HANDS UP WHO WANTS TO READ ANOTHER FUCKING ARTICLE ABOUT THE FORMER (HOORAY!) SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE BRONWYN BLOODY BISHOP AND HER HELICOPTER HABIT BECAUSE I SURE AS SHIT DON’T

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.

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.

TALKIN’ SHIT ON THE TEE-VEE

“The ABC is out of control and must be reformed!”, howls Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on taste and restraint, and O! how he doth howl, often and most loudly. His frequent allies in this noble quest – from the mighty Gerard Henderson, to stout and doughty Piers Akerman, from the audacious Janet Albrechtsen to the staunch daring of Miranda Devine and beyond, gallants all – steadfast and true in their brave crusade. This fearlessly outspoken consortium of Brothers and Sisters in Adjectival Febrility remain unwavering in their pursuits and arrayed, united and opposed, to the multiple perfidies of progressive advocacy that have lodged deep within the bowels of the nation’s public broadcaster and must, now and forevermore, be purged.

Begin position …

The ABC has consistently and wilfully betrayed its charter and its key, core constituents, those men and women of Australia on whose behalf it is expected to serve, to educate and inform – the Common Man and Common Woman of this land, the working man and woman, the mother, the wife, the modest and the humble.

The ABC’s news and current affairs content, on all platforms, has revealed itself repeatedly, and over time, to be fatally biased toward a disruptively radical “left-wing” liberal-social agenda by embracing and promoting without question positions of extreme anti-capitalism, anti-industry, and anti-family agitprop, to name but a few, as the preferred, prevailing paradigms of our time.

The nation’s public broadcaster has arrogantly forsworn its clear responsibilities to this charter by engaging in, and encouraging, base rumours, confected smears, slurs and vile slanders against the government of the day and the current Australian Prime Minister in particular, and elevating such things to the status of “news”, which they are clearly not.

The established orthodoxies which have served as the foundation and bedrock stones of our nation, and the nation’s citizens since Federation, are sneeringly dismissed as merely the antediluvian obsessions of naïve bumpkins and yokels, their traditional values, mores and morality reduced to the stuff of parody and satire, and sheer common decency regarded as a joke out of fashion and out of time, a fetish for simple-minded fools.

End position.

Nothing is ever what it simply is, or of its times, according to these, and countless other diligent Media Hounds for Truth, Justice and Wanting Everything Their Own Fucking Way All The Time, but rather, each item of “news” and the manner in which it is presented must be assigned, by them, a context serving some underlying political, religious or social ideology, whether that context be deduced from a facial expression, a random turn of phrase, or the sandwich and coffee someone’s just had for lunch.

To their critics, the ABC charter is an unholy mash of Marxist screed and Gaian enviro-ganda, its intent and ambition to thwart our minds with the language of misunderstanding, to alter our perceptions with catastrophic visions of our futures, to blind us with science, to expose our most senior government members to ridicule and scorn, seed our minds with doubt and mistruths, and to arouse and pervert our desires just to prove we’re depraved.

It is not just an organisation, mostly a broadcaster of news with news in it, and occasional entertainments of widely disparate quality and interest, but a “movement” now, an ideological concentrate of pure “leftist” evil and irresponsibility, a grotesque malformation of orthodox mores and virtues, an amorphous accretion of base tumescence, smearing its fusty scent across all things decent, and of righteous virtue, upstanding temperance and unostentatious reserve.

The ABC’s latest vile crime against propriety and couth occurred on June 22^nd’s episode of “Q&A”, a program of negligible quality and import which usually comprises a bunch of heads talking at and over each other about the issues of the moment, mostly in what appears nothing more than frenetic pursuit of achieving “quip of the night”, or making a headline the next day for being the biggest dickhead on the show.

On this momentous occasion, a brief and tepid exchange of words between a dickhead in the audience and a government minister on the panel resulted in said dickhead having a “Who? Ya muvver?!” moment, tetchily saying the type of thing one would expect a dickhead to say, which was promptly ruled out of order by the show’s host, who then quickly wrapped up and called it a night.

“O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.”

“What side are you on?!” bellowed our Prime Minister in discombobulated outrage by way of response to this event, all a-flutter in his mind with choleric vapours, and, soon enough, his rallying cry was dutifully picked up and echoed through the august journals of the people and of the land, demanding action be taken, apologies issued, investigations launched and retribution sought to ensure that our ABC shall never again be taken hostage by such barbaric forces of pure evil, and that our nation’s citizens shall never again be subjected to such expressions of deviant tyranny on the national broadcaster at the expense of Team Australia.

Or dickheads saying stupid shit on the tee-vee.

“Pollies get away with spouting rubbish because we let them. If we as a society have the collective attention span of a gnat, and obsess more about who’s stabbing whom in the back on the reality programme du jour than the future of our country, we can’t complain if politicians talk down to us or treat us as mugs, and if the media reports name-calling as serious political news.” – Terry Barnes, The Guardian.

Never let it be said that the White Trash on Heat who currently comprise our body politic and their media cohorts won’t abandon all sense of perspective on a thing in a heartbeat in favour of inchoate squeals of beleaguered rage and protestation over trivialities to deflect any substantive discussion or debate about issues of actual import, those things that affect real people out here in the real world.

No, let us not be thinking, let alone speaking, of the wholesale trashing of industries, the destruction of jobs, the demonisation of the young, the criminalisation of unemployment, and of poverty that our government are so enthusiastically engaged in; let us not be thinking of the shattered cheekbones of battered women denied refuge because funding no longer allows it; let us not think of our abandonment of human rights, the tortures and travails we inflict on the confused minds and soft bodies of women and children fleeing foreign conflicts; let us not think of the desecration of our lands and environments when we can be thinking of the money to be made from them; let us think not on these, or any other such things when we can find lazy solace in the easily confected outrage of the righteous where reality exists solely as a means of fulfilling an ideological end, and if it does not, reality will be duly denied.

You can’t handle the truth.

So let’s make some shit up.

Beat those drums of terror, dance to the discordant rhythms of fear and of loathing, come comrades, sing songs of battle, of defeat and of glorious victory over our most loath’d enemies, for they are closer than we think, much closer, and they do walk among us, in stealth and in silence …

Attention-seeking trolls talking shit on the tee-vee.

“Nurse, pass me the rubber underpants. I’m spending the night under the bed.”

For fuck’s sake.

I 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 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 …

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 22^nd 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.

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.

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 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.