Monday, March 24, 2014

Arriving late at a Malcolm Turnbull folly ...

Thanks to a pond correspondent, the pond eventually arrived late to the latest thought crime of that pompous prat Malcolm Turnbull.

But what ongoing fun it's provided since getting there.

(And more twittering tweets here, and more generally Keady's twitter account, here, with the subsequent fall out and follow up).

Oh that's a cruel thrust, that last remark about Vaucluse or Double Bay. What about Woollahra?

How do you know a politician is tone deaf?

Well it's obvious enough when the tone dead politician doubles down:

Now that's a toff in denial mode.

And if you read Turnbull tweets up a storm, blog goes crazy, you get a wonderful imaginary dialogue:

Indeed. As for Turnbull rabbiting on about social media, his own attempt at using social media to justify himself is bizarre, and a hoot.

Is it possible to have a rational discussion on twitter? The NBN and the outrage.

What's truly remarkable is that Turnbull could in any way imagine that his initial tweet was an attempt to start a rational discussion:

The amazing ponce attempts a remarkable Houdini feat and tries to pretend that his original tweet was a just a clever way of engaging with Keady, a clever way of extracting information, so he could be useful:

That gave me some useful information and so endeavouring to learn more in order to suggest a solution I asked her "okay how far are you from the pillar in the street." 
This is an important issue, because depending on the distance I could then make an estimate of the likely speed that would be available to her from a fibre to the node solution which is capable of being rolled out much sooner than fibre to the premises given the significantly reduced level of civil works.


No, you simply can't get, in any rational way, from just curious, you useless goose, why you moved into a useless house without the coalition's useless version of the NBN,  and now you're moaning and whining about it not being available, you useless whining, whinging, moaning goose.

Or words to that effect.

It finally drifted into the head of the rich dullard, the pompous preening potentate, that the world wasn't running as it should:

Even the reptiles at News could work out the plain meaning of the Turnbull twittering: Malcolm Turnbull suggests resident move house for decent broadband.

But it did produce a fine tweet which shows that, along with the witless Turnbull's tweets, you can find funny tweets:

And that's where the pond pretty much left it, though it also became painfully obvious that as well as fucking up the NBN, Turnbull will never become leader of the Liberal party or the nation. He's just too tone deaf.

By the time the pond had stopped following the story, it had been picked up today by the likes of the Geelong Advertiser in Ocean Grove woman in twitter stoush with Malcolm Turnbull.

And if you google Turnbull's name, you quickly discover the foolish fop hasn't been getting on with the job, head down, tail up, beavering away delivering the HFC cable to the door outside the pond's home so we'll have some splendid broadband - oh wait, it's already there, and it's fucking useless.

No, instead he's been indulging in his own version of the culture wars, in petulant outbursts which can be read in pieces such as Malcolm Turnbull denounces 'vicious ingratitude' of Biennale artists after Transfield withdraws as sponsor.

All that reveals is that Turnbull thinks art should be kept in its place, and artists should perform like grateful trained seals:

The pond doesn't have much time for Tony Abbott, but he really has learned a political lesson or two in his time.

In the good old days, with consummate skill, Ming the Merciless despatched any number of talented ambitious men who aspired to wearing his crown to remote outposts and tough work that destroyed their reputation and brought them back into the field.

Poor old Lord Casey and Percy Spender disappeared overseas (Rivals not removed), while others were encouraged to await their time, because Menzies knew their lack of weight and worth as rivals (and so the useless Billy McMahon and Harold Holt eventually got their ill-fated momenta in the sun).

John Howard did the same, and as Howard's attack dog, Abbott has learned the lesson well. Abbott has neutered his rivals, by giving them jobs that ostensibly suited their enormous talents.

And so Turnbull, the man who invented the internet in Australia, is now in a world of pain.

He's accepted the job of delivering a half-baked, half-arsed, downgraded facility, and his chief job in that process is to act as a snake oil salesman, selling the oily pup to disbelieving consumers.

Yet his twittering and his blogging shows he doesn't even know how to do that.

And it isn't going to get any better, because he's tone deaf.

Well the pond long ago realised it was never going to get decent broadband, not unless Satan has recently decided to wire up hell ... so now the only pleasure is to dance with delight at the enormous folly of Turnbull as he goes about failing and flailing at everything in sight.

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