This day the HUN is the only one to go directly to the heart of the matter on its front page.
All this sort of talk does is induce a dose of anxiety in the pond. Is it schadenfreude that makes the heart skip, and fingers tremble or is it just another case of eOG?
Yes, the pond hasn't given up on Portlandia, though it's an intermittently successful joy, but it's diagnosis of early onset grumpiness finally revealed what the pond's been suffering from since at least the age of five:
But if that's the syndrome, why is the pond's heart skipping and fluttering this morning?
Could it be the immense fun embedded in David Rowe's cartoons (and please give the AFR a hit here for his services):
Look at that steaming list of contents - hubris, bile, death cults, beltways, boats, spin, served with a decent dose of hypocrisy and a warning that the box may contain inducements.
What a wag. And so true ...
The story of leadership madness also trickled on to the front page of the Terror:
The other rags weren't so direct, being more circumspect and still obsessed with the Triggs matter:
There's no need to go into much by way of detail, except to note that once again a woman was sent into to the dirty work and the washing up:
But it does fortuitously bring the pond to the case of the barking mad reptiles at the lizard Oz.
This is, the pond has decided, a classic case of paranoid schizophrenia, which can be seen on both the front page and the top of the page digital splash:
Who knows where it comes from? Perhaps it was an early, harsh case of potty training, perhaps it was having mother's breast milk snatched away. No matter, clearly it was a woman wot done it.
But as a result, the reptiles are currently in a state of deep anxiety, and are wildly divided.
There's David Crowe wringing his hands over Higginson, and there at the top of the page is Chris "dog man" Kenny attempting to be a journalist.
The pond hardly dared use the word journalist in the context of a Kenny "story", but it certainly takes a generous dose of breakfast cereal to back the pitiful performance of Attorney-General secretary man Chris Moraitis's performance, and his epic "I lost my notes", and who knows, the dog might have eaten my homework as well ...
Here's how it goes down according to Kenny and Moraitis:
What was in that Rowe breakfast cereal again? Hubris, spin, bile and a decent dose of hypocrisy?
Well if all this was the case, it would seem extremely useless and perverse of Mr Moraitis to allow the dog to make off with his notes. Ah Mr Kenny and his dogs ... do go on:
And there you go, that's how journalism gets perverted. There's a nakedly ideological warrior putting his best spin on it, and at the same time referencing, as his conclusion, the words of gorgeous George embedded elsewhere in the paper:
Remember this is entirely an own goal.
Brandis and company have had since November to work out how the matter of the report be dealt with, and then decided, in the ideological cultural warrior way that seems their only path through life, on all out war and destruction, with Triggs to fall as a ritual sacrifice ...
Only to be surprised that, in a big Mal manner, they might have taken positives from the report ... and turned it around on Triggs and sailed off happily into a deluded sunset ...
Now bear with the pond here, because the pond thinks it is wrong that a major statement of Australia's attorney-general should be placed behind a paywall and used as a money-maker for Murdoch enterprises.
At the least, it should have been published simultaneously on the Minister's web site, here, but damned if the pond could find it.
So what does Brandis, clearly after a double serving of that breakfast cereal, have to say for himself?
That's a huge amount of self-justifying verbiage from a pompous man intent mainly on self-justification, or wiping the egg from his face.
It's a pomposity of style the pond would need a John Clarke to deflate. But the ponderous elephant has barely got to the point, which is to say the recent kerfuffle and his inept handling of the matter:
Uh huh. No one could sensibly say, outside la la Murdoch land, that George Brandis has any reputation, except that of a prize doofus.
But then attacking zinger Bill's about all he's got left in the kit, so badly has he mishandled the matter, no doubt egged on by a fearless leader with a visceral dislike of Triggs.
On and on the pompous blowhard rants:
There you go, it's a long and tedious haul, but at the end of it all, you have to marvel at the childish petulance - oh he loved big Mal, and he hated me ...
Well in a democracy, it isn't character assassination to call the bookcase man woefully inept, and his explanation pathetic, even by his beyond the valley of cereal-gobbling standards...
But wait, there's even more in this study of alleged journalism turned mad by grief and woe.
Because this very day, the anonymous Oz editorialist has felt the need to lash out at all the usual enemies:
Oh not all that tripe about the ABC, Graudian and Fairfaxian conspiracy yet again.
There are other forms of media around, and most of them have been noting that the Triggs matter has been a major coalition fuck up. Why there's even sections of Murdoch la la land that have dared to note the state of the emperor's clothes ...
Which brings the pond to suggest that it seems too much cereal eating in childhood does lead to paranoia and the taking of a childish outlook into adulthood, with conspiracies to be found all around.
Yes, in the time it took for the pond to scribble the above, the reptiles discovered that the game was a afoot, and they hastily upgraded the top of their digital page:
And all they can drag out of the cupboard is an old Dennis 'the bouffant one' Shanahan piece, and recycle the Crowe story.
It's outside the paywall but who cares?
Now it so happens that the pond thinks Triggs can look after herself - she's got the job for as long as she cares to hold it for her five year term, unlike the politicians jumping up and down around her, beating their flatulent breast like a gorgeous George (yes, yes, mixed metaphors, yadda yadda) - a point lost in the gorgeous George stew of indignant words.
But it's patently clear that Abbott and his government can't look after themsveles, and it's left to the die hards in the lizard Oz to do what they can to breathe live into a corpse and suggest that the unsettled coalition should settle down, even as the joint is jumping and the ants are in a frenzy.
As soon as the poodle urges calm in the kennel, you know the dogs are barking ...
There's no need to reprint all the rest of the reptiles' re-hashing of the case for Abbott, or their hatred and fear of the Twitterati, except to note how that reflects their paranoia, hatred and fear of being online, the NBN, and the whole new damned, hateful age of broadband and that intertubes thingie ...
Let's just cut to the chase, and the final par:
But he didn't tell that story.
Instead he blathered on endlessly, in the nattering negative way that he's resorted to at every possible point in his career, about how he and his government had lost confidence in Triggs. How it was all Triggs fault ... how the world would be better off if it were rid of that pesky woman and her pesky report ...
He didn't tell the "good story", he went female bashing in his usual way ...
And that's why it's likely soon enough he won't have any sort of story to tell the nation, regardless of who is sitting in the HRC president's chair.
Instead he'll be sitting on the sidelines, regaling the nation with useless commentary, in the style of John Hewson, Peter Reith, Jeff Kennett, Peter Costello, Amanda Vanstone, Helen Coonan (by golly, she's looking really deep south magnolia lady weird these days) and the rest of the pack still seeking attention and relevance via the media ...
You see, dear paranoid reptiles, the incoherent protestations have been coming from the Abbott government, not least from the likes of Ian McDonald explaining how he hadn't read the report, and wouldn't read the report, thereby confirming that he preferred to operate as a profoundly ignorant doofus ...
There is much more of course to observe in the world at large today.
But it's the pond's duty to report on how the functionaries at Murdoch la la land are now so deeply lost, the only question is whether it might be called navel-gazing, or a heroic journey up their alimentary canal.
Such a capacity to deny the obvious is remarkable, and deserves the sort of respect offered to the inhabitants of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest ...
And so to David Pope, who this day decided to swim against the tide, and makes quite a fair fist of it.
You see, under the cover of all the fuss, Joe Hockey has been changing his tune, and trying out what the pond can only think of as nattering positivity.
Remember doom and gloom Joe Hockey? Gone, or at least swept under the carpet until needed:
(in the lizard Oz, you can google it if you have time to waste).
It's as if jolly Joe thinks mug punters have the same attention span as he has, which is roughly about five minutes, and as consistent as a water spider relying on surface tension to stay afloat.
Well there's another upside to Abbott going. The nation won't have to listen to this twit posing as treasurer ...
Go on Mr Pope, give the doofus a serve.
Naturally being fair-minded, Pope apologised to photographer Nick Cubbin, who scored this shot of Sussan Ley.
Naturally there's no need to apologise to Ley. She's donning that glove all of her own volition.
Sadly you won't see any of that sort of cogent analysis by the reptiles in the lizard land of Oz.
Thank the long absent lord for cartoonists, and please given the Canberra Times a hit for the provision of Pope's services, here. You'll find, like Rowe, that the gallery makes for compulsive viewing, almost as much as watching the train wreck unfold in the bunker at the top of that Canberra mound ...
As for the pond's header? Well there are a few poems that cover the matter, but this is kind of the end to a Walt Whitman poem, available in full and proper form here:
O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys, new politicians to abuse!
To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on, shout at and decry!
To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports, with EOG insults at the ready
A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air and Canberra,)
A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys, and wondrous nattering positivity.