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 Corps’ Greg 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.
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.
SMELLY TONGUES 