(Above: and more excellent Rowe here).
It's back to work Wednesday here at the pond. Yes, it's back to work Wednesday, and as its back to work Wednesday, that's why the pond is getting back to work this very Wednesday.
The pond doesn't want to look back at its tremendous record. The pond has no interest in navel gazing, but we should note a number of significant achievements.
The climate and the oceans are warming, and we have achieved record levels last year;
The gulags are bubbling along nicely;
And the public transport systems have been degraded, while everywhere there's nothing but tar and cement.
But let us not brood about these great achievements. The pond needs to get on with business, and will have none of this talk about the pond's leadership. Instead, in a collegial and consultative way, we intend to make a fresh start, and first item on the agenda is the wonderful news regarding interest rates.
Now the pond is aware that, under the previous government, there was mischievous talk that low interest rates showed the economy was in bad shape, and this was a BAD THING. It's important to understand that the circumstances have changed, and now a low interest rate is a sure sign that the economy is in tremendous shape. This is a GOOD THING. There is simply no impediment to growth whatsoever, and let us never talk of a budget emergency again, at least until we need to ...
What's that you say? You have a problem with the pond's leadership?
Oh okay, it's time for the daily trudge through the antediluvian swamp observing the habitat and mood of the reptiles.
It has to be said that the mood seems vexed. There seems to be much swishing of tails and territorial agitation:
Oh dear, let's sample the thoughts of Miranda the Devine:
Yes, there you go. Permission granted to roll the jaffas down the aisle at "what's needed is an open mind".
But as always the pond looks most towards the reptiles of the lizard Oz for a sure sign of how the wind is blowing in dinosaur land, and a check on the most open minds in the land.
Happily the reptiles have done their best to push the sordid fuss to the side of the page:
But there's no doubt the reptiles are in a state of high agitation, and everyone is brooding about the impending apocalypse, sure in the knowledge if something happens, it will be a disaster, and if nothing happens, it will be a festering sore, scratched at by wicked folk at Fairfax and the ABC:
Where to start? It's like being bombarded from on high by zooming squads of pterodactyls and pteranodons ...
But as always the pond goes with Dame Slap, who is in deep mourning for a lost, loyal warrior who knew the value of loyalty. Dame Slap is also deep into coaching mode:
Now some gobsmacked readers might wonder at this astonishing recollection, through dim, misty, watery eyes of the Abbott of old while pausing to admire the sideswipe at blinkered critics, invariably from Fairfax.
Yes, there's Miranda the Devine's open minds and open doors in wondrous action.
But let's trudge on.
Let's have an even deeper invocation of a loyal man doing loyal things, and even getting Pauline Hanson jailed using entirely suspect means and methods and money:
Oh dear, it's back to Chairman Rupert's theme song, and Credlin making the ultimate sacrifice.
The poor thing, quarantining him from Liberal MPs, but simply unable to quarantine him from his monarchist self. Well that's the reason she should accept the blame. Fancy working for a monarchist!
But let's trudge even deeper into the swamp, and this vexing question of loyalty. Is it too late for Credlin to save the day?
Ah, so it's an elegy for the bunker mentality, and now Abbott is going to become a martyr and in a final act of loyalty hand over the leadership.
But don't count on it. But don't count it out either. Don't count it in either. Sheesh, just watch Sesame Street and learn to count.
Now here's a quick snapshot of Tony Abbott as seen through Dame Slap's eyes:
But wait, there's more. Because this is a super dooper back to work Wednesday, the pond even read that pompous portentous prat Paul Kelly, lamenting and hand-wringing and moaning and keening and sighing:
Oh dear, we'll all be rooned said Hanrahan. What to do, what to do?
Adolescent chaos! Political bloodbath! Politics broken!
Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the Abbott cannot hear the Kelly falconer. Things fall apart, the right wing ratbags cannot hold, mere anarchy and much drivel is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the mendacity of tripe floats to the surface. The worst are full of passionate intensity and a deep bewilderment, as the rough Brough slouches towards the party room in Canberra (has anyone thought of moving it to Bethlehem for the day?).
Do we have a dream team to save the show?
So there you go. It's Turnbull, Bishop and Morrison, and then, long absent lord save us, in due course Zinger Bill ...
So there you go. That's how deep the doom and gloom has reached, as the dinosaurs lift their heads up from the swamp floor to see the eerie, glowing light emanating from the meteor as it plummets towards the earth ...
But wait, this is super dooper Wednesday, and the hard-working pond has done a real slog through the reptile swamp.
It was impossible to ignore the total deliciousness of Chris Kenny having yet another ABC freak out:
Yes, yes, it's a well known fact that Rupert Murdoch simply absolutely does not interfere in Australian, American or British politics in any way, absolutely and at any time. Why if he did, it would be positively un-Australian ...
There's a lot more by Kenny, but the pond has to confess that by that point, the pond had become extremely tired, and as everyone knows, under the new Work Choices scheme, there's no extra payment for ovetime.
As he meandered on, Kenny explained how there was no silicon chip implanted in his head, and rambled on about the ABC's mendacity and silliness, and so on and so forth and etc. but the funniest thing came from the way he explained how everyone in the commentariat thinks alike, as on the subject of Peta Credlin - Paul Sheehan, Piers Akerman, Miranda the Devine, and Kenny himself. They all had the same thought, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Chairman Rupert, who came to the game late.
Yes, the puppet master didn't have to say anything, because the puppets were on the right wavelength.
Which brings the pond back to that question of open minds, and the deep mystery of starlings in flight. If it's not a silicon chip implanted in their heads, how do they manage it?
Who knows, but on a daily basis it surely looks a lot like the reptiles in Murdoch la la land, with bonus Paul "magic water" Sheehan.
It's also typically wondrous that, at this time of deep crisis, Kenny should head off to a remote corner of the swamp to give the ABC a bit of biffo, not realising how, while denying the influence of Chairman Rupert, he celebrates the profound group think of the commentariat ...
Is there anything that could top this farcical nonsense?
You really shouldn't have asked ...
But that's enough for this sooper dooper Wednesday. The pond is now looking forward to the party room fun, and all the rumblings and ructions sure to fill the void in the coming days ...
And if you, hard working Wednesdayites doing your bit for the country, have made it this far, you deserved a medal or a gong. Call yourself a knight or a dame if you like, and here's a cartoon which explains how it's all your fault (and more Pope here):