But dour old hard heads aren't convinced, and are surly and are reluctant to join the bandwagon ...
Even with the help of the ABC! Clearly not sufficient ...
Which brings the pond to the matter of letting go ...
Happily there are reptiles who will never let it go, who are congenitally incapable of letting it go, who will maintain the rage until the twelfth of never, even longer than Gough Whitlam's supporters, long after Gough himself had let go ...
Ancient wizened figures, forgotten by the rest of the world, are dragged out of their hermitage to pontificate:
And above all the Daily Terrorists are finding it exceptionally hard to forget or to forgive, or to forgive and forget.
The Terrorists in their hipster 'leet chattering class Surry Hills bunker - why the pond passed by Holt street yesterday to get to its favourite takeaway sushi shop - are abuzz with tales of vipers in the nest. Important figures are thrust once more to centre stage:
Oh hang on, hang on, that didn't come out right, we're talking serious journalists with a serious digital agenda:
There, that's better.
Was it already a week ago that we were hearing this?
Indeed it was, but this was foregrounding on the beach, not backgrounding, and naturally the Terrorist reptiles were astonished and indignant:
Speaking of vipers, the reptiles were appalled by that harridan, that Medusa with vipers for hair:
Oh the petulant, ungrateful hussy, how petty, how childish, how petulant...
And so the Terror's editorialist let fly at the outrage of it all ...
No wonder he foreswore using the bible, the clap happy wretch who must now spend time in purgatory before heading off to heaven ... if only he believed in purgatory ...
As one Liberal MP said ...
Poll-driven panic has produced a revolving-door prime ministership which can’t be good for our country and a febrile media culture has developed that rewards treachery.
And if there’s one piece of advice I can give to the media, it’s this: refuse to print self-serving claims that the person making them won’t put his or her name to, refuse to connive at dishonour by acting as the assassin’s knife
Well that piece of advice went unheeded by the Terrorists, didn't it, and now, the pond must turn to an even more substantive example of an inability to let go.
Yes, the bromancer is struggling, and the pond deeply empathises with him ...
It's a long effort, but that's what you expect when an angel struggles with the dark Lucifer inside his soul, a bit like that potty-mouthed cat and kindly dog in the dreadful Ryan Reynolds' vehicle The Voices (though the cat has a nice line in smut).
You see, the bromancer is concerned that Tony will get by with a little help from his friends, which let's face it, is a classy kind of ballad:
The pond could imagine the tears almost shorting the keyboard as the bromancer, sobbing, typed out the line "you are a giant of conservative politics".
The temptation to burst into a verse or two of Wind Beneath My Wings was almost irresistible:
Did you ever know that you're my hero,
and everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
'cause you are the wind beneath my wings.
It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I've got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.
And so on and on, but the pond quickly returned to earth and another burst of the bromancer:
By now it's possible to see where this is heading. The impossibility of letting go, of saying farewell, looms large.
You are my hero, don't ever let me down
You are my hero, don't let me see you frown
It's only a mountain, you can climb that high
No, that's not a teardrop, there's something in your eye ...
Oh the pond loves its ballads, and is there anything more poignant to see than a bromancer shrieking out a karaoke power ballad which makes Meatloaf and Jim Steinman seem like shrinking violets:
Yes, he could return to defeat that pack of vipers who currently have gained access to the keys to the Lodge, the back-stabbing, lying bunch of traitors, even if that bugger's got his own very tasty mansion!
Of course Abbott would have no part in any of the bitching and the moaning.
He would stay above the fray, a giant of detachment, and tremendously disciplined.
The last thing anyone would expect him to say would be a few unkind words when a Daily Terror reptile catches him having a quiet surf ...
The bromancer and others clearly want Abbott to hang around, and start the business of destabilising the current mob, because clearly in these modern times, contingent as they are, you never know what might happen or when you might be needed.
And if unpleasant contingencies do occur, why it might be time then to do a former Chairman Rudd ... because that worked out so well ...
Watching all this suffering play out, this inability to let go, and the beach barbs and the bitching about Bronnie, almost makes the pond go a little Zen:
Yamaoka Tesshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after another. He called upon Dokuon of Shokoku.
Desiring to show his attainment, he said: "The mind, Buddha, and sentient beings, after all, do not exist. The true nature of phenomena is emptiness. There is no realisation, no delusion, no sage, no mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to be received."
Dokuon, who was smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe. This made the youth quite angry.
"If nothing exists," inquired Dokuon, "where did this anger come from?" (more koans here).
Put it another way:
"If you let go a little, you will have a little peace. If you let go a lot, you will have a lot of peace.” ~Ajahn Chah
And if you don't let go at all, you can stay in parliament or work for the Daily Terror.
And if by chance you achieve enlightenment?
The immortal Pope provides the answer, and more Pope here. Yep, you can fly through the air with ease, as a master of copper ....