Beyond the soft palate

Tag: Bill Shorten



Andy Angry Pants Bolt is Angry.

Angry Andy, The Angryman, who can take any sunrise and sprinkle it with spew, is well and truly Angry today, Angry that his political party and government of choice, under the stewardship of Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull, went to an election, and sorta-kinda-maybe-maybe not fucked it up royally, leaving the country “damned”, “ungovernable”, and in a “catastrophic” state, Turnbull “destroyed” and “devastated”, “humiliated, “temperamentally unsuited” to leadership, a “disaster”, who had the temerity, the vicious temerity to treat people such as Angry Pants like “dirt”, “pathetic”, Malcolm don’t know how to play the game, he cheats, he lies, he makes Andy wanna cry, and if you wanna know what that sound is, darlin’, it’s the sound of his tears fallin’.

Who can take a rainbow, colour it with bile, soak it in a sewer and call it something vile, The Angryman can.

Veins popping, throbbing, and apoplectic with incandescent fury, Andy Angry Pants, Queen Bitch of Thundering Bluster and Bombast, imperious, delirious, and, forever true to his deform’d form, did rail and rage against the dying of the Right, and did issue a most stern ultimatum to its nemesis …


God’s blood, this bumptious kvetch has been pissing and moaning, whining and whingeing, screaming at mirrors and screeching at clouds, night and day, day and night, ever since Tony Abbott, Captain Clownshoes, was unceremoniously pissed off from his brief stint as Prime Minister for being an embarrassing fucking idiot, yet Andy’s longing for Tony has yet to quit, oh no, oh no, it follows wherever he goes, like the beat, beat, beat of the tom-tom, there’s oh such a hungry yearnin’ burnin’, and its torment won’t be through, there’s a voice within him keeps repeatin’, you, you, you.

“I’s tired of not havin’ me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we’s comin’ from or goin’ to, or why”, bewails Andy Angry Pants, in bitter lamentations of woe, dire prophecies of downfall and moral decay, but fear not Andy, the ranks of The Sore Losers Club hath swollen today …

Miranda Devine’s face don’t move no more, Piers Akerman’s lost his drool-bucket, Gerard Henderson has phoned Philip Nitschke on account Lifeline’s too busy to take his calls, Paul Sheehan’s back on the magic water, slumped in a gutter somewhere singing “Sweet Adeline”, wishing someone would give him a job so he could tell people what to think again, Alan Jones is retiring to write a Lonely Planet guide to the public toilets of London, Eric Abetz wishes his ol’ Uncle Otto were here to sort this shit out, Cory Bernardi’s locked himself in the bathroom again and you don’t wanna go there, and Lyle Shelton’s reading Ambrose Bierce and watching “Cruising”, thinkin’ ‘bout leather.

And Malcolm?

Malcolm Turnbull’s been musing (again) on why his mother left him when he was just a wee lad, and he’s only just now figured out the answer.



Today, Saturday, July 2nd, 2016 your presence is requested, nay, demanded at your local school, church or community hall, so that you may cast your vote to decide which Claw of Shitgibbons or Clutch of Thundercunts shall be “governing” this country for the next three years.

The winner, regardless of brand-name, shall be FEAR, the go-to squeeze-toy whoopee-cushion weapon of choice in Australian politics ever since John Howard told us of dark, foreign ghastlies throwing their children off boats, and Tim Fischer spun scary stories of blacks in the night claiming our backyards as sacred sites for ancient rituals and corroborees, the oppression/destruction of all manner of whitefella shit, barbecues and pool parties mostly.

Amongst the “winners”, but in a strictly Charlie Sheen sense, will be a minor straggling gaggle of so-called “True Blue” wrinkly dinkum Aussie cunts desperate to “reclaim” for themselves an Australia that never existed, and who have a tendency to squirt their pants, knock their knees, and suffer from strange ataxic paroxysms upon sighting any woman up the shops or down mill wearing a scarf. They may claim a Senate seat, make some ugly noises when and if they do, but once that’s all over and done with, they’ll be forgotten quicker than you can say Steve Fielding.

Another winner, unfortunately, and by virtue of nothing but the Donkey Vote, may be The Health Australia Party, which has nought to do with “health” and everything to do with providing a meeting place for whacked-out, crackpot conspiracy theorists who would like the right to refuse their children and yours vaccinations against diseases which may kill or disfigure them, want to remove fluoride from drinking water, and other crystal-rubbing, “djembe-banging in the forest” shit too tedious to type out here.

On a far more positive note, The Greens will do well, simply because the more the major parties and Murdoch’s media maggots rail against them, the more votes they attract, especially from men and women over the age of 18 and under 30 who, far more well-informed and media-savvy than political careerists and commentators give them credit for, prefer evidence-based facts to ideologically driven fictions.

This is the demographic oft forgot by the shitgibbons and thundercunts of mainstream political fuckwittery, the demographic who can’t be push-polled by pollsters because they don’t have landlines to answer. It’s the demographic who may very well be fed up to the fucking back teeth being bleated at by irrelevant numpties like Peta Credlin, told to work for four bucks an hour by Michaelia Cash and little inclined to cast their vote in accordance with the exhortations of print media editorials and commentary, if inclined to consume this form of media at all.

“Piss off Rupert, doddery old fuckmuppet, fuck off”, one might expect them to say, and justifiably so.

Young people do not vote Liberal and will not do so, unless of course they rich, privileged cunts, or are members of the Young Liberals, in which case their calendar of “things to do” would be full to brimming with items such as “Send dick pick to Sarah Hanson-Young”, “Call a gay candidate a faggot”, “Call a black candidate a nigger”, “Get a girl blind drunk and rape her in a toilet”, and then “Don’t forget to vote”.

Young Liberals invariably become Old Liberals, then sometimes they’re elected, and then they go well out of their way to prove how much better off we’d all be if their mothers had scraped, bagged and flushed them into the fucking toilet the moment they were conceived. For example, Liberal Party Senator Zed Seselja whose scummy activities (which he has apologised for, on behalf of his “volunteers”) have only just been bought to public attention by the Greens candidate for the ACT, Christina Hobbs

“Last night I was tweeted at by a young woman who was walking home past Senator Seselja’s office when she spotted his campaign mini van parked out the front with disturbing images of me and the Greens’ candidate for Fenner taped to the front dashboard with vile and sexist comments.

The comment attached to my image included the phrase that “I want a railing”, the word ‘railing’ being a term for violent sex, often associated with rape.

There is no way that the Senator can deny seeing these images, this is his campaign bus, parked outside his campaign office. Many of us have seen him getting in and out of this van over the past week and whether he was in the front seat or the back seat, these pictures stuck to the dashboard would have been hard to miss.

Throughout this campaign both me and my campaign team have put up with aggressive behaviour by a group of young men dressed in ‘Team Zed’ jackets being bused around who I understand are largely from interstate.

At a prepolling booth in Tuggeranong, two young women from another political party told me they felt ‘intimidated’ by around ten of these young men. I identified at least one of them as being a man who had heckled me about being pro-abortion at a community forum only a week earlier.”

Perhaps Zed will win. Perhaps he will lose. Either way, let us hope he gets hit by a fucking bus on his way to or from the polling booth tomorrow.

Other losers?

Barnaby Joyce. Please.

Malcolm Turnbull.


Labor. Minority government.

The Greens. The Arts Party. Nick XenophonThe Australian Sex Party. Tony Windsor.

Release your hounds.



The Financial Review‘s Laura Tingle at the “leaders debate” between Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull and Opposition leader Bill Shorten.

Photograph by Mike Bowers at The Guardian Australia. His Walkley Award is in the mail …



No matter how many tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of words have been written or spoken about this woman and her history of immoderate extravagance, there is no “sniff test”, no “pub test”, no context one need put it in, no perspective to be applied, there is only this, and always has been only this ….

“You spent $5000 bucks chartering a fucking helicopter to go a ninety minute car drive because you were late to a fete?  OH, DO FUCK OFF, YOU STUPID FUCKING CLOWN!”

If only that were the headline the first time, and for the few days after, we would not have had to endure the last three weeks of front page photographs and footage of the woman, looking like The Joker playing Cruella deVille in a bawdy vaudeville pantomime – “Bite your pillow Australia, I’M STRAPPIN’ ON AND GOIN’ IN DRY!”

“BOOOOOOO!” the audience respond and recoil in unison. Some even flee the theatre.

A few weeks before all these shenanigans, the host of ABC News Breakfast interviews former Liberal leader John Hewson on various things, and asks Hewson if he is disappointed, if he despairs, the current level of policy debate and discussion in politics, its lack of substance.

Hewson replies that he does, and that he has observed its slow and steady degradation over the past twenty years or so, and I think to myself, “Yes, I too have noticed”.

Not too long before this, Creepy Rupert’s stable of News Corp arse-rags were all a-flutter with excitement that Federal Opposition Leader, Mr Brown Paper-Bag, had been summoned before a Royal Commission into something-something unions and asked questions on matters nobody but they seemed to give a flying fuck about, a matter that has since incuriously and understandably disappeared from the news cycle to make way for all these  lurid tales of the aforementioned old bat Bronwyn and her ratty delusions of aristocratic grandeur.

And while Mr. Paper-Bag’s Royal Commission appearance provided the work experience folk at the Photoshop and Pun Departments of Rupert’s papers oodles of jolly good fun for a day or two, a rather subdued announcement was made at that same time that a whopping great open-cut coal mine is to be constructed on a food bowl, and I think to myself, “Are you fucking kidding me? Really?

Our Prime Minion also declared war on “wind” a while back, but unfortunately for the rest of us, the opening salvo in this war on wind would not consist of blowing his and Joe Hockey’s head off with an air rifle.

Nobody’s perfect.

Tony got the shits with windmills, and he’d like the rest of us to have the shits with them too.

Jesus H. Christ.

Imagine a run-down, dilapidated amusement park.

In that park is an out-of-control carousel, spinning and spinning and spinning, careening this way and then that, a kaleidoscopic frenzy of speed, tawdry colours and bright lights, and on that carousel are the cast of inmates from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, all of them drunk or off their medications and whooping it up something wild, hanging on to their horses for dear life, laughing, screaming, waving their arms, the organ music’s at max volume and it’s always out of tune.

Welcome to Australian politics.

Each day, it lurches from deliriously, impenetrably weird to full-blown shrill psychosis and back again; one moment it sits quietly in a corner cackling to itself in a warm puddle of its own pee, and the next it’s flinging it’s poo at anyone and everyone in  sight, barking at shadows, hollerin’ batshit crazy things at random passers-by, it’s where “Medication Time” never comes, never has and never will, for there are no pills for this.

Waleed Aly writes a column in Fairfax’s Sydney Morning Herald, observing …

“Labor refuses to prosecute a difficult argument. The Coalition cannot prosecute one without finding an enemy to prosecute along with it. But no one is inviting us into a civil exchange. Perhaps with our instant online outrage and shallowing media cycle we’re not the best guests. Sure, I’ll accept that. But politicians aren’t merely self-interested combatants. They’re custodians of our political culture. And on that score there’s a problem because it’s never been easier to win politically by destroying politics.”

Aly notes that “Our disillusionment with politics is now complete”.

When 70% of Australians polled think leaders of both major political parties are about as useful as a couple eunuchs in a flophouse; when only 8% of Australians get their news from traditional print media, and almost 50% of those do not trust that media; and when the influence of this media is so rapidly declining that its public persuasion factor is almost nil, one may be more inclined to think that it not so much disillusionment with politics, but outright contempt, and a large, sloppy return serve of it to those in government and media who regularly see fit to regard the Australian public with same.

As Rodney Tiffen noted in his Inside Story article from June …

“ … the main medium that picks up on the tabloids’ coverage is commercial talkback radio, which then amplifies the papers’ sense of outrage even further. It should be remembered, though, that their elderly listeners are quite similar to the readers of the tabloid newspapers. Together, the two media form a self-aggrandising and self-referential noise machine, and their volume and bluster should not be mistaken for outreach.”

Tiffen goes on to add …

” … there is an increasing sense of editorial desperation among the Murdoch papers as their commercial plight worsens. Like a one-trick pony, they try ever-bigger versions of the old sensationalist ploys. Politically, the result is even less willingness to report fairly on parties and views they don’t support. Where there was once a populist touch, now there is just a grinding predictability. Where there was once a profitable balance between sensationalism and credibility, now the confected outrage and the beat-ups rarely hit home.”

None of these trends and statistics come as any surprise, for they perfectly reflect my own attitudes toward politics as it is played today, and those in the media who “report” on it, and confirm that I am, most definitely, not alone.

Which begs the question – Who are these people writing for?

Themselves and each other.

And the politicians who still think we’re paying attention to what these alleged “influential” columnists and “opinion-makers” have to say.

As Hadas Gold and Michael Hirsh noted in Politico last year …

“The combination of hyper-polarization and social-media frenzy has created a situation where it seems every spin-meister’s message and TV ad is exaggerated to such absurd lengths that they’ve effectively become meaningless—especially because they’re addressing audiences that are either (a) already fully committed on one side or the other, a choir that doesn’t need preaching to or (b) such sophisticated users of social media that they just don’t buy the crap any more.”

Nobody need read an entire column by anyone in (as Tiffen describes them) “our media’s stable of largely interchangeable and wholly predictable columnists” to know which way they’re whistling and how goes the tune. The headline, the byline, a quick glance at content, reliably daffy keywords are guaranteed to crop up every time, repeatedly, like “leftist” (whatever the fuck that means), and you’re done.

Why bother?

I have often wondered of these so-called “commentators”, the likes of Paul Sheehan or Andrew Bolt or Janet Albrechtson, precisely who they think the fuck they are that their opinions are supposed to matter to anyone who’s not already going to agree with them on a thing, because those who don’t never will.

My opinion on a thing is not fed by the opinions on that thing of others, but by facts, reportage, statistics, peer-reviewed, certified, actual information. WHAT. WE. KNOW.

When Federal Employment Minister Eric Abetz writes a column for Fairfax Media all a-frettin’ and a’fearin’ on the certain moral delinquency that shall arise in the wake of marriage equality (should it ever come to pass), not only shall I not read it, I shall also be inclined to briefly despair at the state of a media whose dearth of talent is such these days, that it would choose to publish such shit.

Or when the likes of Rowan Dean are given space anywhere in a nation’s mainstream press media to air their simple-minded and insubstantive sniggerings, or former political parrots Amanda Vanstone or Peter Reith in The Sydney Morning Herald, and don’t even get me started on Maurice “You Can Call Me The Space Cowboy” Newman in the “The Australian”, not paying attention becomes mandatory.

When “the politics of policy” matters more than the policy to the players, when it becomes nothing but an unending bellowing ululation of frenzied irrationality and fear, when criticism becomes treason, when the tactics are always dirty and the umpire’s always on the make, the audience stop listening, the game is rigged and we know it, it’s a sting, a gyp, a monkeyshines hustle, we know when we’re being diddled and played for patsies and we just ain’t buyin’ this crap no more.

“The Abbott government’s failure to implement so many of its own pre-election promises has contributed to a perception of it as an inefficient government. It has also experienced some very public reversals and botches on policy, including the Medicare co-payment, delaying payments for unemployed young people, cuts to the age pension, race discrimination law, jobseekers applying for 40 jobs a month, deregulation of higher education, and Tony Abbott’s signature paid parental leave policy.” – Sally Young, The Sydney Morning Herald

We do not perceive these things in the context and perspective from which our politicians and their pimps and panders in the mainstream press would like us to, we perceive them in the context and perspectives of our lives as we live them, and as we know others do, and the perception has lead us, has led a great many,  to the conclusion that this government is shit, and there ain’t nothin’ no-one can do or say that will change that as long they continue to keep proving it to us every day by carrying like a pack of full-retard fuckwits.

Goodnight and good luck.

Rosss nervous breakldown small

The above image was auto-generated based upon Facebook information, and you can get your very own front page here. I must say when mine turned up, I did laugh. Aloud.


I read the news today, oh boy.

Bronwyn Bishop, Speaker of the House has admonished Gillian Triggs, President of the Human Rights Commission, saying “If you do wish to be a political participant, then you have to be no longer a statutory officer and stand for office”, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

I see Scott Morrison, former Minister for Immigration being interviewed on television, and he speaks of “on-water operational matters” in regards refugees and won’t answer a question, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

Somebody in the office has wished me “Good morning”, and inquires as to the going of my day, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, before muttering “F-f-f-f-f-f ….. Fine. Thanks”, in reply and moving on.

The Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey talks of housing affordability and good jobs for good people, but does it in such a way that has most everybody thinking, “For fuck’s sake”, and thinking it over and over and over again every time he speaks. Our Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, speaks disconcertingly of windmills he has witnessed, tilting portentously over the lands, ever-growing in number, and spreading all manner of wretched maladies and miasmic blights to rattle the minds of the countryfolk, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

Opposition Leader Bill Shorten is probably doing something somewhere right now that I’m not currently paying attention to, but if I were, I’d probably think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

A sausage roll and an orange juice for lunch has cost me eight bucks fifty, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, I can remember when they were about a buck each back in the day.

Watching ABC TV’s “The Drum” a couple days ago, and Rowan Dean is on the panel again, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”, a little bit louder now, just a little bit louder, and then there’s a snippet from an interview with current Immigration Minister Peter Dutton coming up, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”, and lunge for the remote control so I can hit the mute button, and then I get up and go to the fridge for a glass of wine, and I find myself looking at the dirty dishes in the sink and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake” before sitting back down, and hoping Peter Dutton has fucked off, but he hasn’t, so I light a cigarette and wonder if I should listen to some music instead.

A schooner of James Squire ale at my local pub costs $7.60, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, I could buy a bottle of wine for that, but I pay it anyway, and I’ll pay it again, and again, because, well, for fuck’s sake, these are drinkin’ times, hard-drinkin’ times, and a man could go crazy thinking on this stuff, all this stuff they sayin’ and doin’ that don’t make no lick ‘o’ sense, an’ I don’ wanna be no crazy ol’ man mutterin’ at walls an’ yellin’ at fenceposts and pickin’ fights with squirrels.

No sir, I don’t.

Maybe Gerard Henderson will be on ABC’s “Insiders” again this Sunday.



Since 1972, when I was thirteen years old, I have observed Prime Ministers from the late Gough Whitlam through Paul Keating through to the shambolic dysfunction and shrill, shrieking chaos of the Rudd-Gillard-Rudd years, but of the current incumbent, Tony Abbott, I have now come to the sad, but somewhat predictable, one could say inevitable, conclusion that Our Prime Minister’s Brain Is Missing.

In its place, an organ of purely intuitive compulsion, which, when prodded or stroked, no matter how strongly or gently, spawns an instantaneous stream of insensate gibberish, his words like spores from a brooding coral, jerkingly spat into the wider atmosphere layering everything beneath it with a thin, cream layer of oozing slime which, rather than reproduce, suffocates and destroys all that lay before it.

This organ, if it were donated to science, would probably reveal itself to comprise something resembling a lone, mushy pea atop a small, grey ball of gnarly gristle.

Our Prime Idiot of Team Australia, the Proud and Defiant Captain Courageous at the helm of the HMAS Cretinism, is revealed (again) to be but a simple-celled base organism whose incurious mind, absence of intellect, intelligence, understanding or empathy, has once more caused him to beach firmly on the scummy bog of the sandbar, the tide is out, and it must be coming up almost 18 months now, and the poor batty pillock still hasn’t managed to pull out of the fucking harbor.

Threatened by the mere whiff of criticism, it sniffs at the air, senses only danger from enemies both seen and unseen, and it sprays its territory with involuntary squirts of poisoned perfumed panic, proceeds to snarl at shadows, and lunges in for the kill, a-hollerin’ and a-bellowin’ and full of piss ‘n’ vinegar, a Warner Bros. cartoon hybrid of Yosemite Sam, The Tasmanian Devil and Marvin the Martian, spinning, shouting and blowing shit up just for the fun of it.

One of the latest grains of sand that has lodged itself in the bony arse-crack of Our Dear Leader has been thoughtfully provided by the kind folk and gentle people of the United Nations who have had less than praiseworthy things to say about Australia’s treatment of refugees … oh, pardon me – ILLEGAL, QUEUE-JUMPING, ECONOMICALLY OPPORTUNISTIC, BABY-DROWNING, MOTHER-FUCKING, BOMB-THROWING, SPEAR-CHUCKING, KEBAB-MUNCHING SAND-NIGGERS FROM TERRORSTANOVSKLOVIA FUCK OFF WE’RE FULL IF YOU DON’T LOVE IT LEAVE IT YOU BUNCHA DARKIE CUNTS LEAVE OUR VEGEMITE ALONE! – and Tony has ever-so-maturely responded by saying “Australians are sick of being lectured by the United Nations”, which essentially, boiled down to basics, means “Fuck off”. I do not recall having ever been “lectured” by the United Nations about anything, but perhaps my invitation got lost in the mail. Tony’s spastic jerk-spit of the dummy has drawn a response from the United Nations’ Special Rapporteur, Juan Mendez, which one could easily summarise as a rather surprised and somewhat forlorn, “Really?

I do suppose the Prime Minister’s swaggering pose of macho bluster shall go down well with the tabloid-reading, Andrew Bolt loving, foreigner-afearin’ folk out there in Fuckyomama Flats – here’s a shout-out to the Rattail family, onya Jethro, Sheila, how’re the kids? – but speaking purely for myself, as I can speak for no others and will not claim to, I find it fucking embarrassing.

“Sick of being lectured?”

Oh my, it is to laugh.

I am sick of forever being lectured by the political classes that I do not, and have not, and the same goes for you all, worked hard enough, and we should all work harder, and for longer and for less. For much, much less. Because we’re shit.

I am sick of forever hearing the political classes speak of the aged and the elderly as a challenge that must be conquered, a problem for which there must be found a solution, a burden to be offloaded.

I am sick of the endless assaults upon the hard-working men and women at the frontlines of our essential public services – the nurse who wakes you at 4.00am in the morning to change your drip and hand out the painkillers, the cops and the medics who are called to attend an incident at a ramshackle and run-down fibro-house in Shitsville where the walls are stuffed with crack and needles and trash litter the floor and a guy on a four-day ice binge has just shot a hole through his girlfriend’s vagina and the face off his twelve-month old son – and these men and women should accede to lower wages, no penalty rates, and fewer entitlements because … it’s for the good of the fucking country, you know? Suck it up, boys and girls and DO. YOUR. DUTY.

I am sick of the hollow-words and fraught handwringing from the political classes about the plights of the underprivileged, the bruised and the battered, the broken, the spent souls of violent struggle, oppression and abuse, the ones with their shoes full of blood, minds destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, and how we, as a nation, should do more to alleviate their circumstances by the provision of services, whilst at the same time, existing services are defunded, terminated, ripped, shredded and torn into non-existence.

I am sick of being expected to take people like Peter Dutton seriously. Or Christopher Pyne. Or Joe Hockey.

Or Bill Shorten.

I am sick of listening to the political classes dismiss science as an irrelevance, climate change as a “cult”, and who will then bleat to us, all doe-eyed with modest sincerity, about their devotion to a religious “faith”, a “faith” which preaches tolerance, charity and understanding, whilst at the same time they give the impression they’d willingly fuck a baby in the arse with the blunt end of a Coke bottle for a buck or a vote or a happy headline and hearty endorsement from their media brethren.

I am sick of being part of nation where 60% of the population think asylum seekers should be treated far more harshly than they already are (perhaps beaten to death with an ivory pick-axe and their corpses delivered into a pit and covered with cow excrement), and where a Government willingly obliges by further institutionalising obscene rites of torture, dismissing as fantasies tales of sexual abuse and physical assault, dismissing as exaggerated claims of grievous mental illness, deprivation, neglect, and all for no other reason than to prove a pathetic political point … “We’re tough.”

So thinks the average 14 year old adolescent psychopath getting its “don’t fuck with me” kicks from dousing kittens with hydrochloric acid.

I am sick of a loutish and boorish, thuggish pig of a Prime Minister who persists with the nescient delusion that poverty, homelessness, drug abuse, sexual abuse, and those born to, and who remain in remote communities because it is their culture, their environment, their land, is somehow evidence of a “lifestyle choice” being freely made.

As for the United Nations, they have produced a report, a report about which we will do nothing, and are obliged to do nothing, perhaps we will shrug sheepishly and say, “Yeah …. but, but, awwwwww”, but it is not exactly as if we are all about to be beaten about our heads with a wooden spoon and sent off to bed without our supper.

I am sick.

Sick of all this.

And of much, much more.

Mostly, I am sick of Tony Abbott.

And Bill Shorten.

Look what you’ve made me do …




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”.


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.


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.


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?



Kohle Ist Brot!


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


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?


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.


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


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

Engagement is not an option.

Drugs? Perhaps.


*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”.