Each day the pond wakes up with the hope that Bronniechoppergate will have been cast aside, at least until the first day of the next sitting, and each day the pond is reliably disappointed ...
It seems in South Australia, the crow eaters have now mangled the English language so badly that the conversation between accountants and clients now runs "Could you bronnie these expenses?" or "Have I gone a bronnie too far?" or "Don't call me Bronnie and I won't call you Al or Betty ..."
The story itself is of no great matter, just another Bronnie going about his business, as many other Bronnies might have done:
This is an outrageous slur on Cairns.
Sleepy? Why the town is humming, vibrant, alive with excitement, and each time jolly Joe visited, he made seminal pronouncements on the future of Australia ... no doubt while judging the scones and jams at the local show. (Look, look, it's just been and gone, better luck next year).
Meanwhile, poor old Barners has been caught out being a big spender in sleepy old Tamworth, once the centre of the known universe until Barners took the helm:
Dearie me. You can read it all here at the NDL, but it was these lines that caught the pond's eye:
Now who could disapprove of that expenditure? Working with Tony, Jolly Joe and Bronnie means you just have to know all the ways to unpack the links between leadership and being barking mad, and as for China, how else are you going to ship all the jobs over there if you're not sure that they're up to it ...
How weird has it got? Well the NDL also offered up this little story:
That's right, a plucked chook, a feather duster, a waystop on the way to stupidity and irrelevance is now clucking about Bronnie.
You can read the story here if you like, but it reduced the pond to brooding about the fickleness of friends.
Get out the chocolate and a glass of red and a box of hankies as we reminisce:
Sob, solid they were, as thick as fleas, and, it has to be said, as thick as fleas ...
Meanwhile, the pond understands why Albo has spoken up.
He can feel the cold, clammy breath of the greenies chilling his neck - or if you will the satanic flames of the hellish greenies heating his bowels - and Bill has just shortened the odds against him getting back in ...
Now the pond's thoughts on all this are driven by a deeply emotional, irrational, but complete and fulfilling, fear and loathing of Bill Shorten.
Just his appearance on a television screen is enough to send the pond scurrying around trying to find something useful to do - it used to be restricted to football.
On the balance, the pond regrets that Albo got done by Shorten, but then this is coloured by internal family wrangling and occasionally being made to keep the company of Billistas, and besides, the pond isn't in the Labor party, and its beat is the right wing commentariat, so let the foolish sods work out their own miserable solutions to their self-induced problems ...
But all that said, the Terror went passing close to barking mad itself with today's front cover:
It's an epic fail on about every level. Who remembers Tom Hanks or the film Cast Away, and as for dressing in that football ...
The pond's advice? Stick to Nazis and the occasional Stalin or Mao for variation, with a touch of North Korea and Bob's your gutter press uncle.
On the other hand, the pond has to acknowledge the aspirations of the Terrorists, and their ambition to become a serious magazine full of astute commentary, and with that cover they've taken another serious step towards realising their dream:
Watch out Alfred E., the terrorists are doing their best to make you look staid, even a bit academic ...
As for the HUNsters, they're simply tragic ...
They clearly need some help from the pond, and perhaps the Skipper:
As for the politics, much the same applies. The truth is, if the pond wants to vote for Tony Abbott and gulags and the cruel and unusual treatment of people, the pond already has that option.
Bill Shorten as Tony Abbott lite? It might work for some, but then again, it won't work for the Murdochians, no matter how many opinion pieces Richard Marles scribbles for them ...
No wonder Albo's feeling the chill and the heat.
Meanwhile, the reptiles decided against featuring Bill at the top of the page, and instead went with that other good old staple, fear and the Islamics...
Hmm, wonder when they'll catch up with the Ministry of Fire shamelessly wandering the streets promoting hate and division ...
But don't despair.
In their digital pages, the reptiles maintain high journalistic standards:
Vegetarian sausages maybe, but goat-cheese circles?
And that's how you reduce climate science to a scone and jam joke.
Well played Stefanie ... and nestling cheek by jowel with that joke passing as news, came this EXCLUSIVE:
What's interesting is the way the poodle has given up any pretence to objectivity - this exercise has always been about pandering to a reptile pet in the most shameless and naked way imaginable, and so it continues.
Is there an explanation as to why Flinders might be making time to chinwag with the poodle and doing the initial dance?
Say no more.
In the good old days, Brian Medlin would have already been leading the philosophers in a riot, while students locked hapless vice-chancellors in the admin building, but let's finish the story:
He's struggling to understand why anyone should get a little agitated about the poodle pandering to a pet while the poodle slashes and burns university funding, and the only way the pathetic academics can get hold of any cash is to buckle under and give shelter to the poodle's pet?
He's struggling to understand? What sort of self-interested dumb fuck is he then?
Why it's more corrupt than in the medieval funding days of the Medici ...
Carthago delenda est said Medlin and others, and amen to that, and let the poodle and the Murdochians be destroyed with it ...
(Below: and more Fairfax cartoons here, as they catch the breath-taking hypocrisy that now stalks the land thanks to that puppy-faced Baird doing his master's bidding).