Thursday, February 18, 2016

From reptiles to ravens, physician heal thy sticky-beak self ...

The pond loves a bout of anal examination ...

Now some will be more excited at the way that the NBN is being primed for a bargain basement sale ...

Yes, but let's make sure it's properly valued and dirt cheap. 

After all, what would sensible folk pay for a jumble of faded copper and junk HFC and a bit of fibre and lots and lots of boxes in need of upgrading, as boxes are wont to need?

Thanks AFR, but no, the pond wants to move on, because anyone who gazed at the bottom of the reptile front page above would have noted a poignant piece about Kennett fearing the digital age ...

Now the pond fears Kennett speaking on anything, but like a lot of superannuated politicians - Mandy, Peter "let loose the hounds" Reith, Petey Boy, Carr the PJ man, and no doubt in time the wall puncher himself - Kennett sees it as his duty to chip in whenever anybody asks him anything ... and frequently, it seems, when nobody asks him or gives a toss for his opinions ...

Never mind, the pond just couldn't overlook Kennett wringing his hands about a paper he routinely used to call the Spencer Street Soviet, before the soviet dissolved ...

And so, because the reptiles of Oz just love to examine others, the pond submitted to the anality of it all ...

It's the disconnection that the pond loves, that the Spencer Street Soviet - around in the 1990s - suddenly becomes a once great newspaper, now a shadow of its former glorious self, even if that was a gigantic, filthy, perverted Pravda of the Yarra ...

Of course for the reptiles it's just mischief-making, as if their own loss-making business plan - give away tree killer editions at airports, jones circulation figures, dip into the Chairman's generous political pockets, and pray the government advertising never stops - will lead to bounteous returns in the digital age ...

It is of course idle blather, just another recycling of the Sydney v Melbourne meme that's been much loved ever since it led the national capital to being placed amongst the squatters and the sheep herders.

It's as if the hard decisions - such as the one made by The Independent - aren't being made or considered in the world of Murdoch la la land. ... as of anyone's got a future in tree-killing, except for those who sell copies with bonus LP and cassette offers for the hipster set (yes, there'll be a market for that - perhaps the reptiles could turn their rag into Mx re-born)

It's as if the Chairman and his deep pockets, and his willingness to forgive, and fund a year-in, year-out loss-making tree killer strategy will last forever, and in typical Freudian way, the reptiles displace all these fears and phobias on to the Fairfaxians ...

The reptiles have been having a field day with all this ...

And the reptiles also found the time this day to editorialise about the ABC ...

But what's the price a media sticky beak - sticking their useless beak into the business of others better placed to conduct the business - must eventually pay? While failing to attend to their own business, and still carrying on about the rich future in the tree-killing business?

Well a demented rag that blathers climate denialism at the drop of a hat, and promotes an array of hard right ratbags hovering on the fringes of demented fascism, might be wise to stop being a curious cat and instead pay attention to its own problems in this troubled digital age:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while the pond pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten tree killer reptile lore— 
While the pond nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the pond's digital chamber door. 
“’Tis some visitor,” the pond muttered, “tapping at my digital chamber door— 
Only this and nothing more.” 
Ah, distinctly the pond remembers it was in a bleak February; 
And each separate dying tree killer ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly the pond wished the morrow;—vainly the pond had sought to borrow 
From the pond's computer surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the tree killer reptiles of yore— 
For the rare and radiant reptiles whom the angels named the digital poor— 
Nameless on the full to overflowing intertubes for evermore. 
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple tree-killer curtain closing
Thrilled the pond —filled the pond with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
So that now, to still the beating of the pond's heart, the pond stood repeating
“’Tis some digital visitor entreating entrance at my digital chamber door— 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my digital chamber door;— 
This it is and nothing more.” 
Presently the pond's soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
“Reptilian sir,” said pond, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you now came rapping, 
After long, loud stints about the Fairfaxians and the ABC endlessly crapping,
And now so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the pond's digital chamber door, 
That the pond scarce was sure it heard you”—
And scarce was sure to read you - here the pond opened wide the paywall door;— 
Darkness there and nothing more. (apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, the real Raven here).

Old tricks, new dogs, lazy reptiles ... so hard, but you can Twitter with Moir here.

Wait, stop, hold the presses, did the pond just waste time talking of cats and dogs and ravens?

It seems it's time to pile on the hate of the unicorns. What's a unicorn ever done to the pond? Never mind, just feel the hate, but sssh, please, no talk of whispering in tongues or imaginary friends as everyone scuttles about looking for funny unicorn images...


  1. Tell Rupe, tell him he's dreaming.

  2. I see Alan Jones has endorsed a rival for preselection for Mackellar (Bishop's seat). Calcraft is an ex-Wallaby player, so no compromised loyalty there. "He has a manly sense of the fitness of things". I had to do a double-take. This from a man whom no Rugby-playing schoolboy at King's could feel safe with, and gave a bad name to London's public toilets? Plus provoking a race riot at Cronulla? And there are people who actually listen t him?

    And when Morrison speaks in tongues, Dutton endorses terrorism, Joyce is an ass and Pyne a poodle, and Turnbull turns a bling eye, some ee cummings is called for...

    Jehovah buried,Satan dead,
    do fearers worship Much and Quick;
    badness not being felt as bad,
    itself thinks goodness what is meek;
    obey says toc,submit says tic,
    Eternity's a Five Year Plan:
    if Joy with Pain shall hand in hock
    who dares to call himself a man?

    go dreamless knaves on Shadows fed,
    your Harry's Tom,your Tom is Dick;
    while Gadgets murder squack and add,
    the cult of Same is all the chic;
    by instruments,both span and spic,
    are justly measured Spic and Span:
    to kiss the mike if Jew turn kike
    who dares to call himself a man?

    loudly for Truth have liars pled,click;
    where Boobs are holy,poets mad,
    illustrious punks of Progress shriek;
    when Souls are outlawed,Hearts are sick,
    Hearts being sick,Minds nothing can:
    if Hate's a game and Love's a fuck
    who dares to call himself a man?

    King Christ,this world is all aleak;
    and lifepreservers there are none:
    and waves which only He may walk
    Who dares to call Himself a man.

    1. 'bling' was a typo, but I reckon it is more appropriate, so should stay. Turnbull, the pollie of word-bling.

  3. Time and tithe wait for no man, even as sweating the small change is dommed by the subbies.

  4. Anon, we tried cashless, back in the early 90s. Mondex looked good. But teh Gov was not happy. Your local Ice-man could load up a card and directly transfer the cash contents to his supplier. Bypassed the banks and Anti Money Laundering folks.
    So in some respects it was a cash economy without the cash.


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