While on the subject of prattling Polonius, a kindly correspondent sent in these photos derived from Twitter:
Wonderful stuff and with a great punchline:
The pond would love to credit the heroic photographer, but alas google image search is slow and spoofs abound, but still the spirit is right ...
But enough of ancient glories because today, being a Sydney-sider, is tabloid Terrorist day and the competition for a year's supply of kool aid by the scribbler most nakedly in service of Chairman Rupert's business plan has really began to heat up.
Now anyone who has spent a nanosecond on these pages will know that contempt and indifference towards thugby league are in strong competition, but every so often, it can lead to wondrous sights:
Yes, once you've alienated the Chairman, he really does unleash the hounds, or the bats. Fly, my pretties, fly, you can see him urging, as he opens the window.
Oh well, flying bat monkeys, whatever, but what an unnervingly accurate portrait of the wizened one.
And there were more flying monkeys doing their master's bidding:
There's not even an attempt to hide the self-interest in the story:
The push has been discussed among some of the most influential figures in rugby league who remain furious at a range of NRL decisions, including cutting key stakeholders Fox Sports and Telstra out of the TV negotiations.
Their anger was intensified after News Corp and the Seven Network partnered to give the AFL a record $2.5 billion television deal.
By golly, who'd want to be a thugby leaguer at the other end of an assault by a flying bat monkey?
As for the strength of the proposal, the flying monkey committed a fatal folly by acknowledging the grim reality behind the sledging:
In order for the NRL clubs to pass a vote of no-confidence in the ARL Commission they need a 75 per cent vote from the 16 existing clubs. The breakaway scenario remains highly unlikely but illustrates the current level of discontent with the NRL head office.
Highly unlikely. But the flying monkey bat surely does illustrate the current level of discontent with thugby leaguers in the Surry Hills bunker.
Look at this gaggle of stories:
And it's in pride of place in the tree killer edition:
When the Chairman embarks on a vendetta, he shows all the style, subtlety and nuance of a knee-capping Don Corleone ...
And speaking of flying bat monkeys, there was another in fine, screeching form:
Beacons of hope, saith the flying bat monkey, pouring a little white powder and confusing it with acid ...
And people wonder why the sporting crowd embraced the notion of booing Adam Goodes. Why they were just doing what the braying Murdochian press does every day of the week ...
But enough of the numbnut thugby leaguers, because the pond always yearns on a meditative Sunday for some higher class trolling, a trolling by a flying monkey bat that really establishes the bar for the Mordochians, and what better example than that increasingly shrill and desperate sounding imported Pommie monkey bat who litters the broadsheet the way that droppings used to litter the newspaper in the cockie cage at Tamworth.
Alas, we had a pet cockie who chewed at his wooden surrounds as diligently as Clint Eastwood in Alcatraz - these days the pond would not imprison any creature - but in its day the cockie was wonderfully entertaining, and when let out of his cage to roam the house, screeched and shat everywhere, and did a little jig of joy when fed his sunflower seeds ... a corner of the yard was dedicated to the growing of van Goghian sunflowers as a special treat for the dancing boy ... which might help explain the screeching and the shatting from the Murdoch galah import:
Saying "cunt" is a term of endearment in the Latham way?
Yet the bold brave lad himself and his publisher can't bear to actually spell out the affectionate term "cunt"?
Pathetic really, and naturally the enormous twat - a man clearly with the potential to carry the communicable disease of foot in mouth - failed to ask any Australian woman whether "cunt" was a term of endearment.
Perhaps it would have been too difficult to arrange a visit to the nearest domestic violence shelter.
But the twat was keen to take the rhetoric even further, and associate mere common politeness, courtesy and decency with deranged fundamentalists who have taken of late to train travel on the pond's favourite Amsterdam-Paris express:
The engine of human progress?
So being able to say "cunt" and Zoo magazine are the beginnings of great truths, and fertile fields of dangerous thinking designed to create a liberating, risk-embracing intellectual climate in which great truths and breakthroughs are likely to be made ...
Yet the scribbler and his publisher are so politically correct all they can do is refer to the "C' word, while applauding a Swedish bigot for deploying the word "tumour" in a way that would suit an Islamic fundamentalist?
Such mental confusion, as the screeching cockies and the flying monkey bats work hard for their money.
But where does this culture of verbal violence garner its earliest most ardent political adherents?
Again the pond was sent a clipping from Twitter, and the evocation of the KKK was bemusing, especially as it involved sometime war hero Tom Uren (well at least to those who think being a POW was a special kind of service, though not The Donald):
And that's more than enough to chew on this meditative Sunday ... waiter, more sunflower seeds please ... and let's reassure the screeching cockie that the pond is in to sunflowers and thugby league and Zoo culture ...