (notable) political leaders in my adult lifetime, from Gough Whitlam to John Howard, had more than sufficient time in the glare of public life to establish for themselves a familiar and recognisable  persona, to become known to us, their likes and dislikes, their manner of speech, their faults and foibles and fuck-ups, their successes, both on the personal and political front.

So has Tony Abbott, and he has grabbed every occasion provided to him over many, many years to do so with gusto.

Hence, he became and has become known to us as “Howard’s Headkicker”, “Captain Catholic”, “The Mad Monk”, “The Resident Nutter”, the guy who’s against everything the other side is for, “Mister No”, the guy who thinks abortion is the “easy way out”, the guy who thinks climate change is “crap” and poor people and homeless people sometimes “choose” to be that way, where the sick and the dying are not always “pure of heart”, where policies are meant to be punishments, work is meant to be endured and not enjoyed, science is irrelevant, facts are irrelevant, feelings become facts, and critics are thrashed into silence with a withering barrage of threats, cuts, defunding; where any and all opposition to “His Way” is seen, not as any possible type of legitimate viewpoint or stance on a thing, not in any way justified by evidence, but a declaration of war on the Government that must be met, overcome and annihilated with devastating force.

We know him.

He’s the bully you went to school with. The one who’d elbow you in the shoulder, hard, if he passed you in the corridor. He’s the loudmouth smartarse talking over everybody else, not because he has anything pertinent to say, but because somebody else has and he don’t like it. He’s the guy for whom every woman is a whore unless she’s a wife, and for whom every wife is a mother to her beau, fetching the comfy shoes for her man after he done put in a long day labour on the plough, and she be his whore after supper, there’s a girl.

We know him.

We think he’s a cunt.

That won’t change. He won’t change. He can’t.

We know him.

He and his minions have been desperately trying to sell us dead parrot policies all year that wouldn’t fly if you nailed them to a perch and shot thirty billion volts through them.

“You’re going to do what, now?” we ask, morning after morning.

“Get fucked”, we say. Again. And again.

We know him. He talks shit. He lies.

Women I know and have known grimace at the mere mention of his name, and say “I can’t stand that man”, he has all the charm of a serial rapist, reminds them of that jock they went out with ages ago – “What the fuck was I thinking?” – as charismatic as a plank, the dull and incurious minds of men like Abbott does not indicate those of “informed” intelligences, not people whose intellects would exactly enthrall over a dinner conversation, you ask them to buy you a box of tampons down the 7-11, they’d probably go bright red and break out in hives.

We know him.

He’s a cunt. He talks shit. He lies.

That is what we know.

And no amount of shaggy-dog puffery or blathering, blustering speculative bullshit in the mainstream news media, News Corp in particular, can un-ring that bell.

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I was originally going to call this post “How Coons, Sand-Niggers and Frigid Femi-Nazis Who Won’t Stay Slapped and Swallow are Screwing up the World for the White Man”, then I was going to call it “Somebody Out There Loves You, But I Think You’re a Cunt”, and then I decided to call it what it is on account somebody might take offence, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?

No. We would not.

GERARD DOES IT BETTER

Former Fairfax turned Newscorp columnist Gerard Henderson has, from the sound of it, had a whole year of very bad underpant days.

You know the ones …

Where the elastic on the waist is done all tuckered out and they keep slipping half-way down your arse-crack every ten minutes, so you keep tugging at yourself and the girls in the office are talking and think you’re weird and you smell. Or when the crotch keeps riding up and pinching the sucked-dry, pale passionfruit-like contours of your ol,’ grey testicles, so you tug at yourself again, and you have to squat a bit when you do and the girls in the office are talking again and giggle softly behind their hands every time you go to the toilet for a wee.

And no matter how hard you scrub and scrub or spray and spray, there’s just no getting rid of those anemic canary-yellow pee and cum dribbles, or the gourmet-styled streaks of caramel-coloured smears on the rear-ends of those ol’ grey underpants that not so gently cup your ol’ grey testicles in a febrile sperm-destroying stupor.

Gerard always brings to my mind a line from an old Elvis Costello song, “he has a very German sense of humour”

“A year of “massive exaggeration, wide-scale false prophecy, appalling judgment, wilful omission and narcissism” he opines and this is it (some of), according to Gerard …

January – “ABC presenter Jonathan Green declares he will never be able to convince himself that Tony Abbott is “a man of intelligence … while he keeps wearing those blue ties””

This statement may well have been accompanied by a “chuckle”. A “chuckle” and a statement such as this, would typically indicate a jest of some kind is being made, a “funny”, in this instance, and from the evidence available, a rather mild one at that.

If it were me, I would’ve called Abbott a maggot-brained fuckwad, but then that’s probably why I’d never be invited to present a show on the ABC.

Bias and all that being the thing it is.

February – “Morry Schwartz’s The Saturday Paper is launched, stating its intention to be read by wealthy inner-city professional types who have Netflix accounts and are “lighthouse consumers”. In fact, it’s just another boring rant against the Coalition”.

Somebody started a newspaper Gerard doesn’t approve of. That’s sad. Gerard probably doesn’t approve of Morry Schwartz either. Maybe he had an old communist uncle or something back in the ‘50’s, I don’t know. Gerard has a thing for that type of stuff.

I buy “The Saturday Paper”.

I’m definitely not wealthy by any standards, being on just a slightly above-average wage. I’m not a professional, diplomas-wise and such, but I am professional and highly experienced in and about my work. I don’t have a Netflix account. I rent from Quickflix. I don’t have an internet connection at home. That’s sad. Not really. I just rent the discs. Or buy them from up road. I don’t live in the inner-city, but I am three train stations away, and the reason I’m three stations away is because I don’t have a fucking car, and I rent a flat, and just like a big whole bunch of other people, I find it’s sorta more kinda-sorta convenient-like to live closer to work than farther away … just for the benefit of that whole left-wing “life-work balance” shit people bang on and on about every now and again.

Gerard also says “In The Sydney Morning Herald, Mike Carlton describes Tony Abbott as “pure Vladimir Putin”, overlooking the fact Abbott does not lock up opponents.”

I’ll just leave that one alone.

March – “Human Rights Commission president Gillian Triggs objects to criticism of her organisation’s $60,000 Christmas party.”

Two words …

George Brandis.

June- [Mike] Carlton bags the Abbott government as a “gang of punishers and straighteners (sic), of cutters and slashers, run by the sort of bossy former private school prefects who enjoy enforcing dress codes at golf clubs”. Carlton attended Barker College on Sydney’s north shore, where he wrote appalling poetry in the private school’s magazine.”

Everyone wrote appalling poetry in high school, private school or public. That’s what teenagers (at least the boys) do. Mast*rbate ten times a day, and write appalling fucking poetry about lovesickness and forlorn yearnings for faraway girls (or boys) with stars in their eyes lolling about on grassy knolls, all careless and fancy free, loins full of lust, and brimful to the brink with jism.

Eventually they’ll grow out of it.

As a slight, accusing a teenager of writing bad poetry is a little like calling someone a “latte-sipper” thinking it a devastatingly explosive putdown. I’ve never, for the life of me, been able to figure that one out. As a slight.

I once asked a barista in a coffee shop near where I worked what the difference was between a latte and a flat white, and he leaned close to me and whispered softly, “Just between you and me, Ross, I’m fucked if I know.”

I’m a flat-white man myself, except after lunch, if I’m eating out, I’ll take a short black.

The remainder of Gerard’s Bad Underpant Year snipe boils down to nasty names people called each other, writers he doesn’t like writing things he doesn’t agree with, and people saying things he’d rather not hear said, unless it’s MuslimIslamMuslimIslamMuslimIslam!!!!  when some criminal psychopath behaves like a criminal psychopath and kills people just for the shits ‘n’ giggles.

A year of “Massive exaggeration, wide-scale false prophecy, appalling judgment, wilful omission and narcissism”?

It’s all a little pissy far as scope and scale goes, importance-wise that is. Media types talking to and about media types talking to and about political types, the sniping and the snarling, the snap of a line that bubbles and boils the Twittersphere for a minute and a half, and is long gone and forgotten a few days later. And none of it, I suspect, matters half a hill ‘o’ beans to the real lives of real people living out here in the real world, even those “inner-city types” Ol’ Grumpy Pants is forever carping on about. It’s all a little pussycat-pussycat, a little soft ‘round the belly, a little tired and try-hard.

People of little influence but lots of mouth talking bullshit about other people talking bullshit.

As for “wilful omission”? …

There’s 409 of them over here what Ol’ Gerard ain’t spoke nary diddly-squat about in that there art-ickle o’ his.

Maybe he was done havin’ hisself another bad unnerpant day when he done writ it.

IT WAS A VERY SMELLY YEAR

That’s it from Tongues for another year. Internet off. Vacation.

It’s been a year of somewhat sporadic posts for all manner of reasons, yet as I noted in the last piece, there are only so many times you can spend your time writing something that ends up at the same conclusion … “This Government Is Shit”.

And so, just in case you’ve missed a few, here are the various ways during 2014 in which they proved it beyond any reasonable (or unreasonable doubt) …

February : The Day My Wallet Blew My Bum Off

“It is Kristallnacht in Australia.

For the worker, for the low-paid, for women, for the infirm, the ill, unions, teachers, public schools, public hospitals, Medicare, industry, science , public broadcasting, the arts, public servants, immigrants, refugees, environmentalists, the environment itself, the land, the water.

The end of dissent. The end of truth. The end of society.

Tony Abbott has now become a God.

Of vengeance.”

March: 13-11-14

“A “policy” has been Frankenstein’d into being at the behest of 60% of Australians who “want the Abbott government [and the three governments before it] to “increase the severity of the treatment of asylum seekers”, because that, and that alone gnaws at the very core of their being, day after day, month after month, minute by minute – in the home, the workplace, the pub, the coffee shop, every day is a Bad Day at Black Rock, there be strangers comin’ to town, and pokin’ their noses into things they ain’t got no business with …

… The Howard “battlers”, Hanson’s children, slumped into their Harvey Norman 3-Year, Interest-Free, Nothing-To-Pay Now* (*conditions apply), 4-seater beige bonded leather lounge with chaise, poking at a Playstation, a tabloid on the coffee table, 2GB on the radio, all they hear and read are the headlines, the screams and the screeches, and they say things like “Won’t recognize the fucking country in a couple years ‘cause of all these cunts they’re lettin’ in”, and “It’s not the Australia I grew up in, that’s for sure”, and “They let these cunts in and throw fucking money and welfare and fucking houses at ‘em, and what about us, eh? What about the fucking rest of us?” …”

May: “Nation’s Pride”

“I have seen the future according to Prime Minister Tony Abbott and, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a load of wussy, namby-pamby, half-arsed faggy bollocks.

I for one, and I’m sure I speak for a multitude, if not the vast and overwhelming majority of honest, decent, hard-working, God-fearing Aussie blokes and sheilas are fed up to the fucking back teeth with these bludging toe-rags on welfare. Why the fuck should my taxes be used to subsidise the lifestyle choices of doddery old cunts and cripples and retards and latte-sipping lazy leftist shitheads from the inner-city who are more motivated by the thought of going out and getting another fucking tattoo or piercing than they are by getting a fucking job?”

May: Silly Buggers Talking Bullshit

“I am sitting at a table at my local pub, outside, having a quiet beer on a perfectly fine day, minding my own quiet business, idly flipping through the pages of Saturday morning’s Courier-Mail, when I hear a faint hub-bub from behind me, a hub-hub that soon grows into something of a din, when into the pub, trailed by a small fleet of cameras and photographers and a couple minders, and completely unexpected and unannounced, strides Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey on a meet ‘n’ greet soiree with some of the common folk …

… He talks of “heavy lifting” and “sharing the pain”, and that’s when I throw my beer over him, make a Harpo Marx face, flap my hands and belt out a quick chorus of “Hello, Dolly!” before his minders wrestle me about a bit for the benefit of the cameras, someone calls the cops, and I am duly charged with assault with a refreshing alcoholic beverage …”

June: Who Put The Dickheads In Charge

“Politicians, Captains of Industry, Business Leaders, Corporate Directors, People with Money, the lot of them Dickheads with dead eyes and soft, milky jowls, their fat necks bulge up and over their stiff and starched white collared business shirts like so many baby hippo’s straining to break free from the womb. They comb their hair just so, like all Dickheads do, they like blue ties and dark suits, and they speak in Dickheaderese, a language only they understand, but with which they choose to flog and berate and nag and whine and whinge at the rest of us, we Non-Dickheads, of whom they do not approve, they do not approve of us at all, because there are times when we disagree, we object, we protest, we resist their reproaches, we argue, and they can’t have that, they won’t, because they are The Dickheads and they are in charge, and that is just as the world should be.”

July: Australischen Arbeiterjugend

“You are, as of now, conscripted into the service of the State. You will accept this service. You will carry out all and any duties requested of you by the State. You will do so with pride and dedication. You will receive a small allowance for your service, but you will be granted no other rights or benefits. Your blood, your sweat, your tears, the dust of your bones shall fertilise our fields, grow our crops, and help feed our people. Your words shall be whispers to the ears of the deaf, your hopes the vain follies of indolent youth.

Welcome to Our Green Army, Australischen Arbeiterjugend!”

October: Dumb Cunts With Money

Amanda Vanstone, former Government Minister for Something turned talking head/typist for hire recently did a spot of creative typing for Fairfax media on what she feels is the unseemly habit of “average” Australians (that is, people who work for a living) to criticise millionaires and billionaires (that is, people who like fucking people over who work  for a living) for being nothing other than dumb cunts with money who talk out their arses about things they know fuck all about, and lie and cheat and steal their way to riches.

Vanstone calls this “the politics of envy”.

Reading this piece (if you can bring yourself to) of muddle-headed, badly written primary school prose, complete with a few dodgy statistics thrown in, is an exercise in tedium about as compelling as being whacked across the head repeatedly with a water-logged copy of “Atlas Shrugged” whilst being buggered up the arse with a Platinum Amex card.

The nub of Vanstone’s Big Dick vs. Little Dick “argument” is that when dumb cunts with money who talk out their arses about things they know fuck all about, and lie and cheat and steal their way to riches , us little people should realise that not all dumb cunts with money are cunts …”

October: You Make Life A Fairy Tale: Grim

“You may find yourself in a quiet moment, a fond reverie, a warm remembrance of things long past, back when the world seemed a little simpler to you, a little more optimistic, pleasantly positive even, when, from out of nowhere and unbidden, someone grabs you by the back of the neck, shoves your face in their arse and blows farts in your mouth …

… These are the type of dull bulbs who’d begrudge a person a muffled exclamation of pleasure after a good fuck, and on Tuesday October 21st, their names included “journalists” Greg Sheridan and Andrew Bolt, and Alan Jones, a man with a head like a bleached beetroot stuck with fish-lips who talks shit on a radio station in Sydney.

The reason for these gentlemen’s embittered disgruntlement on this otherwise fine October day was the loving veneration and condolences afforded Gough Whitlam, Australia’s 21st Prime Minister, on the occasion of his death at age 98, from multitudes of other Australians, many journalists and commentators and people who talk shit on the radio included.”

November: Two Little Boys

“There are only so many times you can wake in the morning, take in the news, find yourself muttering, “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” or “Oh, for fuck’s sake”, before you become sick of the sound of your own voice and simply stop paying attention.

Greg Hunt and Peter Dutton are merely two examples – fine ones – of the dizzying level of stupid that now inhabits the feeble minds of this motley, miserable mob of gibbering shitheads, yokels, and other assorted bugs and goblins who currently infect our nation’s body politic on all levels of government. On all sides.

Engage?

Their legislative “successes” are written up and offered only as “personal victories” or “vindications” of their positions, “achievements” that achieve nothing for the greater good of the country or of the commonweal, yet shall we “engage” by attending this lurid spectacle of so many defiantly  stupid men massaging their outsized egos in public over decisions they have made about things they know nothing about?”

Thank you for reading, and try not to let the bastards grind you down.

I shall leave you with this fine tune which I hereby dedicate to our Loving Minister For Marriage, Relationship and Sex Counselling, The Honourable Member for Minding Your Family Business, Mr. Kevin Andrews

Garfunkel & Oates “The Loophole” aka “Fuck Me in the Ass Because I Love Jesus”

THIS GOVERNMENT IS SHIT

Have I missed anything recently?

Has anything happened?

Excuse the paucity in posts of late, but I have been paying little attention to matters of national import.

Are there any?

Are they dire?

I have come to understand the Federal Government has a Defence Minister and that his name is David Johnston.

It is a name I was most unfamiliar with, and I could not put a face to it, as I was quite unaware as to whether Mr. Johnston had ever made a statement addressing matters in his portfolio during his time in government. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention at the time, or maybe I thought that was Scott Morrison’s job. Scott Morrison often seems to think so.

Anyway, Mr. Johnston said something stupid recently, and found himself in the shit.

Prime Minister Tony Abbott leapt to Johnston’s defence, insisting he said nothing stupid, he’s not in the shit, and everything’s just so.

This is silly.

No one is listening to this shit anymore.

For the political tragics, for those whose job it is to write and comment on or analyse such matters, or those who make it their job, there are rich pickings to be had from the current crop of dunces in this government, although much of it, most of it defies any intelligent analysis, but all of it, the columns, the commentary, the criticism, pretty much all of it, amounts to the same thing, said over and over and over again.

This government is shit.

I don’t need thirty fucking columns by thirty different people inside the space of a week telling me what is, and always has been, plainly self-evident from the get-go to anybody willing to pay even the slightest bit of attention, and that is –

Tony Abbott is a lying cunt, and Tony Abbott has always been a lying cunt, and has spent pretty much his entire time in politics lying through his fucking teeth every time he opens his fucking mouth

And so it goes.

Communications Minister Malcolm Turnbull may be willing to make a tit of himself on national television twisting Abbott’s “no cuts to the ABC” comments every which way, but nobody, least of all himself, buys it.

Former Victorian Premier Dennis Napthine is told by a random stranger “the bullshit just keeps coming”, and so it does, they keep shoveling it on, we just learn to hold our noses, and walk on by.

No one is listening to this bullshit anymore.

“Spin, as an art, has totally jumped the shark. It’s so overdone, it’s dead. It’s self-parody. Low comedy. Kitsch. For years, as the country and political parties have grown more polarized, we’ve been moving the goal posts of spin-surdity. The farther Republicans and Democrats drifted apart, the more the spin-meisters followed and stretched their rhetoric beyond any recognizable reality. The more wacked-out the rhetoric got, the fewer people listened. Now we’ve gotten the point where even some spin-doctors think that there’s not much point any more. “I think everyone’s kind of caught on to it,” says James Carville, who, once upon a time, was to political spin what Picasso was to rearranged anatomy. “Everybody, the journalists, everybody sees through it.”” Politico, November 2014

When Foreign Minister Julie Bishop “chides” US President Barack Obama for his comments on climate change and its impact on the Great Barrier Reef, and insists “We have demonstrated world’s best practice … to ensure the Great Barrier Reef is preserved for generations to come”, nobody’s buying it because it’s bullshit and everybody knows it

“Professor Terry Hughes, who is the director of the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for Coral Reef Studies, says there’s an extraordinary disconnect between the government’s position and what scientists across the globe are saying.

Prof Hughes said he couldn’t explain why Ms Bishop’s views were so far removed from the science.

“I think you’ll have to ask her that,” he told AAP.

Government support for the development of the vast Carmichael coal mine in the Galilee basin is also inconsistent with reef protection, he said.

“(The mine) will have a Co2 footprint that’s three times larger than New Zealand’s if it goes ahead,” he said.”

Bishop, like all of Abbott’s timid others, speaks with, and only with, Her Masters Voice, and he speaks for His, and his Masters are a troupe of medieval fools, dumb cunts with money, and not an ounce of common sense between them.

No one is listening to this bullshit anymore.

There is simply too much of it.

Did Bishop and Co honestly think, during the Brisbane G20, that they would be able to insist, or even have the gall to suggest, the President of the United States refrain from any mention of climate change (among other topics) during his address to students, that he would simply acquiesce to such a thing? Nod his nappy head with a “Yowser, masser” and play along like a good little nigger, just so as not to upset the white folk in charge?

Fuck off, you stupid little bastards.

All this and so much more is way too much of nothing to be bothering with.

Which gives rise to a dilemma of sorts.

No matter which way you spin it, no matter how many words you may use, no matter what argument you may mount, and how carefully you may mount it, no matter the detail, the logic, it is simply not possible anymore to attach any substance, any significance to anything anyone in this government has to say about any fucking thing because all of it, from all of them, is fucking nonsense.

“True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country” – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

I understand some have said that the government lacks “narrative” or has yet to find “narrative”, but the narrative, to my mind, seems perfectly clear -

“Frankly, you need a mighty lot of unfairness before most people notice. But this one had it all. Make young people wait six months for the dole? Sure. Cut the indexation of the age pension? Sure. Charge people $7 to visit the doctor, and more if they get tests, regardless of how poor they are? Sure.

Charge people up to $42.70 per prescription? Sure. Lumber uni students with hugely increased HECS debts that grow in real terms  even when they’re earning less than $50,000 a year? Sure.” – Ross Gittins, Sydney Morning Herald, November 30, 2014

They want to rape you, kill you, spurt on your corpse, make your skin a lampshade, expect a round of applause for their efforts at making all these tough decisions, and then, just when you think they’re done, they decide to skullfuck your dog and make your cat into a slipper.

What’s not to like?

After a year of achieving little else but pissing the potential votes of whole demographics of people up against the wall in pursuit of God-Only-Knows-What-The-Fuck, we can now say, with safety and certainty in our hearts, and our minds set firm, that anything said by Tony Abbott, Scott Morrison, Eric Abetz, Joe Hockey, Christopher Pyne, Greg Hunt, Peter Dutton, Julie Bishop, Malcolm Turnbull in the past, present, and the future, can all be dismissed as total bollocks.

No one is listening to this bullshit anymore, boys.

We may be inclined to forgive people for occasionally fucking it up, for screwing the pooch, but when they start beating the pup to death with a fucking mallet and rolling in the viscera, it’s time to look away. For something a little more edifying. For something a little more substantial.

“Twenty years ago, during a long, leisurely lunch conversation about the Liberals and their history, John Howard expressed the view that the party no longer attracted the sort of people it once had. He spoke frankly – at the time, his chances of a comeback looked close to zero – and I pressed him on the issue.

These people, he suggested, wanted something rather than wanting to offer something. It was a big difference.”  Norman Abjorensen, Inside Story, November 2014

There are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of articles and comment and criticism available, of blogs and tweets and Facebook posts, of lengthy essays and features, profiles and analysis out there to be had about this current Abbott government, and all of them now seem to be saying the exact same thing.

This government is shit.

There is your headline for the next twenty-four months.

This government is shit.

And no one is listening anymore.

As for myself, I’m going to have to find some new things to scribble about next year, because these people are too stupid for time.

POINT OF VIEW: THE ABBREVIATED SENATOR JACQUI LAMBIE

Citations beneath.

  1. I’m FUCKED OFF.
  2. It’s fucking FUCKED.
  3. They can all GET FUCKED if they don’t like it.
  4. He can GET FUCKED too.
  5. So can SHE.

No fucking citations. Fuck your fucking citations. Fuck off.

JL

TWO LITTLE BOYS

Meet our Federal Minister for Health, Peter Dutton, and Federal Minister for the Environment, Greg Hunt.

Two little fellas playin’ at grown-ups.

Peter used to be a cop. As a boy, Pete had a paper run (why is this a thing so many politicians are inclined to mention as if it signifies some omen of future greatness? “I sold newspapers from a wheelbarrow for a few extra quid when I was a kid”. So did I. Big fucking deal. Shut up.) and he also worked in a butcher shop.

… Wrappin’ sausages and weighin’ mince for nasty ol’ Missus Sentosa from up the road, mos’ prob’ly. Maybe some sweepin’ …

After leaving the police force, Pete became a businessman, did some business, went into politics, stayed there, and in November 2007, was appointed “Shadow Minister for Health and Ageing”, where he spent the next six years studiously avoiding speaking on the topic,  “deliberately play[ing] a small-target game” “to make sure we weren’t fighting on what had traditionally been seen as Labor’s strengths. It gave Tony [Abbott] and the rest of the team the ability to talk about the economy, border protection and Labor’s failings around the ‘Pink Batts’ scheme.”

“I believed it was the right political strategy and I thought it was going to pay us dividends. I think we’ve been vindicated in that judgment.”, he adds.

Some months ago, and at quite a loss for a name, I had to ask someone, “Who is our current Federal Health Minister?”, as I could not remember anything of import being said on the subject since the election of the current Government, so Mr. Dutton is nothing if not consistent in his approach to a thing.

Pete thinks Australians who are feelin’ sickly would appreciate the cost of health care more if they paid more for it, and might think twice about seeing a doctor if they had to, by which time of course, they may well be dead. I’m sure he feels extremely proud of his idea, although it appears to be the only one he’s had so far.

Our other little fella, Greg Hunt, once won a debating tournament at university, studied law, graduated, became an “advisor” to then Foreign Affairs Minister, Alexander Downer, went into politics, stayed there, and wound up the current “Minister for the Environment”, having once been “Shadow Minister for Climate Change, Environment and Urban Water”, and then “Shadow Minister for Climate Action, Environment and Heritage”.

As we no longer do “climate” here, and “heritage” is just a bunch of old shit standing in the way of new shit, the word “environment” now means “all the other stuff”.

Greg learnt all about the environment from Wikipedia, and is currently managing it for us by getting rid of as much of it as possible.

You may be aware of the recent emergence of a new sub-genre of journalism and commentary we will call the “why are people so pissed off about politics” meme*. Australians are disengaged from politics, we are told. Disenchanted. Distrustful. The shits with. Generally fucked off by. Young Australians are not enrolling to vote. Gen Y are lazy and self-absorbed. Students are apathetic. Opining this sad state of affairs, writers wonder how it all came to pass and why and how it might be corrected. How we should engage, and why we must, especially those horridly narcissistic young folk, the piercings and the hair and the tatts, sucking bongs through Tim-Tams all day, watching “Dr. Phil”.

Engage?

If I were to spot, on the footpath ahead of me, a spindly-legged chap in stained shorts ringing a bell and wearing a sandwich board proclaiming the end of the world, lurching menacingly at hapless passers-by, and mumbling biblical gibberish and bullshit, I would not continue on my way for a potential “engagement” with the fellow, I would cross the fucking road.

If I were a guest at a dinner party, and another guest, fuelled by a little too much firewater, launched into a red-faced, bulging-eyed and spittle-flecked rant about “niggers and coons and chinks and fuckin’ Abo’s”, I would not “engage”. I would leave the table and go to the toilet, maybe outside for a smoke, and, at some opportune time later, discretely inform the host that his friend is a bit of dumb cunt, and maybe he should be told to fuck off and go home.

Engage?

You cannot “engage” with ignorance.

You cannot “engage” in any substantive fashion with those who insist their first word on any subject is their last, and that no further correspondence shall be entered into.

To even attempt such a thing is to invite the abyss not merely to stare back at you, but to punch you in the temples and poke you in both eyes with a pair of flaming barbecue skewers.

“One of the painful things about our time is that those who feel certainty are stupid, and those with any imagination and understanding are filled with doubt and indecision.” —Bertrand Russell, “The Triumph of Stupidity”

There are only so many times you can wake in the morning, take in the news, find yourself muttering, “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” or “Oh, for fuck’s sake”, before you become sick of the sound of your own voice and simply stop paying attention.

Greg Hunt and Peter Dutton are merely two examples – fine ones – of the dizzying level of stupid that now inhabits the feeble minds of this motley, miserable mob of gibbering shitheads, yokels, and other assorted bugs and goblins who currently infect our nation’s body politic on all levels of government. On all sides.

Engage?

Their legislative “successes” are written up and offered only as “personal victories” or “vindications” of their positions, “achievements” that achieve nothing for the greater good of the country or of the commonweal, yet shall we “engage” by attending this lurid spectacle of so many defiantly  stupid men massaging their outsized egos in public over decisions they have made about things they know nothing about?

Engage?

No.

Kohle Ist Brot!

No.

Arbeit Macht Frei! Let the earth erupt in flames, let stones fall into the sea, let dust be your tombstone!

No.

Will you “engage” with Opposition Leader Bill Shorten, whose every lifelessly uttered word is like a noose you feel like hanging yourself with just to liven up the proceedings a little?

No.

That we can get to a point where two relentlessly gormless gumps like Dutton and Hunt are put in charge of such portfolios as they currently hold, is to know we have now reached that point where the people so stupid they don’t realise how stupid they are have taken the keys to our homes and they’re pissing on all our carpets, they’re scribbling on all our walls, they’re shitting on the stovetop, they’ve filled the pool with gasoline, and now they’re drawing straws to decide who gets to flick the fucking match.

Engage?

Would you “engage” with a plumber to advise you on a root canal?

No.

Silly buggers talking bullshit. Dumb cunts with money. Dickheads. Fuckwits.

Engagement is not an option.

Drugs? Perhaps.

Vonnegut

*Other new sub-genres include, “Why are so many people such cunts on the internet?”, “New Facebook mind-control plot”, “I switched off the internet for a month and rediscovered my humanity”, and “What is the future of journalism?”, the answer to that last being, “You’ll find out when it fucking gets here”.

YOU MAKE LIFE A FAIRY TALE – GRIM

You may find yourself in a quiet moment, a fond reverie, a warm remembrance of things long past, back when the world seemed a little simpler to you, a little more optimistic, pleasantly positive even, when, from out of nowhere and unbidden, someone grabs you by the back of the neck, shoves your face in their arse and blows farts in your mouth.

Choking back your gag reflex and blinking away the tears, you turn to find yourself confronted with the dour, grey faces of grim, mirthless men who then proceed to wag their fingers in your face and say, “Now, now, let’s not get too carried away. Let’s put things into their proper perspective”, they will insist, after which, they will proceed to lecture you on the dire perils of fondly held memories of times past or warm, fuzzy moments of personal recollection.

These are the type of dull bulbs who’d begrudge a person a muffled exclamation of pleasure after a good fuck, and on Tuesday October 21st, their names included “journalists” Greg Sheridan and Andrew Bolt, and Alan Jones, a man with a head like a bleached beetroot stuck with fish-lips who talks shit on a radio station in Sydney.

The reason for these gentlemen’s embittered disgruntlement on this otherwise fine October day was the loving veneration and condolences afforded Gough Whitlam, Australia’s 21st Prime Minister, on the occasion of his death at age 98, from multitudes of other Australians, many journalists and commentators and people who talk shit on the radio included.

“Worst government in Australia’s history!”, thundered Sheridan on ABC TV’s “The Drum” later that night. “He tumbled into the abyss!”, scribbled Bolt with typically melodramatic flair, before briefly bemoaning Whitlam’s introduction of a national health care scheme, and Alan Jones kept talking shit on the radio. No doubt, their fine chorus of voices shall shortly be conjoined by the cheery trills of Gerard Henderson next time he pops up on ABC’s “Insiders” and who, if asked of Whitlam, will probably just rabbit on about Robert fucking Menzies.

It’s the Sheridan’s and Bolt’s and Jones’s and Henderson’s et al of our world who are the lives of the parties nobody ever wants to go to, where every canapé’s a coffin full of cancer, and a colonoscopy comes free with every cocktail. Where the dress code is a tie and a tan cardigan, and the talk is as cheap as the chips on their shoulders and hangs just as heavy in the air. It’s our pleasures that are their pains, a litany of miseries are our lives as we should live them, and the future is a fearful  and fucked up place from a not so faraway time and getting closer every minute.

These are the cuntly curmudgeons of commentary from Chickentown, 3166, who, in the blessed names of “perspective” and “balance” and “keeping it real”, are always taking it upon their incurious and narcotic selves to ensure and insist that all us simple folk out here in the Wonderful World of Oz never forget to cloud our silver linings with smears and corrode all our hopes and dreams with fear, for to them, pleasures come with costs, and costs are always for the counting, and all things, on earth as it surely is in heaven, come with a use-by-date and an invoice and who you gonna call when it comes time to pick up the tab?

In their world, and it should by rights be their world, as they never cease to remind us, their world wrapped in grey, even in their dreams, even in their wildest and most intemperate of fevres, of ill and hotly dangerous visions, they’ll always be in Kansas, Toto. And they’ll never, never, ever, ever, ever, want to leave.

Neither should you.

Perspective. It’s all about perspective.

Alan Jones

AUSSIE TEEN WANKER MAKES VIDEO, FONDLES GUN, TALKS BOLLOCKS

An Aussie teen wanker who ran away from home because he wasn’t getting his own way with stuff, has emerged appearing in a video fondling a gun and talking bollocks.

Like a badly caricatured villain from a “Die Hard” film, the Aussie teen wanker can be seen surrounded by a bunch of other wankers fondling his gun, and talking in medieval clichés about flags and weapons and killing a bunch of people who give him the shits.

It is understood the wanker has hooked up with a notorious Middle-Eastern rape gang comprised of illiterate wankers who also talk bollocks but mostly fuck around in the desert blowing things up, randomly raping kids and killing people just for shits ‘n’ giggles.

When asked his reaction to the video, Prime Minister Tony Abbott said, “Look, I don’t intend giving so much as a sideways glance to this little cunt, and neither should you, because if it’s attention he’s after, we’ve got some people working on that, and frankly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck if he got his cock shot off. If it were up to me, I’d shove a rocket up his fucking arse and blow him to the moon.”

Sources close to the family of the wanker have said they are shocked and disappointed by their little wanker’s actions and have really, really got the shits, and if his father ever gets a hold of him, he’ll beat the silly little fucker about his fucking head with a fucking mallet.”

Direct comment from the family is currently being sought.

ONCE UPON A TIME

“It was an unusual experiment,’ Gore Vidal once said (of the [Gough] Whitlam Government), “for Australia to choose as its Prime Minister its most intelligent man. It will not, I fear, be repeated.”

Bob Ellis, from “Goodbye, Jerusalem”

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Gough Whitlam, July 11, 1916 – October 21, 2014.
Australian Prime Minister, 1972 – 1975.

DUMB C#NT$ WITH MONEY

Amanda Vanstone, former Government Minister for Something turned talking head/typist for hire recently did a spot of creative typing for Fairfax media on what she feels is the unseemly habit of “average” Australians (that is, people who work for a living) to criticise millionaires and billionaires (that is, people who like fucking people over who work  for a living) for being nothing other than dumb cunts with money who talk out their arses about things they know fuck all about, and lie and cheat and steal their way to riches.

Vanstone calls this “the politics of envy”.

Reading this piece (if you can bring yourself to) of muddle-headed, badly written primary school prose, complete with a few dodgy statistics thrown in, is an exercise in tedium about as compelling as being whacked across the head repeatedly with a water-logged copy of “Atlas Shrugged” whilst being buggered up the arse with a Platinum Amex card.

The nub of Vanstone’s Big Dick vs. Little Dick “argument” is that when dumb cunts with money who talk out their arses about things they know fuck all about, and lie and cheat and steal their way to riches , us little people should realise that not all dumb cunts with money are cunts …

“Daily we are invited to assume that wealthier people are creeps, tax cheats and the cause of others among us being poorer. It is undoubtedly true that some wealthier people are creeps, tax cheats, selfish and carry any number of other unattractive traits. Equally there will be poorer people who are bash-up artists, druggies and thieves. In both cases, they are the exception rather than the norm.”

As one of the “little people” without bags of money, I can assure Ms. Vanstone that “envy” has nothing to do with it. Contempt, yes. Envy, not so much …

John Kampfner in The Guardian

“In the complex psychology of the super-rich, victimhood is a natural concomitant to entitlement. By the same token, a sense of innate superiority is the flip side to the desperate yearning for reputation. Like the robber barons, billionaire philanthropists such as Warren Buffett and Gates have come to believe that they are best placed to spend the money that might otherwise have gone into state budgets from taxation.”

Sound familiar?

Our richest dumb cunt with money, Gina Rinehart, whose dad, Lang Hancock, was a dumb cunt with money who didn’t much like niggers and had a penchant for fucking the hired household help, occasionally carries on in the tradition of dear old dad by banging on about some aspect of the lives of us little people that displease her. We don’t work hard enough. We should work for less. Poor people are just lazy, and the unemployed …. bibbity-bibbity-bibbity rah-rah-rah and so on and so forth, you’ve heard it all before.

Here’s Callam Pickering in Business Spectator on Gina …

“Rinehart has no public policy experience beyond lobbying and rent-seeking. She is a businesswoman but not an economist nor an expert on politics or political economy. She has no expertise on social issues or social work or psychology. She is neither a lawyer nor a tax expert.”

Not to be envied, so much as laughed at.

Then we have dumb cunts with money like Jamie “Dacs” Packer having a wrestle in a public street with some other dumb cunt with money over some dumb cunt of a girl who wears underwear for a fucking living, and all us little people can only think is “What a couple of dumb cunts”, and fall about laughing at their dumb cuntyness.

Dacs makes his money (and loses it) from helping other dumb cunts with money lose their own by building whopping great Phalluses of Misery everywhere, otherwise known as “casinos”, gauche, gaudy shitholes studded with carnival games and fruit-machines which provide essential money-exchange services for criminal cunts with money, mostly property developers I suspect, and dodgy Asian “businessmen”, whose business is none of ours, and if we tried to make it ours, would probably call in a few “bash-up artists, druggies and thieves” on their payrolls to come ‘round our houses and lop off all our fucking fingers.

Dumb cunts with money like to keep company with their own kind. Kampfner again …

“They mix with a narrow group of similar-minded people, sparring with each other at the same auctions, fraternising on each other’s yachts. They compare themselves only against each other, leading them often to be dissatisfied with their lot, believing themselves to be not wealthy or powerful enough. They pay as little back to the state in tax as they can get away with. They reinforce each other in their certainties, convinced that their acquisition of wealth, and spending of it through charitable enterprise, has earned them their place at the apex of global decision-making and moral supremacy.”

We have Slime-King Supremo Rupert Murdoch, and his two Man-Children, both of whom could’ve beaten Christian Bale for the part of Patrick Bateman in “American Psycho” if they’d just showed up at audition looking like this …

Murdochs

These two dumb cunts with money have form in fucking things up for the little people, that is to say, us people who work for a living, because they’ve got so much fucking money, they think they’re entitled to be in charge of things, and when they put themselves in charge, or are parachuted into a management position by dad, they don’t so much run things as run them into the fucking ground and out of fucking existence altogether, because neither of them have got a fucking brain in their fucking heads or an ounce of fucking talent, but by Christ, they’ve got a whole bunch of fucking money, and as far as these two dumb cunts are concerned, that’s all it fucking takes.

It’s not the “politics of envy”, Amanda.

It’s BOREDOM.

It’s Fed-Up-To-The-Fucking-Back-Teeth-Shut-The-Fuck-Up-And-FUCK-OFF-BOREDOM to be constantly whined at and nagged at by these narcissistic, self-righteous, dumb cunts with money who talk out their arses in vague brainfarts of self-reflecting glory about a Great Society of Utopian Perfection if we all just listened to them and did what they told us to.

Then, when we tell them they’re just dumb cunts with money talking out their fucking arses about things they know fuck-all about and retaliate with ridicule and contempt and criticism of their gibbering rubbish, they get all shirty and delicate and get the fucking sulks because they’re not being paid enough fucking attention, and they should be paid attention, and they’re not, and it’s only because’ everyone’s jealous, so there, everyone’s just jealous, that’s all, they’re just jealous, so there, I WON’T EAT MY VEGETABLES MUMMY, I WON’T, I, WON’T, I WON’T!

So there.

We have dumb cunts with money like Maurice “You Can Call Me The Space Cowboy” Newman, Senior Accounts Clerk turned Instant Scientist, add full retard, sprinkle with idiocy, bake in the hot desert sun for fifty years, and voila! A fuckwit arises.

There is no “politics of envy”.

We’re all just fucking sick and fucking tired of listening to these dumb cunts with money rabbit on all the fucking time about how fucking wonderful they all are and how they became so wonderful, and what wonderful ideas they have about everything under the fucking wonderful sun, when they’re ideas are not wonderful, they’re just very, very, very fucking STUPID.

They’re dumb cunts with money, and complete dicks about it to boot.

Callam Pickering again …

“Would you ask Justin Bieber for investment advice? Is economist Paul Krugman the best person to help build your home? And should venture capitalist Tom Perkins really be helping you study for German history? If you answer no, then why would we turn to business leaders to help fix economic or social issues?”

Would you take diet tips from Gina Rinehart?

No. You would not.

Dumb cunts.

WARD 8B NORTH, BED 32

“What are you doing?!”, the nurse snaps at the man in the bed opposite mine.

The man is a recalcitrant patient. He will not take his medicine as he does not like the taste. There is something wrong with his bowels, his insides, and he is now shitting on the floor. He is about to get back into his bed, and the nurse says, sternly, “Stay where you are. I’m not cleaning up the bed as well”, and he stays where he is. She calls for a cleaner, and then attends, briefly, to the other patients in the room, of which I am one of four.

“All the good jobs”, I say to her.

“I’ve long ago lost my gag reflex”, she replies, removing my antibiotic drip and flushing the catheter in my vein.

Some hours later I move from my bed, walk to the toilet, open the door, close it again, and say to the same nurse, “The toilet’s clogged with what looks to be a large nappy, and there’s piss all over the floor”.

“Thanks, Ross”, she replies, and then mutters something under her breath as she goes to call for a cleaner. Again.

All the good jobs.

A day later I am moved to a bed in the respitory ward, where I should have been put upon admission, but there was no room available. No one here is shitting on the floor.

There is an elderly French man opposite, Gabriel, who flirts shamelessly, but not crassly or in an offensive manner, with all the female nurses and staff. His left side is stiff and immobile, and he walks with a cane, a result of having had five strokes some years back. His breathing is fucked up, but slowly getting better, and he is in good spirits, walking about, chatting with all and sundry.

“What are you thinking, Ross?”, he asks me one day, catching me in a faraway moment.

“I’m thinking of veal tortellini with mushrooms and pancetta in a cream sauce with lots of parmesan cheese”, I reply, “And a glass of wine.”

He chuckles at this, and says, “Soon, my friend. Soon.”

“Soon” would be another four weeks away.

A couple days later there is a new admission to the ward, a man of Slavic descent who does not speak a word of English, and who looks like one of the Super Mario Brothers, right down to the peaked cap which never leaves his head, his physique, and moustache. He is placed in the bed next to Gabriel.

That he cannot speak a word of English does not stop him from speaking, which he does. Constantly. Loudly. Day and night. In a deep, guttural tone of voice. To imaginary friends, and perhaps imaginary foes, from another time, from another place, back home, the old country, the new country, it is a stream of consciousness conversation that has no beginning and no end, and it wears thin with the other three of us in the ward after the second night of it.

We cannot sleep. Not a wink. And nor does he. He just keeps talking.

“Why are you speaking?!”, says Gabriel a number of times, exasperated, tired, pissed off, at wit’s end, as are we all. “Shut up! Shut up! No one can understand you! Shut up!”

“Oh, for FUCK’S SAKE!”, I also snap, “Will you shut the FUCK UP! … Jesus Christ …”

The man is sick. Obviously. Dementia? Possibly. Yet we too are sick, and patience and understanding elude us. At this point in proceedings, the milk of our human kindness has not so much curdled as turned to mouldy yoghurt.

On the third night, or perhaps it was the fourth, he leaves his bed and moves through the ward, going from bed to bed, his “conversation” never flagging, not for a moment. He sits in every chair, talking and talking and talking, and two nurses come into the ward, trying to calm him, trying to get him to go back to his bed, trying to Shut. Him. Up …

“You can’t be here. You have to go back to your own bed. Do you understand?”, says one. They try taking him by the shoulders and leading him back, but he resists, twisting away from their grasp, and then scuttling over to the chair beside my bed. The two nurses follow and are clearly losing their patience, repeating their exhortations for him to get back to his bed, again and again, in ever sterner, ever harsher tones.

There he sits, rabbiting away about God only knows what, and I snap at him, “Oi! You! Chuckles! Get back in your fucking box, boy! PISS OFF! Leave us all the fuck alone, for Chrissakes!”

My calling him “Chuckles” makes one of the nurses snort loudly and begin to giggle. Eventually, they get him back to his own bed. Eventually.

I crave a cigarette. To relax me. I have not had one for the whole week I’ve been here.  There are cigarettes in my coat pocket, but to smoke one, I would have to drag myself downstairs, outside and across the road from the hospital entrance, and it is 1.00am in the morning and bitterly cold out. I take a drink of water, the craving passes, and at last I begin to doze, the mutterings of Our Super Mental Mario Brother in Bed No.34 still burbling away in the background.

Finally, at long last, and to the relief of us all, Chuckles wears himself out, and sleeps two whole days and two whole nights, but not before he pees on a nurse who is struggling to change his diaper at 3.00am one morning. “OH!”, she squeals in surprise, “He’s WEEING on me!”, and she flees the room for assistance. The nurse in charge comes in, and manages to finish the job, saying, in the manner of a father to a small child, “Now, now, it is not polite to have no pants in public. Come now, here we go … “, and so on.

Shit and piss, pus and vomit, and God only knows what else. Every day. Every night. A working life.

I ask a nurse, “You get much abuse in this job?”, and she replies, wearily, “Oh, yes. A lot”, as if it were the most natural and normal thing in the world, just another job requirement,  just another day in the life …

“Somebody spoke and I went into a dream”

… Gabriel has since been discharged, his bed now occupied by a woman, Margaret. Chuckles, now quiet and much subdued after his forty-eight hour rest, is discharged a couple days later, and his bed assigned to a very large woman with arms like baby fur seals and legs which resemble fat stacks of oversize doughnuts. That her name is also Margaret she takes as an unspoken, but perfectly obvious invitation to make a new friend, and hence, Margaret No.1 finds herself regaled at length over the next few days with the life, trials and tribulations of Margaret No.2, not a word of which I can recall, beyond something to do with cats …

… Margaret No.2 has rung her buzzer to summon a nurse. Margaret No.2 would like her bedhead adjusted. When her needs are not immediately attended to as a matter of grave urgency, she mutters grumpily “Ya wouldn’t wanna be dyin’ in this place, would ya?”

Why, it takes almost ten or fifteen whole minutes before someone can respond to her bidding …

“Yes’m”.

… And during mealtime one evening, Margaret No.1 finds a black hair on a slice of bread. The bread is packaged in cellophane and is supplied to the hospital from an external source. She informs one of the attendants. And then another. And another. Pretty much anyone in a uniform within earshot is informed of this gross dereliction of care over the next several days, as is every member of her family who visit during this time, of which there seem to be about a dozen, half of whom are grandchildren. This has become a tale for the ages, it would seem, to be passed from generation to generation until it becomes the stuff of folkloric legend. Or perhaps a feature film …

“This is not my beautiful life. How did I get here?”

I make an appointment with my GP to deal with a backache that will not quit and is gradually getting worse. To the point where I can barely walk ten paces without panting like a dog and needing to sit or lean on something for five or ten minutes before I can continue. The GP presses her stethoscope to my chest, to my back, and leaves the room briefly. On returning she says, “I can’t hear anything on your left side. Nothing at all. We’ve rung an ambulance and you’re going to the hospital”, to which I respond, “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”, having never been to a hospital before, not as a patient. Hospitals are for the aged, the dying, the desperately ill. I am none of those.

The ambulance arrives. Quickly. Two paramedics, a male and a female. A stretcher. They put something on my finger, and do a few other things, I know not what or why. One asks, “Can you get on the stretcher? We’ll take you down now”, and I say, “I can walk out”, and the woman says, “No, you’re not. Your oxygen levels are very low”, so I get on the stretcher, and they take me down the lift and out to the ambulance. The woman rides in back with me, and places an oxygen mask on my face.

I look around the interior of the ambulance and think, “I’ve seen this in movies. This looks about right.”

My thought processes, at this point, would appear to be a little arse-up.

We arrive at the hospital, and what happens happens, little of which I can recall. X-rays are involved, for some time later I find myself facing two doctors, one male and one female, and they talk to me about what they’ve found, not found, and suspect to find.

“We can’t see anything on your left side”, says one, “This white area? It should be black”, or vice-versa. Known truths, symptoms, causes and consequences. The word “emphysema” makes an appearance. My left lung, they tell me, is swimming in fluid, in pus, and it will have to be drained. They will then have to analyse this pus, they tell me, to find out what it is, what it comprises, but they have a strong suspicion, at this point, there is, in fact, the distinct … possibility, indications, but we will have to wait to be sure, of lung cancer.

But we will have to wait to be sure.

The woman hands me a brochure, saying, “We know this is a lot to unload on you at this time, first off, but we … and this and that, so on and so forth … “ and she goes on like that for a time …

The first episode of “Breaking Bad”, Walter White was told he had lung cancer.

That is the first thing that comes into my mind.

“It’s only a flesh wound”

The next day I am taken down to a room cluttered with machines. Machines that go “ping”. Machines that don’t. Machines with other machines connected to them. Machines with pipes. With hoses. Machines that measure, that count. Machines with dials. Very important machines.

Where do they all come from, I wonder. Who makes all of this?

There are two doctors, and three nurses. I am to be fitted with a tube. I am to be drained.

I lean across a metal bench, my arms stretched out in front of me, as instructed. A nurse is at front, and she places her hand on my arm, a gesture of reassurance perhaps. That nothing horrible, or too horrible is about to take place. A liquid, a local anaesthetic,  is applied to my left side and I flinch slightly from the chill of it. Nothing horrible happens.

“Stay very still, Ross”, someone says from behind me.

I stay very still.

Something then tears into my flesh, grinding through sinew, muscle and fat, a thick hot plastic needle pushes through gristle, cartilage, and, staying very still, I YELL out in PAIN, I yell “Shit!” and “Fuck me dead!”, several times, and several times more, and the nurse pats my arm and says, “You’re doing well, Ross. It won’t be much longer”, and then there’s another thrust, and I yell out again, saying much the same as before, and someone says from behind me, “Just a little more”, and then there’s another thrust, and another yell from me, and someone says, “Okay. That’s it”, and I say, “Jesus Christ … “, and I say it again, and I say it several times more, and the nurse tells me I’ve done very well, and I take “done very well” to mean not flying off the bench-top and into the fucking ceiling.

My body now comes with an attachment, an accessory.

The tube from my side feeds into what looks like a large, hollow, transparent Lego block, and this sits on a small trolley, and it is these things that shall be my constant companions for the next three weeks, the draining of pus from my lung cavity being a somewhat slower process than I had first thought – “Yeah mate, we’ve sucked all that out, sewed you up, whacked a bandage on it and you’re right to go”.

Not quite.

“That’s Entertainment”

… Pills three or four times a day. “Observations” every three or four hours. An antibiotic drip to be replaced. Painkillers. A jab here, a jab there. X-rays. Scans. Ultrasound. Questions. A doctor looks at the amount of pus that has thus far been collected and remarks, “That’s quite a lot. I’ve only seen that much once before.” People go about their work, their routine. Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is missed. Everyone has something to do. They do it without complaint. They are pleasant and polite and friendly. Unfailingly so. With tube fitted, I am asked, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how would rate your pain levels?”, and the first time, I reply, “I don’t know what pain on a scale of 10 would feel like. Being skinned alive while having your small intestine pulled out your left nostril with a rusty hook might manage it … ”, the response to which is, “That’s a very … colourful … image, Ross”. I cannot remember anyone’s name, but they all know and remember mine, even if they’ve only seen me once or twice. Clipboards are carried, boxes are ticked, notes are taken, care is administered, and here comes someone else …

I see and experience nothing here that would make the “news”. No one is giving birth in a toilet. No one is dying in a corridor, bleeding from their eyes. There are no doctors snorting cocaine in the supplies room. No drugged to the eyeball nurses trying to set fire to the joint. There is nothing worth writing a letter of complaint about to the editor of a tabloid or a member of government demanding something be done about something disgraceful, something appalling, something we should all be ashamed of, we taxpayers.

… I’m up early each morning, maybe 5 or 5.30 am, and as soon as it hits 6.00am, I’m downstairs to the newsagent on the first floor, my tube and pus-bucket in tow, scouring the shelves for something decent to read, picking up the day’s newspapers. I’m even buying “The Courier-Mail”, but I draw the line at “The Australian”. I may be ill, but I’m not deranged. Coffee shop opens at 6.30, closes at 6.00 pm. I’m there four times a day. “On the house, love”, says the woman serving one morning, “We’ll be able to open another shop at this rate” …

One thing …

I don’t have cancer.

“The Power of Christ compels you!”

“We’re not getting all the fluid, Ross”, a doctor tells me. “There’s still a residue of pus on the bottom of your lung, and the lung itself is stuck to the cavity wall. We have to peel that off.” … Scraping bacon from a skillet … “So we’ve pencilled you in for an operation on Monday morning.”

“Right”, I say, but I am thinking, “People die during operations. I should’ve cleaned the fucking flat”, that is the first thing that comes into my mind, “I should’ve cleaned the fucking flat.”

Last time I saw, the lounge room looked like the Gaza Strip.

The day before the operation, I am told what exactly will be done, how and why, and I am asked if I understand all of this, which I do. I am then told a grim list of all the things that could possibly go wrong, from the minor horrors of infection through to the end of days, the popping of clogs, the mortal coil shuffle, the pearly-gate pimp-roll, the ceasing to be. I am asked to sign something and I do. In the unexpected event of my demise, this will absolve whoever is responsible of all blame.

Nice work if you can get it.

On the day, I am taken from  my bed and wheeled through corridor after corridor, some familiar, some not, down an elevator, more corridors, another elevator, and still more corridors and I ask of the attendant, “Are we going to the morgue?”. Memories of the 1978 Michael Crichton film “Coma” come to mind, its tagline, “Imagine your life hangs by a thread. Imagine your body hangs by a wire. Imagine you’re not imagining.”

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I am finally wheeled into a smallish room that is crowded with units of shelves, the shelves are laden with things, medical things, purpose unknown. The height of the shelving on one unit is out of whack with the units either side of it, and I find this irritates my sense of aesthetics, of form, of order. “They should all be the same”, I think, “Didn’t anybody notice?”

Two attendants “prep” me for the Drilling Of The Flesh that will shortly commence. Something is stuck into my wrist. I am getting used to this. “Ouch” is my only reaction. Tubes.

From here to the operating theatre, a large room, and to my surprise, there are many people in it. I am lifted on to the operating table. Murmurs surround me. Someone speaks, about what I do not recall. Things are done. In preparation.

I look around the room again and I say, “There’s a lot of people in here. Is this a big thing?”, and if an answer were forthcoming, I did not hear it for I did not so much as drift off to unconsciousness from the anaesthetic I was given, as I did plummet.

“Please release me”

With consciousness, two things …

First thing. I have grown more tubes. One is attached to a large bag of stuff, one to a small. The tube in my side is still there, but it is now draining a watery fluid tinged red with blood.

Second thing. Wasps have set up house under my skin and have declared war on my nerve endings. Or maybe it’s just a manoeuvre.

A nurse welcomes me back to the land of the living, and tells me what the new bags are for. The large one is something, and the small one is morphine. To kill the pain (YES!), press this button (OKAY!), dosages are measured and restricted (FUCK YOU PEOPLE!), so you can press the button only so many times (HOW MANY!?!) before it clams up …

Button pressed.

Morphine? Over-rated.

A couple joints, some aspirin and a beer would’ve done the same trick. Maybe two beers.

Next day, two nurses arrive, smiling, and announce they are taking me for a “walk”. They will be managing my tubes and attachments, of which I now have more than a vacuum cleaner.  They are taking me for a walk because I have, during my time here, become known for wandering off on a regular basis, upstairs and down, outside and in, a lone, lost soul in the corridors, rattling his tube and trolley like a spirit possessed, a wan and ethereal figure in blue drifting through these cold and friendless halls of the ill, the sick, the damaged and the dying.

And people with tubes stuck in their ribs.

 “Can we go downstairs?”, I ask.

“Not while you’re hooked up to the morphine. You have to stay on the floor”, is the reply.

My plan to escape with a small bag of drugs and begin a vast global drug empire is foiled.

On the morning of my 21st day “inside”, a doctor tells me, “The x-rays look good. Everything went well. There’ll be some tissue scarring, but that’s to be expected. Tomorrow, we’ll remove the tube, and you can go home in the afternoon.”

“The afternoon? That’s quick.”

“Once the tube is out, there’s no reason for you to stay”, he says.

“Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither:
Ripeness is all.”

One week later, I am back at “work”. The office. The corporate concern. I am sifting through roughly two hundred emails which have arrived during my absence, over three quarters of which have nothing to do with me. There are small piles of paperwork scattered across my desk. These piles represent my “work”. It’s bullshit. All of it. It pays the rent.

Next day, a communication arrives flagged with a red exclamation mark, denoting an “urgency” of some kind. “Ross”, it reads “I know you’ve only just got back, but would you be able to break down these figures for a blah-blah meeting at blah-blah o’clock that blah and blah and blah and blah … Even the roughest estimate will do. Thanks!”

The “roughest estimate”.  In other words, a guess.

An “urgent” guess.

Who dies if you don’t get these stats in time? I wonder. I make something up. I send it off. It will be wrong. I don’t care.

You can swivel on your melodramatically “urgent” red exclamation marks.

I am asked questions by email from people who sit two desks away. “Communication” and “teamwork” are theoretical concepts to be found only in “training seminars” or staff meetings, but never to be utilised in practice. Camaraderie is a cold “How are you?” and a “Much better, thanks” and a hasty exit before a conversation can take place. The office is enveloped in a gloom of silence, broken only by a few occasional overheard mutterings in the distance.

Nothing seems real. Nothing here matters. Nothing that is done will live beyond the doing of it, and the doing of it will achieve nothing for nobody nowhere. Not. A. Single. Fucking. Thing.

11.50 am.

I leave the office …

“Do you need a menu?”

“No, thanks. I’ll have the veal tortellini. And a glass of the Riesling.”

“Anywhere you like, sir.”

I watch people walk along the footpath outside the café. I lean back in my chair. No pain. Breathe. In. Out. Relax. I should do this more often. Be a little kinder to myself.

Food arrives. It’s good. Lots of parmesan.

I am going to stay here a while longer.

I order another glass of wine.

I am going to have a long lunch.

Anyone who has a problem with that when I eventually get back, I’ll shove a tube between their fucking ribs.

eca8157e61a80ae0f86a540697e948

JOE HOCKEY – JUST YOUR AVERAGE FUCKWIT

This won’t take long.

For reasons that elude me, and for purposes I cannot fathom, a “writer” has decided to piss a sizable chunk of her life up against a wall by writing a “biography” of former breakfast television personality and current Federal Treasurer, Joeboy Hockey.

Coming soon to a remainder bin near you for $0.95, I have not read it, nor will I. Even for $0.95.

Joeboy is a gaping arsehole. A twat. A buffoon. A fool. A liar and a fraud. A fake. A fuckwit. A douche. A puffed-up, preening, narcissistic, smug, self-righteous sook. A bulging flab-bucket of skanky ho’ thrush. An unseemly crusty yellow cum stain on this, the hand towel of life.

Here, for example, is why Joeboy got into politics (my emphasis)…

“… it was simply a movie ticket he was seeking. He’d popped down to the [University of Sydney’s] Student Representative Council, where the woman at the front counter had dismissed his query. He thought she was rude. She probably thought he was an upstart, but Joe was furious. His fees were paying her salary and that meant SHE WAS IN HIS SERVICE. ‘I would have liked her to be nice to me,’ Joe says, ‘so I thought I should give politics a go.’”

Where people are nice to you.

It was Joeboy’s cash, and Joeboy’s alone, that was financing this callow, uppity cunt whore’s lifestyle, her extravagant two-dollar instant noodle gourmet extravaganzas. Her bus tickets, goddammit. Her super-absorbent mouse-pillows. Did she not understand that?

How long, one wonders, has Joeboy carried this traumatic psychological scar, this primal hurt, deep within his tender, gentle soul?

Hockey’s biographer, Madonna King, had previously written a biography of Professor Ian Frazer, “the man who saved a million lives”, and a most deserving and worthy subject, for Professor Frazer is a man who has achieved very significant things in the course of his life, significant things of benefit to humankind worldwide.

Hockey, on the other hand, has achieved two-fifths of fuck-all in his.

He whines, he whinges, he bellows and blusters, he nags and lectures and points his chubby little digits at those who do not live up to his lofty standards of Randian superiority, and he casts his thumbs to the ground like a gonorrhea-riddled Roman Emperor in a tunic shabby with grape-stains and flecks of tobacco, damning them to the lions. The sick, the aged, the disabled, the young, the unemployed, the disadvantaged, the poor, to purgatory with you, he hollers, “You do not please me. You do not show me the respect I so richly deserve, you do not shower me with attention and adoration, and if you will not prostrate yourself before me, if you do not submit to my decrees, I will grind you into this earth”.

Here, again from the biography, is Joeboy complaining to Rupert Murdoch that his “End of the Age of Entitlement” speech was not sufficiently lauded and endorsed by Murdoch’s rags and the crusty old fartleberries who “write” for them …

“The criticism was swift and fast, including from within his own party over the timing of his speech, and certainly sections of the media, including The Australian, which didn’t show the enthusiasm Joe expected. Later he ran into Rupert Murdoch. “I said, ‘What the hell is The Australian doing?’ He was appalled,” Joe says. But the speech also wrapped up a new image of Joe. He was now seen as a hard-head. Avuncular Joe was gone.”

To be replaced by a petulant, foot-stamping, ill-tempered child. With a sense of entitlement.

He talks of “crises”, of “emergencies”, all of it nothing more than fictions, bullshit dribbling from the mouth of this walking human cloaca.

“But what about the man behind the politician?”, the publisher’s blurb asks.

“Man”?

Good luck with that.

Joe Hockey is not a “man” in any sense but gender.

He’s just your average fuckwit, and a fuckwit far below average at that.

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