While it was pleasing to see Carlton turn up in Crikey with Gaza is Israel's Vietnam, with Hamas victorious, (behind the paywall), designed to stir the possums and lordy lordy were they well stirred, Carlton has also turned into a keen observer of News Corp on his Twitter account here.
Carlton's an extremely handy pointer to the absurdity of the brand, and frankly the pond needs every hand on deck - to plough through the entirety of hogwash produced by News Corp would be a bigger job than Hercules faced labouring in the Augean stables.
And so it was that Carlton produced this fetching tidbit:
Yes, who can argue, but that's a screen cap, so here's the paranoia in its original home.
Better yet, here's the paranoia on the pond laid out like a patient etherized on a table as the yellow Melbourne fog clings to the window panes:
Yes fear stalks Collins Street, torsos carry strange bulges, all around are menacing stares and faces.
Victorians! Worse still, wicked, evil Melburnians.
But do go on Blanche. Tell us how we shouldn't rely on the kindness of strangers.
Wait, that's cruel, unfeeling.
Is there a hero in togs who can placate Blanche and make her feel safe?
Uh huh. What to say? Cue Mike Carlton again:
Indeed, indeed, it's a corker and a ripper.
But we shouldn't overlook this:
Everyone is downplaying it. Am I being paranod?
In other parts of the world it's not propaganda or paranoia.
The pond was going to suggest a Bex and a good lie down but perhaps after Bex powder killed more than pain, it's better to stick with the plonk, the paranoia and the nibbles.
There is one other suggestion. Blanche has clearly been reading too many News Corp publications lathering up fear, loathing and paranoia. Maybe she should get her reading matter from Aldi. Nothing to get anyone worried there.
And so to the culminating corker:
Yes, yes, and a tram could run over the pond, and the pond could be in a car crash, and the sky could fall in, and chicken little, while running about, could trip over and fall face down in the mud and drown, and the cat could scratch the pond, and the pond could die of cat scratch disease or could at least get a fever, and fuck the pond dead, what else???
Why an engine could fall off a plane coming in on the third runway and could land in the lounge room, or the pond could just have watched too many movies, and instead it could be that a meteor takes out Sydney, and Hollywood could race around wondering if Scarlett Johansson could be the right actress to play the pond, who could be seen defiantly shaking a clenched fist at the tidal wave on the beach that could sweep the pond to oblivion and beyond ...
Or someone with a tattoo could give the pond a very nasty stare on King street in Newtown ...
Perhaps worst of all, the pond could work for Rupert Murdoch and could waste money on rags peddling paranoid tripe.
It just got personal?
Happily, the pond hasn't yet heard of an explosion on Collins street that took out Blanche and sundry bystanders, caught up in a vile bombing on an intrepid HUN journalist. Though it could have happened... in the town of the could have been champions ...
But take no comfort from this. Maintain the fear, maintain the rage, look under every car, and before you kick over the ignition, did you remember to put on your bomb suit?
You may resume your latte-infused lax attitude towards national security, but only for as long as it takes to sip the coffee and the chardonnay.
Once that's done, remember the price of freedom is eternal vigilance of a HUN paranoid kind, and if that means going barking mad, and waking fearfully in the middle of the night, starting at shadows, it's a small price to pay.
But speaking of paranoia, Carlton also kicked some other rumours down the road.
Oh dear, is it true that a paranoid is a person in possession of the facts?
Is Mitchell about to experience a fate almost as bad as a Collins street bombing?
Could this be true?
And Carlton also linked to Tony Martin, bearing the good news for Monday:
Sorry John Birmingham.
There's already a lot of fun in the world ... and if you head off to Tony Martin twittering away, here, you cop a link to Herald Sun Half-Wits, dedicated to the idiotic and occasionally awesome comments and letters in the HUN, which demonstrates why Blanche likes to howl at the moon:
Shit got personal? More like shit got really weird. Thanks Mr Carlton but now could the pond be excused?