Diary August 9, 2019

Image result for clive palmer
Clive Palmer

BOOK LAUNCH IN SYDNEY, first day’s sales are brisk. I attribute this to Clive’s catchy title, ‘She Was Not too SHY about Regularly Rootin’: Tales From the Senate Floor.’ That, plus the disclaimer:

“This it is a complete work of fiction and has absolutely nothing to do whatsoever with Mr Palmer’s long-rumoured, after-dark ‘soirées’ with a certain ‘very fruity’ [Clive’s words] Greeny, which would be a complete and utter fabrication unless David Leyonhjelm wins his defamation case against her. (That is: Until then, we deny it completely.)

Litigation aside, we’re on course to make a mint. People question the wisdom of ghost writing for someone of such questionable character and I can only refer them to my last sentence.

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Posted in Clive Palmer, CPAC, David Leyonhjelm, Kristina Keneally | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Diary August 8, 2019

Image result for joh bjelke-petersen
Joh Bjelke-Petersen

MY SMS to the QLD Premier last Friday still remains unanswered. The one about all those Adani/Climate-change idiots wrecking Brisbane and why, oh why doesn’t she take a leaf out of the Hong Kong police’s book: tear-gas, followed-up by a brisk baton-charge and a savage beating? It would also give the tourists something exciting to watch because we all know just how boring Brisbane can be sometimes.

But I expect her refusal to act on this strategy has less to do with squeamishness than it has to do with the ‘look’ it would give her government before the upcoming state election.

Maybe when the Chinese finally decide to send the PLA into HK to massacre them all (as they did in Tiananmen in ’89) will Palaszczuk realise how far she is behind the times. Rivers of blood with corpses piling up on the streets are hallmarks of socialist governments – that’s why so many young people are now in favour of them.

Besides, one of her predecessors, Joh Bjelke-Petersen, would have set his pet Dobermans on them by now. If my memory serves me well (and it doesn’t), old Joh used to keep 200 odd of them on hand, half-starved, ready for use against ‘all those commie hooligans who are really asking for it’: Apartheid demonstrators, refugees (legit. and illegit.), trade-unionists, human-rights lawyers, and those he curiously used to describe as ‘big pooftahs.’

He was a strange man, old Joh. But effective.

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Diary August 7, 2019

Image result for jane caroJane Caro

BREAKFAST on the terrace in Coogee. Sun shining, surf pounding – beautiful morning, but Jane Caro’s recent tweet* weighs heavily on my mind. In it, as first revealed to her grandson and then via Twitter to an astonished world, is the answer to the mysterious disappearance of the dinosaurs from the earth. Caro’s theory: “… they all voted for Trump, Morrison and Johnson, and that was the end of them.”
My first thoughts were as follows.
1: What an Idiot. And then,
2: This is Nobel Prize material!

Afterall, if they can award the Nobel Prize to Obama for just being particularly black, surely, on the basis of this tweet alone, they can award it to someone for being particularly stupid?

A quick glance at Caro’s Wikipedia bio for supporting evidence. With entries like ‘feminist’, ‘social commentator’, ’emotionally-disturbed’, editor of Destroying the Joint: Why women have to change the world – there’s a shit-load of other idiocy right there. Just a few modifications to her dress-sense, I suggest, could help enhance her image. Appearing (say) from time to time, in public with a red bandana tied around her thick skull, and the prize would be a shoe-in.

* https://twitter.com/JaneCaro/status/1153837385748103168

 

Posted in Barack Obama, Boris Johnson, Donald Trump, Jane Caro, ScoMo, Scott Morrison | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Diary August 6, 2019

Image result for greta thunbergGreta Thunberg
“You’re all gonna die.”

WITH JUST under twelve years to go before we all die in the great climate-change holocaust, I decide it’s time to look more closely at this strange, Greta Thunberg phenomenon.

According to a sceptical Andrew Bolt, the 16 year old Swede is some sort of guru. An autistic, child savant who the world’s Greenies and other similarly disturbed people are worshipping as a climate-change prophet. But over on the ABC’s Media Watch last night the frothy-mouthed psycho who comperes it (Paul Barry) attacked Bolt’s caution about taking the weirdo Thunberg seriously. Barry then managed to somehow conflate her apocalyptic revelation with that of another famous young girl’s revelation at the Footy, that Adam Goodes is in fact a big ape.

Barry, if I understood him correctly, is adamant that the creepy ravings of a teenage mental-case about planet extinction in 12 years’ time are far more credible than a teenage Richmond footy-fan’s description of what was standing right in front of her at the time.  At least that’s the way it sounded to me.

Meantime, oblivious to all of this, the freaky-eyed Thunberg is sailing from Sweden on a £14 million yacht to address the UN. Whatever Green mumbo-jumbo she spouts when she gets there, we’re still going to have to wait 12 or so years to find out if she, like the footy-fan, was right on the money too. By which time, I suppose, we’ll all be smoke and ash and so it won’t matter much at all.

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“A Voice”

Anne Aly
“Plan B”

Is the likelihood that it will turn Australia into a complete shit-hole the reasons why Anne Aly supports this push for an indigenous ‘voice’ in Parliament so whole-heartedly? Finding herself still in Opposition, still unable to get her Muzzie blasphemy laws passed: is this Plan B in her grand scheme to really f**k this great country of ours?
Maybe. Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure it was her that I’d spotted in the crowd after my speech at  NAIDOC’s ‘Give Us a F*n’ Voice’ Conference in Brissy last weekend.

As the sole white-fellah amongst all those black-fellahs, I’d been politely invited to address the delegates with a typical f*n’ whitey’s (their words) take on the voice matter.

After the obligatory confessional (acknowledging my white guilt and all that unconscious racism shit), I just winged it. At the same time showing the utmost respect and admitting my deep ignorance of indigenous matters, I just waffled on, reciting some of the half-baked gibberish I’d read in The Guardian somewhere. Things like, “80,000 years… Dreamtime… Ancient custodians…  Rock-art… Squiggly lines all over the place… Didgeridoos… the famous ‘We was Happily Humping in our Humpies’ ditty… The Noble Savage… Bennelong: “Great-big, f*n’ funny-lookin’ f*n’ canoes in the f*n’ harbour all of a sudden. … Oh, Oh! – There goes the neighbourhood”… More squiggly lines: frantic squiggly lines…  Albo Namatjira… Chant of Billy Blacksmith… Blood, lots of blood… “Call that a knife…?” (Was that not one of you guys..???)… Let’s try spots, lots of spots… Ronny Possum’s masterpiece, ‘Wobbygong-Dick Soup Dreaming’*… More squiggly lines… Treaty… Muzzie Mundine…  Constitutional Recognition… And – Get the f*** off our f*n’ rock!” That sort of thing.

And then, my closing remarks – “If you ever get a parliamentary veto, all us white-fellahs are all gonna’ bugger off overseas to some place else.”) – were met with rapturous applause.

Making my way down from the rostrum, through the cheering delegates, shaking hands with my new-found friends, I thought I’d spotted Aly in the food area, standing over by the gluten-free ‘Mashed Goanna-Nuts Dreaming Pizza’ kiosk. Gesticulating excitedly, explaining something to someone who looked a lot like that Adam Goodes numbskull. Above the din I thought I heard her shouting something like “… silly war dance at the Footy… Spears’re useless. Try one of our custom-made ‘Good-bye Whitey, Hello Paradise’ belts… Much louder… Got a built-in timer…”
But when I looked again, the crowd had surged, and they were both gone. Nowhere to be seen.

Maybe like the rest of them here, I thought, I must be dreamin’.

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*Now hanging at the NGV

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Straw Poll


“Am I the only one who DOESN’T think I look like an idiot in this?”

Trump’s splendid call for AOC and the rest of her ‘squad’ to be sent back to the s**t-holes they came from was entirely rational, but I wonder if a similar call would gain any traction here?

The recent nation-wide straw poll of ScoMo’s ‘quiet Australians’, asking them whom they would most like to be immediately rid of, unsurprisingly resulted in a list of the usual suspects – the hateful “Doctor Death” Natale, the alleged author and revolutionary wannabee, Peter Fitzsimons, the treacherous Turnbull, Gillian “I’m not Senile” Triggs, Adam “I’m not Gay” Bandt, and Roz “I’m Not A Sick, Commie Pervert” Ward.  Problem is, many of them – rather inconveniently, were born here in the first place.

But what about that racist Tim Soutphommasane and that complete nincompoop Nick McKim, both of whom made it to the top five? Born, respectively, in the once great, but now present-day s**t-holes of France and the UK surely makes them qualify for immediate expulsion?

McKim, forever frothing at the mouth over refugees, was kicked out of PNG  last week for once again attempting to sneak onto Manus. This latest escapade will no doubt strengthen the government’s argument (currently being pursued in the courts) that he’s a total idiot, a danger to public safety and should be incarcerated forthwith. Hopefully,  a successful ruling will be followed by a persona non-grata court order demanding the rabid McKim’s deportation without delay.

The overwhelming desire to elevate  Yassmin Mad-Abdel-Magied and all her lunatic mates (“muzzies or otherwise”) to the top of the list of undesirables was not surprising. An entirely justifiable outcome, but one which unfortunately had to be overruled for practical reasons (fatwahs, beheadings etc). Instead, the 25 million-odd votes in favour of Yassie’s swift (but humane) despatch to her native Sudanese s**t-hole were defaulted to the runner up: a buffoon in a red bandana who, if his so-called ‘books’ are anything to go by, can barely write his own name.

Poll results on Peter Dutton’s desk by Tuesday.

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* Predictably not published in The Guardian.

Posted in Adam Bandt, Donald Trump, Manus Island, Nick McKim, Peter Dutton, Peter Fitzsimons, Richard "Dr Death" Natale, ScoMo, Scott Morrison, Sudan, Tim Soutphommasane, Yassmin Abdel-Magied | 1 Comment

Mad-Cow Disease


Elaine Benes

Despite what was reported in The Australian, Theresa May’s odd, freakish behaviour in Kenya was not an embarrassing attempt to endear herself by mimicking the local school children’s dance routines. Nor was it a concerted effort to surpass even Elaine Benes’ dance in its monumental stupidity (as later claimed by the Foreign Minister). It was, in fact, a clear case of Mad-Cow Disease.

It was Boris Johnson who first named it for what it was, and my chat later with the Kenyan High Commissioner here in Canberra only served to confirm it. Yes, said His Excellency, Boris is right, there was no question: May was clearly suffering from MCD – and a particularly virulent strain of it at that – and she should be put down as soon as possible. Failure to act immediately, he urged, was likely to result in another catastrophe of gigantic proportions, similar to what we witnessed with the very mad Merkel in Germany in 2015, and during Julia Gillard’s cruel reign of terror about a decade ago.

Digressing a little, His Excellency noted that the rampant outbreaks of African Swine Fever in Melbourne’s suburbs were totally unrelated to MCD, but taking similar action, shooting a few of the them anyway, could certainly help. But first, he said (misquoting Shakespeare): kill all their lawyers.

He then started to reminisce and ramble on a bit, recalling the good old days of the Mau-Mau uprising in the ‘50s, when they used to boil alive then eat some of the judiciary (as suggested by Queen Victoria a century earlier) to set an example if they didn’t hand out tough enough sentences. Castrating traitorous government officials and playing Twen’y-Twen’y cricket with their balls (also suggested by H.M.) was also very popular.

Unfortunately, I replied, such measures would be likely frowned upon by the highly-Commie electorate they seem to have down there in Victoria these days, though entirely welcome elsewhere. Besides, finding anyone in the Vic. government with their original goolies, let alone a Mr Johnson, would be just too difficult.

 

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Trump’s Deal Of The Century


President Trump

Sitting in a café off Burke Street, reading in The Oz about Trump’s proposal to remove the refugee status from 90% of the five and a half million Palestinian so-called ‘refugees’, just part of his Middle East ‘Deal of the Century’. Pondering the implications of it all, lo and behold, who should sit down at the table beside me, but Aussie author Randa Abdel-Fattah.

Abdel-Fattah is of course famous for such amusing books as ‘Does my Backside look Big In This Burqa?’, ‘No Sex In The City – At Least, Not For Us Muzzies!’ and ‘Ten Things Everyone Should Hate About Me’, has a First-Class Honours in Onanism* and holds fifty-seven PHDs in Islamophobia from the University of Melbourne.

Highly intelligent and allegedly well-educated, Abdel-Fattah is also of Egyptian-Palestinian extraction – perfect for a friendly, civilised discussion about Trump’s proposed move and its ramifications.

So I lean across, politely introduce myself with a smile, and affably ask her how Trump’s plan would affect ordinary people like me? For example, does she think that it would be reasonable for me, in my blog, to continue to denounce all Palestinians as nothing but a bunch of f**kin’ terrorists who the Israelis should bomb the f**k out of at regular intervals, and her answer, “You f***n’ #@!%^racist$@!*&%… etc.” (accompanied to the sound of smashing plates), prompts me instead to call up Fraser Anning – noted for his moderation in these matters – who says, yes, of course, it’s fine, perfectly reasonable to me. So there you have it.

Turning to the cryptic-crossword in the Oz back pages, and to the Nakba* clue. “Palestinian fairy-tale” doesn’t quite fit (though it should), but both “serves’emright” and “self-inflicted” do. Strange.

Then the latter (“self-inflicted”) tees up with the 8-down Master of the Universe clue (ans:“DonaldJTrump”), and all is good.

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*Onanism – (Google) Prerequisite qual. for Islamophobia PHD at Melbourne Uni.
**Nakba – (Google) 1948 Muslim holocaust hoax

Posted in Deal Of The Century, Donald Trump, Fraser Anning, Islamophobia, Nakba, Palestine, Palestinian Cult of Death, Randa abdel-fattah | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ta-Ta, Turnbull


Malcolm Turnbull

The Leftist media’s first reaction was to express their utter disbelief, followed by shock-horror then the predictable mental break-dowm. How could this be? Malcolm Turnbull –  ‘Our man in Canberra’, our mole, our annointed one – has been given the flick and some fascist, News Limited-backed jerk who worships God and coal (in that order) has taken his place.

What next?
After the outrage, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the hysteria and the standard temper-tantrums the Leftist media always throw when it doesn’t get what it demands, we can expect a long period of mourning accompanied by manic depression. At least I hope so. Whether it will finally all come to an end with them – virtue-signalling to the last – all throwing themselves off the nearest cliff in total despair is difficult to predict, so all I can do is recommend that it should at least be considered. (Notes to Michelle Guthrie, Lenore Taylor etc. have been sent accordingly).

Meantime, speculation to just how much of a lefty Turnbull was could be quickly gauged on the day of his ousting. Standing there before the microphones, in his cocky, patrician arrogance, apparently oblivious to the size-43 Conservative boot stuck up his arse, he fielded questions only from his adulating Lefty groupies, and them alone.

There was the steely, Stalinist-like Laura Tingle and then the not-unexpectedly drab Guardianista ‘murpharoo’ (Katherine Murphy’s Twitter handle). Murpharoo, Murpharoo and then Murpharoo again. But no questions allowed from right of centre.

If this wasn’t overt political favouritism, it could only be because a good bout of fellatio from some fawning, Lefty feminist interviewer was a likely outcome. At least, if his infamously gushing, eye-lid-flickering interview with Leigh Sales after ousting Abbott in 2015 was anything to go by. But given what was on offer on Friday, my guess is that politics was the governing factor. Or am I being too unkind to Tingle and Murphy here? (Probably)

Crucially, though, during his news conference, imagining (I gather) that it was just another narcissistic, self-admiration session in front of a mirror, Turnbull let slip the real nature of his tenure: ‘Progressive Liberalism’. If anyone had any doubt what was uppermost in Turnbull’s mind for the past 3 years (other than the abundant availability of admiring, positively gagging-for-it lefty journos like Sales), they need doubt no more.

Then followed the snivelling Shorten’s long, grovelling, rump-smoochin’ tribute to Turnbull. Really belling the cat, if it ever needed belling. Why else would this head Labor Party tosser publicly praise a fellow politico in such fawning, Lefty-feminist-like terms (hint, hint) if his political cause was not one and the same? The only other alternative explanation is just too disgusting to think about.

Ta-ta, Turnbull.

 

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Slow-Motion Train-Wreck


Lenore Taylor

Turnbull treasonous scorched-earth policy suggests that, contrary to what my blog supposed yesterday, the end might be not that nigh after all. What an absolute bummer. Shitville, even.

Having thrown one giant spanner in the works, in a shameless attempt to spike Dutton’s rise to PM – and virtually turning the party into one giant train-wreck in the process so as to ensure a Shorten victory – it’s difficult to add much more to what has already been said about Turnbull. Other than calling him a great big c**t (which I was saddened to see so many able people in the media fail in their duty to do), the English language has been pretty well exhausted on the matter.

Meantime, waiting to see if a spill actually occurs at midday today, the time has been spent in the most productive way possible: trolling the enemy. And it’s of course within the pages of Public Enemy No. 1 (The Guardian) where the most mileage is to be made.

The hysteria over the prospect of Dutton becoming PM dominates, with the article commentaries riddle by virtue-signalling SJW cry-babies having palpitations, grieving over boats being turned back,  self-immolating refugees and children stuck in Manus – and this man is ‘an absolute monster.’

And it’s kinda fun to sit back and laugh at them, occasionally adding replies like “Terrific, hey?” and “Isn’t it much better than having them, say, self-detonating in Pitt Street?”, or “But Peter Dutton’s brilliant, wouldn’t you agree you little wanker?”, or “It’s the likes of feather-brains like you who put them in there in the first place, feather-brain,” (which is a tautology, I know.)

By early morning I get tired of all of this and ring up editor Lenore Taylor again and scream, “Your writers are all total idiots and your rag’s a national disgrace – and when the f**k are you going to close down?” With the added clarification: “And, seeing I’m here, no, I’m not going to f***ing donate.”

But all I get is her voicemail saying “Unfortunately I am presently busy presiding over a total national disgrace of a rag, but if you are a total idiot writer wishing to contribute more total idiocy, we’re totally up to our necks in this kind of shit already. But seeing you’re here … (etc.) ”

Posted in Bill Shorten, Lenore Taylor, Malcolm Turnbull, Peter Dutton, The Guardian, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment