Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Greetings from electronic graffiti land ...

(Above: some samples of electronic graffiti).

The pond is furious, alienated, disturbed, unhappy, melancholy ...

This year there was a simple plan. Drop in occasionally on the merry mirth-making of the Abbott government, laugh a little at conservative commentators, mention the occasional actual issue like climate science, and celebrate the ongoing presence of Tony the Rabbit, fearless leader and remorseless clod hopper.

Instead what happens?

Cruel stories about the impending demise of the hapless Abbott.

Oh fickle pundits. What of the pond? Whither its future? What of the cartoonists? What will they do? Bill "zinger" Shorten is remorselessly dull. Isn't the ruination of the Australian health and higher education system - and perhaps the planet thanks to climate change - a small price to pay for the daily sending in of the clowns to perform pratfalls and slapstick gags of the first water?

Even worse, what's the point of the pond trying to say something about this political Punch when there are all sorts of conservative Judys lining up to give the doofus a sharp knock on the noggin?

Is the pond just going to become a reprint machine, recycling petty abuse like the Oz editorialist, who seems to have forgotten to take the daily dose of the kool aid:

Tone deaf, high handed? They've only just realised?

And shame on shame, there was the chief worshipper in the temple, the forelock tugger supreme, the class abaser of the class, forsaking and foreswearing his idol:

But it didn't end there. The reptiles were in a kind of collective uproar, a raging of bison and buffalo:

Perhaps even worse was the way that the artless Abbott had denigrated social media.

You see, many of the reptiles are addicted to this sordid, secret, furtive, wicked vice, and they weren't happy.

Yes, the wretches had been indulging in a fine flurry of tweets and twitterings and the re-tweeting of twittish tweets:

Say what?

Et tu Chris Kenny?

Of course Kenny had to spend an equal amount of time berating knobs and lefties for agreeing with him, but who can stand in the way of a man who would have been in court every second day with Charlie Hebdo trying to score some cheap defamation dollars ...?

Anyway, by this time, the pond had given up. Everybody was doing it:

They all seemed to congregate under the hashtag joke knighthood.

And then there were the cartoonists.

What's that you say?

Today there are serious hypocrisies to be considered, as exemplified in Cathy Wilcox's cartoon?

What's that you say?

Today the CSIRO released a report containing news in relation to climate science?

The first update since 2007?

Noted in Fairfax here, but just a drop in a warming ocean up against the flood of reports about antsy Abbott's knightmare.

Oh sure you can head off to the CSIRO here to get updates, or you can head off to BOM here.

But what would be the point?

There's a climate denialist in charge of the government and the best he can do is hand out gongs to the likes of Phil the Greek, as rara an avis  example of distinguished Australianus as might be found, while that prime futtock Greg Hunt goes about hunting for walri and facts on Wikipedia.

Who knows what's happening in Queensland? Who cares? Just google it.

After all, we're all entranced by the doofus.

Ah well, you know where to find the cartoonists. At least they're still having fun, while the pond is reduced to being a recycling bin for angry, outraged members of the commentariat, as weird a turning as a flock of starlings trying out for a role in The Shining.

David Rowe is here, and the Fairfax mob are all here.

What's left, but to join in? Recycle the jokes, add to the electronic graffiti ...

Monday, January 26, 2015

Greetings earthlings and colonials ...

Because you can never have enough gongs ...

Beyond the valley of the gongs, and into the valley of the cringe ... and whatever you do, have no shame ...

Don't even begin to think how astonishingly bizarre that on Australia day the Prime Minister wastes a gong on Phil the Greek, professional consort ...

There's a breathless hush in Canberra tonight
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light
An hour to play and the last man in
And it's just for the sake of an even more ribboned coat
And the selfish hope of a season's fame as a knight maker to kings and queens
So his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
Play up! Play up! Play the game and get another gong ...

Already the snickering and the sniggering has begun, with the twitter and the tweets, as the tone deaf one struts his parochial stage (a few sample tweets at Fairfax here):

It's the hubbie factor ... and don't you worry about the lack of Dames ... because there's nothing like a Dame ...

Yes, Phil the Greek way back in 1947 was created a Knight of the Order of the Garter (please don't worry about the garter), and in April 1952 the Queen created the Duke of Edinburgh a Knight of the Thistle and so on and endlessly so fawning forth, as you can read on his honours page here, until the fawning ponce from down under awarded him another useless gong ...

So what say the Royalists? Where do they stand? Are they celebrating and dancing in the streets that the man that carries more gongs than once thought humanly possible has been gonged again ...?

What's this, just in from David Flint?

Hang on, hang on, that's just a tirade of abuse directed at Campbell Newman for suing that dinkum little Aussie battler, Alan Jones, and a good mate of Flintey, and it seems Rabmling Strewthman's on the nose with everyone in the deep south these days ...

Lordy, lordy, how the world spins and turns and weaves and dodges, and what strange alliances these weird, alien, difficult times breed.

Now let's have some insightful, really super duper commentary:

Oh FFS ... here you go:

Get around behind Paulie ...

Yes it's yet another meandering column from Sheehan, now clearly in his dotage as he dribbles over dogs ...

And you know what, in an uncanny way, Sheehan echoes the sort of parochial, yearning for the home counties sort of nonsense exemplified by the PM:

I would vote for a border collie on the coat of arms.

That's right, a bloody working dog from the Anglo-Scottish border region (link designed to help Greg Hunt and Campbell Newman).

Give the man a bloody gong for prime lickspittle on colonial day down under ... he couldn't even manage to nominate a dinkum Australian cattle dog for the coat of arms ... here you go Greg Hunt and Campbell Newman ...

It's going to be that sort of day ... useless eastern suburbs of Sydney types ranting about which is the best tweed to wear ...

Australia, you might well be standing in it ...

Oh the cartoonists will be eating out on all this for days to come, and meanwhile First Dog got in a little early, and more First Dog here.

Yep, even First Dog couldn't pick the monstrous absurdity coming our way ...

Sunday, January 25, 2015

In which the pond attempts to celebrate and rejoice and protect and embrace that most precious thing, Akker Dakker ...

They all come out at this time of the year, with their preening pomposity and their jingoistic, flag-waving patriotism and as you'd expect, Akker Dakker is at the head of the queue:

The pond is always unnerved by the sort of photos the Daily Terror uses to promote their star rightwing ranting and raving ratbag.

They always remind the pond of others in the grip of a smirk and delusions of grandeur.

Poor Bunter, how the pond routinely defames you ...

Never mind, the point of the game when reading Akker Dakker is to work out how far down the path the toughest, the most resilient reader can get, before they cry out "Red Rover" or "Pax Romana", and gives the game away.

Some faint hearts might have already given up at the point that Akker Dakker embraced that joyless dirge, I Am Australian, with its faux resemblance to an Omo commercial (or was it for Qantas, so hard to remember?).

What? Only at the second par, you faint-hearted jellyfish, and you cry "hold, enough"?

Well sterner folk will press on, to see how far they can get, and be damned to them that yield:

Now tell the truth.

Did you stop at the moment when Akker Dakker press-ganged together multiculturalists and multinationalists in a way that showed incoherence and paranoia?

Did you flinch when Akker Dakker donned the aluminium hat about international treaties, which would, it seems to the pond, make that Treaty of Versailles, done with that nasty gang of Kaiser lovers, a wretched example of a country's independent sovereignty being eroded?

How about the obligatory knee jerk wheeling out of the politically correct, when Akker Dakker has just done his best to set the fangs into half the country?

Did you manage to get past that bit about the English flag? And the bit about challenging the pesky blacks?

Were you bemused by the way Akker Dakker seems to think that the Southern Cross has been in the skies since the Big Bang began? Did you worry about the science?

Did you marvel at the "never apologise, never retreat, never surrender, never say you're sorry, just kick 'em in the balls" hearty masculinity that bestrides the portly warrior?

Surely some must have gagged at the awesome stench of hypocrisy when Ming the Merciless was wheeled out to celebrate scientific researchers and discoverers, this from a climate denialist always rabid in supporting a climate denialist government engaged in a slash and burn approach to the CSIRO, the after effects of which will resonate for decades ...

How about the luddite bit about social media, and the emptiness of the internet, and all the other existential twaddle better suited to a French philosopher, or perhaps a novel by Michel Houellebecq (oh wait maybe he's just Francophobic, outside the New Yorker paywall for the moment)?

Is just a classic example of a luddite trashing a whole world of science - the transmission of ideas to billions of people, along with the social pleasures to be found?

Perhaps it's designed to provide yet another reason for the current government to make a total hash of the NBN ...

Forget the hypocrisy of Akker Dakker adding to the soulless alienation abroad on the internet by allowing his twaddle to be broadcast on it, and instead marvel at the way the Daily Terror could - in an attempt at click baiting - publish "26 odd things about Australia" in which this item came up last, but not least:

What, you want the pond to reward the click baiting with a link?

And just what are you doing on this empty, soulless meaningless internet? Haven't you done the decent thing and shot yourself, or at least subscribed to a Murdochian publication to keep them in the lifestyle they once had and loved? You know, lifting a decent glass of red after a hard day pounding at the keyboard of prejudice and bile ...

But look, by now, we're getting down to the real heroes.

Anyone who's got the point of reading about leaners growing flabby - from a flabby man occasionally leaning on a keyboard - are real lifters, with real muscles. Treat yourself to a hit of cocaine, and remember to grow sanctimonious and righteous as you grow older ...

And there you go, if you actually reached the end, you'll have seen that the United Nations is dominated by totalitarian states and tinpot dictatorships, and so you have final word on the permanent members of the UN Security Council.

Yes, China, France, the Russian Federation, the United Kingdom and the United States, we're all tired of your totalitarian, tinpot ways. Akker Dakker has spoken, or at least scribbled, like a forlorn wandering spider caught out by an inkwell ... and as for Australia briefly sitting in that lustrous group, say no more ....

Now sadly the pond has to report that there are cynics amongst us, of the kind that Akker Dakker so nobly and valiantly predicted, and they could be found in the first cab off the rank in the comments section:

Hmm, Rene ... kinda funny sounding name, isn't it? Not like "Piers" ...

Never mind, to anyone who's made it this far, you're the sort of muscled lifter this country needs ... so as the pond catches up with a backlog of lifters, here's a couple of Moir cartoons (and more Moir here).

A good year for uglification and derision ...

(Above: the Currish Snail in top hero worship form this Sunday. Sorry, the pond provides no anti-nausea tablets and while regretting any induced nausea, disclaims any responsibility or liability, as these belong solely to the lickspittle editorial team at the Currish Snail).

While ensconced in RPA, the pond had the bizarre experience of listening to a full broadcast by Alan Jones, on matters relating to the Queensland election ...

The pond had never actually heard Jones before - taxi drivers were routinely asked to switch to anything else on the radio - yet here was Jones lashing out at Newman, accusing him of lying on various matters, and using a reader's letter to explain that no, he wasn't a card-carrying member of the ALP. (As if anyone wondered ...)

And since then, the war with Newman has gone from the absurd to the surreal, with Newman resorting to the coward's castle of a legal action for defamation.

Others have jumped into the fray, notably that prime fuckwit Derryn Hunch, who called Jones a bitter old queen ... while using the old trick of explaining how some of his best friends in the theatre-ah were gay.

But then the human headline has never had much of a tonal clue, just an ego always in attention-seeking mode. There are many other ways to abuse Jones - the pond has deployed more than its fair share - but traducing queens in general is a typical gambit available only to bogan fuckwits.

As for the rest of the Queensland campaign, Newman has shown all the desperation, style and grace of a cornered rat, which is why he must be grateful for the sort of hagiography routinely offered by the Murdochians.

You have to go elsewhere for the ongoing comedy:

The Queensland Greg Hunt!

Yes you can Graudian the story here, but here's the punchline:

Asked if he had any specific evidence, Newman responded: “I can say it again if you like.” 
“You’ve got a smartphone there right now, try it, try Googling CFMEU bikie links and see what comes up. There’s a report when I looked at that by an ABC journalist reporting on a senior Victorian police officer talking about the infiltration of the CFMEU and the linkages between the bikies,” he said.

Google it! Google the evidence!

What's worse, the pond suspects that Newman is such a dropkick, he doesn't even begin to understand his ineffable stupidity.

Not to mention that this sort of cheap, idle smear comes from a man who carries on the finest traditions of the Joh Bjelke-Petersen era ...

Who knows if the magician's art of distraction will work, but it's fair to say that Queenslanders will no doubt end up with the government they deserve ...

Meanwhile, the pond also missed out on much fun in the federal sphere.

Only now, after days devoted to catching up on reading, does it seem that Abbott has been judged a terminal case, and for the next year, the crows of the press will keep picking at the carcass.

The pond can't begin to count the number of pieces discussing the terminal state of the government, such as Paula Matthewson's Signs of mutiny on the Good Ship Abbott, and Voters forgive leadership change, but not disunity.

There are any numbers of questions to be asked, most notably how long Peta Credlin will last, what sort of crisis will precipitate Abbott's final stand, when will 'counting the numbers' become a daily news item, and who will put up their hand, and have a realistic chance of making the coup happen?

Alternatively Abbott might stagger on to the next election, get a trouncing and be evicted, or stagger into a new term with much reduced numbers, with Abbott voted down at the first meeting of the sore, sorry and bruised victims of his negativity ...

No matter how it happens, it guarantees a fine year of fun for political junkies, and whatever happens, Abbott is on the irretrievable slide that sees political peacocks turn into tomorrow's feather dusters.

Everything Abbott now does is tainted, which is why as soon as the federal government announced that it was going to hold an inquiry into industrial relations, the first response of many disbelieving readers was that they were going to have a go at the minimum wage.

In that sort of context, the triumphalism of the reptiles at the lizard Oz is exactly the sort of response the government didn't need:

Time to bust workplace myths?

Put it another way. Time for the Murdochian harlots and prostitutes to spend another day dying on their knees working for the man, rather than standing free on their feet ...

It's wonderfully ironic, because the Abbott government, courtesy of this inquiry, has posted another letter bomb to itself, with the results due in good time for the next election.

And so the rustlings and murmurs grow louder, and more and more revolve around Abbott.

You'd expect the Fairfaxians to run with things like G20 bill still rising as Tony Abbott accused of hollow words, and Abbott government appointments to Australian Multicultural Council come under fire, and the quiet desperation on view in PM's courting of back bench 'a planned move':

Concerned Liberals will welcome a clearer enunciation of policy goals, but Mr Abbott's decision to list his best cabinet performers, while leaving out his Treasurer, is likely to raise eyebrows, given the central role of economic policy in the government's story. 

One long-serving Liberal said it was "pretty obvious" that voters did not like Mr Abbott and were "waiting with baseball bats" for the chance to vote against him. 
The MP, who has not spoken before on this subject, cited a recent Morgan opinion poll showing just 14 per cent of voters nominated Mr Abbott as preferred prime minister, behind the most favoured Mr Turnbull and then Ms Bishop. 
"That's worse than any prime minister in 20 years, including Paul Keating, Julia Gillard, and Kevin Rudd," the MP said, before adding, "Gillard did not get that low at any point. 
"Even among committed Liberal voters, Tony's support is just 30 per cent. Fundamentally, they don't like him," the MP said.

It's not just that they don't like him, they don't trust him, and so now every policy initiative is looked at through glasses coated with a lavish layer of scepticism, doubt and fear ...

Even the reptiles are starting to murmur, and some are sounding as left-wing as Alan Jones (who'd have thought anyone could type those words?).

Cue that dangerous leftie Peter van Onselen. Take a look at the illustration, the meme of the joker in the pack of cards, and then contemplate the rest of van Onselen's analysis (click to enlarge each of the segments below as required):

The sort of comments you'd expect from a low-ranking backbencher, not a newly minted prime minister

Now let's do a word count:

Cheap politics, irony, in a quagmire of his own making, broken promises, squibbing the task, looking decidedly messy ...

Does it get any better?

Nope, it's got worse,  with open laughter and derision. 

What sort of class is van Onselen running?

The Mock Turtle went on. “We had the best of educations . . . Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with, and then the different branches of Arithmetic — Ambition, Distraction, and Derision.” 
“I never heard of Uglification,” Alice ventured to say. “What is it?” 
The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. “Never heard of uglifying!” it exclaimed. “You know what to beautify is, I suppose?” 
“Yes,” said Alice, doubtfully: it means—to—make—anything—prettier.” 
“Well, then,” the Gryphon went on, “if you don't know what to uglify is, you are a simpleton.”

Yep, it's looking like a fine year for uglification and derision, and with a bit of luck, the pond will be around to see the final curtain.

It's bizarre, of course, that van Onselen is only now discovering that Abbott is being mocked, a veritable mock turtle. 

But what he means to say is that now Abbott is being more generally mocked, by his own back benchers, by his rivals, and not just by lefties and greenies, but even, oh how could it get so far and so terminal, by scribblers even in the lizard Oz.

But why wouldn't you mock this mob? From Joe Hockey carrying on about 150 year olds, to Campbell Newman flailing about while the ghost of Abbott hangs in the air like a pale shroud, or a fiery fireball, every day is a circus, or perhaps a game of five hundred, where it's always open misere and the joker somehow ended up in the hand....

While away, the pond missed most of all the political cartoonists, and so to a celebration of the return of David Rowe, and as always more Rowe here:

A personal note ...

(Above: a year dedicated to sun, surf, exercise and good health, the photo and the Twitter source).

The pond has had near death experiences before, having been pronounced dead on the operating table at the tender age of eleven.

In those days, the pond's mother determined that it was her prayers, and direct intervention with the deity that secured a reprieve, though in later years, she began to brood about just why She had decided to afflict the pond with burst appendix in the first place, so provoking the need for prayers. What a tricky way to induce worshipful activity.

Anyhoo, as they say in Tamworth, that time it happened while the pond was under a general anaesthetic, so who knew what was going down, but thereafter each day tended to be a bonus.

This time around the pond was fully conscious, and what's more watching the first episode of Black Mirror, a largely ignored set of one-offs made by Charlie Brooker for Channel 4 in 2011.

The pond had been astonished to read - in The New Yorker's TV pages, by esteemed if slightly batty Emily Nussbaum - this introduction, with more here, currently outside the paywall:

An update on “The Twilight Zone” for the digital age, “Black Mirror,” a dystopian drama created by Charlie Brooker for Britain’s Channel 4, has a swagger to its strangeness, a swallow-the-red-pill, anything-can-happen audacity. For a full day after watching the first episode (which I obtained through occult means, before Netflix made the show available to U.S. viewers), I felt disoriented, dropped on a new planet.

Occult means? Even in The New Yorker they know the necromantic art of the Torrent?

And boldly dare to mention it, even if in vaguely encrypted VPN style?

Disoriented, dropped on a new planet?

Well yes, indeed, because half way through the first show - incidentally by far and away the best of the series, with the rest disappointingly fair average science fiction of a peculiar English kind - the pond was being whisked away to the Royal Prince Alfred, which luckily is only ten minutes away from home.

The pond has subsequently caught up on the full episode which is very funny, in a House of Cards way, if you can substitute an image of Tony Blair or Tony Abbott for the main character. 

To quote Nussbaum again:

There has been a divisive response to the show’s first episode, “The National Anthem,” which a few viewers called, to use the worst yet most appropriate word, “ham-handed.” The plot is simple. A beloved British princess is kidnapped. The Prime Minister is woken up in the middle of the night and shown a ransom video. “What do they want?” he asks, bleary, still in his bathrobe. “Money? Release a jihadi?” After some throat-clearing, his aides hit Play. “At 4 P.M. this afternoon, Prime Minister Michael Callow must appear on live British television, on all networks, terrestrial and satellites,” the princess says, weeping as she reads the statement. “And have full, unsimulated sexual intercourse with a pig.”

Indeed. Nothing like fucking a pig for a little fun.

And the punchline (spoiler alert) is that the caper is the work of a Turner prize winner, and the deed (which has wrinkles not revealed here) is pronounced the first great art work of the twenty first century, and there lurking in the background as part of the decor during the climax to the show is the Tate Modern ...

Meanwhile, the pond was enjoying the facilities of the RPA, which, if they hadn't been to hand, would have seen the pond shouting at She for being such a poor fucking designer of things ...

It goes without saying that the pond is deeply indebted to the staff of the RPA - pity those who suffer a different fate because they're caught a long way away from the southern hemisphere's greatest teaching hospital. Oh okay, the pond has never been in the emergency ward of hospitals in South America or Africa, or for that matter anywhere else in Australia - hey, call it Stockholm syndrome if you will - but that's the way the pond felt at the time ...

It makes the pond even more irritated by the Abbott government's determination to destroy Australia's health care system, or at least to make it unaffordable to riff raff like the pond ...

Well, the pond survived, thanks to the prompt attention of the good folk at the RPA, though whether the health system in particular or Australia in general will survive the Abbott government is a matter for ongoing speculation.

As a result of the trauma, there will be a change in the pond's activities, not so much because of a long term mystical considerations but mainly through short term practicalities.

After the trauma, comes the therapy and the adjustments, and accordingly there won't be daily morning postings at the pond for some time to come. Instead, things will be intermittent and done when time and life allows ...

Many thanks to all those who posted comments expressing sympathy and concern, and links advising of the ongoing follies the pond was missing out on ...

The pond has never tried to monetise the blog - think of the guilt at infringing David Pope's intellectual property rights for mere money - so the reward has always come from the comments and the shared links and the shared sense of fun at a Pythonish world ...

What else? Well one of the observations was just what an extraordinary multicultural activity hospitals now represent, from the operating staff to those mopping the floors.

The pond wondered whether it would ever find a use for the blatant racism in this little outburst by Geoffrey Blainey in the Sydney Morning Herald back on 4th October 1984:

Ethnics in flash cars, strange cooking smells and noodles on the backyard clothesline?

What a mean, overt racist he was, the Barry Spurr of his day ...

And yet while the pond was away, there was Pauline Hanson returned from the political graveyard to explain that Islam wasn't a peaceful religion.

This while living in a country which had participated in a couple of world wards, the Korean war, the Vietnam war, the Iraq and Afghan wars, and sundry other minor gigs in the last hundred years. This from a country which ostensibly practices a peaceful religion like Christianity, whose highest glory is celebrated in American Sniper, what with Oz being the deputy sheriff and designated spot hitter for the southern regions ...

And then knock the pond down, if the Islamics didn't take to the streets in Sydney to explain how the slaughter of French cartoonists showed a peaceful religion doing the right thing by its Prophet... and others should shut up about an absurd religion ...

By golly, when the pond eventually gets into the antechamber with She, a few cross words will be spoken ... and it won't just be about the maltreatment of pigs on British television.

Meanwhile, here we are on Australia Day, and the pond is determined to do it in style:

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Dorothy Parker is unwell (again)

It's been said before on the pond. Jeffrey Bernard was inclined to be unwell, the real Dorothy Parker was also inclined to be unwell, and now the ersatz Dorothy Parker has decided to be unwell again.

We're just stepping out of the tent. We may be some time. 

Saturday, January 17, 2015

In which the pond discovers a use for patriotic erections ...

(Above: and the full outrageous press release here).

How outrageous, how tedious.

Once again those wretched faux, fake, useless, alleged scientists at NASA and NOAA are at it again, with their perfidious claims and patent exaggerations ...

How dare they.

Already the usual suspects are at it again, spreading these wicked distortions into the wider world, getting the innocent lambs all agitated and alarmed.

Oh yes, you'd expect the Graudian to be at the head of the queue with 2014 officially the hottest year on record:

Look at that wretched illustration.

All this does is create extra work so the world's genuine, elite climate scientists, thankfully gathered together in Murdoch publications. These hard-working overburdened souls will once more have to put their shoulders to the yoke, and explain how the climate is really working.

Why do these wretches want to create all this extra work for the Bolter, Maurice Newman, Lord Monckton, Dame Slap, Cardinal Pell and the hard-working reptiles at the lizard Oz?

Let's face it. The reptiles are right on top of the climate game. They know all that anyone needs to know about the land, EXCLUSIVELY:

Yes, yea verily, see how the desert blooms, and see how the only newspaper to notice was the lizard Oz:

That's why the rag is the weekend newspaper of the year.

Now some wretched cynics - quick, top up their glass of kool aid - might be saying that reports of flooding in South Australia have been doing the rounds for days and days (why even the cardigan wearers noticed it was raining on the plain here) and that this was likely to put a dent in Donald Campbell's latest attempt at the world speed record, but you see all this chit chat ignores the real point of the story.

You see NASA and NOAA wretches, the earth is in the very best shape. Let's not have any idle gossip about extreme weather events.

Instead let's celebrate the way the plentiful, warming and the munificent god is sending down bounteous rain that transforms the earth. Only She can save us ...

What was the usually prescient Pope thinking when he offered up this cartoon? (And more Pope here).

A skull in the dry outback?

Why the great Gaia replenishes herself, and the reptiles don't even have to leave the hot rock to bring the good news.

Carry on as usual, good citizens. Nothing to see here. In due course the Bolter will return, Maurice will pen a piece, the reptiles at the Oz will ignore those fake NASA and NOAA scientists, and all will be well ...

Meanwhile, as the reptiles go about their daily business, they've prepared a lavish and generous feast for the starving readership this weekend, the sort of 'weekend festival of loons' only the country's weekend newspaper of the year could assemble and offer to the world.

The war on Triggs continues at a satisfying pace:

The news from Queensland continues most excellent, and never mind idle chit chat of the kind Galaxy poll shows Labor with a good chance of winning Queensland election:

And the news from Paris is outrageously distorted by the usual suspects:

Yes, you only see the full picture from your inner Sydney city elite eerie.

Oh it's a kornucopia of commentariat views, and thank the long absent lord there are still enough mugs out there willing to fork out a shekel or two to keep them in the lifestyle to which they've long been accustomed.

But perversely, the pond has decided to select a Catholic fundamentalist for kommentariat rant of the day:

Yes, no matter how you cut it or slice it, or present it several ways, there's nothing better than a good old-fashioned rant from a fundamentalist Catholic about the usual suspects:

And so to the cut and thrust, the nub of the argument, and as a community service, the pond feels compelled to present the exemplary logic in full.

First let us remember that the real enemy isn't the fundamentalist Islamics. It's the fundamentalist gays and the abortionists and the wretched elites and those damned progressives and scientists with their jibber jabber about vaccination, persecuting hapless young children with their needles and polio vaccines.

Why the pond can still remember as vividly as the day it happened those bloody doctors giving the pond a little spoonful of strangely tasting liquid, as if it was Jonestown all over again. Oh strange things happened in Tamworth in those days.

Of course the pond didn't end up with polio - the pond can remember the days when there were polio victims, a few of whom, such as Alan Marshall, managed to turn the affliction to good literary ends.

Never mind, it's the business of everyone to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Islamic fundamentalists when it comes to teh gays and such like:

Yes, it's plain nuts, but who will allow the plain nuts to speak? Because if you're plain nuts like Angela Shanahan, of course you're going to have a deep sympathy with other plain nuts. And don't get the pond started on exotic mixed nuts, and the pretensions of cashews, and the outrageous behaviour of walnuts ...

Now let's cut to the real chase, and it's not just the child killers persecuting innocent Kevin Andrews:

Yes, there you go. The real problem is that some people have gone with Islamic fundamentalism, when they should have gone with Catholic fundamentalism.

Don't worry. You can still fuck over teh gays together ...

What's that you say?

The Pope claims he accepts climate scientist, and it doesn't matter two figs about Lake Eyre, or as a few might call it Kati Thanda, doing what it's done for quite a few years whenever there's a heavy rain, and if that's an EXCLUSIVE, why then the pond can EXCLUSIVELY report there's a country music festival going down right this minute in Tamworth ...

Fuckwits and loons to the right and to the left, but on the pond plunges, into the valley with the rest of the five hundred ...

But at least we can take a First Dog cartoon with us ... (and more First Dog here).

Yes, having listened through the monstrous inanity of The World Today's Call for national anthem to be sung every day at noon on Australia Day, the pond was going to give the call a plug, but there's no need to bother when First Dog is on the case.

Patriotic erections? Very handy when it comes to fucking climate science ...