John Safran, John Morrissey, Parisian fashion, and quick boy, bring a bag for my head

(Above: an image from Paris Fashion week, with many more available in The Australian's very own gallery here).

The reason I never write about women's fashions is a personal feeling that it remains one of the few legitimate areas - in the sense of legally sanctioned business dealings - where men are allowed free reign to torture, maim, rob and abuse women.

But still it's better than writing about Peter Costello, ranting on about the ETS with To set our emissions targets now is nonsense.

A sample of the primordial folk wisdom that infuses Costello's musings:

Let's get a sense of perspective. The cock crows because the sun rises. The sun does not rise because the cock crows.

Why that's almost biblical, worthy of a Hemingway title:

The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.

Now we're cooking with coal.

Amen to that you old recalcitrant rooster, and maybe Rome will burn while you fiddle, as you blithely mention you took a scheme to cabinet in 2003 (rightly rejected for more consideration!) and then took the outlines of the current scheme to the electorate, and got whalloped, and now stand mutely by while mad uncle Wilson Tuckey talks up the Tim Blair line as if it had some scientific consensus, rather than being the monomaniacal ramblings of religionistas.

Costello spends an inordinate amount of time in his bathetic column explaining how we shouldn't sort things out until after Copenhagen, then explains how nothing will get sorted out after Copenhagen, 'cause it'll likely take six, or 40 or 50 or a 100 years to run its course, and how everything will go on changing for ever, which presumably means that government by dithering dunderheads is our only way forward, forever vacillating and equivocating, and looking for an angle when ever an insight or a principle is required.

Oh no, wait, got that wrong. He thinks it will be sorted at Copenhagen! And then it'll take another hundred years to sort, and he's got an offer of the Commonwealth debt - a couple of hundred billion - on offer as a bet, which I can collect in 2109 when I win.

Jeez, I've read some absurdist tripe in my time - and I really like Samuel Beckett - but Costello is way better than waiting for Godot.

What a deluded cockamamy cockhead, seeing as how the United States won't get its act together, and the rest of the world's politicians are acting like Costellos.

Tuck in your verbal hem, o possum, and depart the stage, taking Bronwyn Bishop and mad uncle Tuckey with you. Perhaps you might do a John Howard and get to run the AFL while he runs the NRL into the ground.

Yep, it's come to that. Has the world gone mad? John Howard to head the NRL? What next, jolly genial Joe Hockey to run the Liberals? With his first speech outside his portfolio aimed at giving him a more wide ranging electoral appeal to be on the subject of religion? Why not pick something uncontroversial? I don't know, abortion, or gay marriage or Delta Goodrem.

But enough of all that, as scanning the front page of the online rag known as the Daily Terror, I was struck by the header Tasteless: ABC star in 'Obama sex scene' row, and after reading how Obama was linked to child prostitution, courtesy Piers Akerman, I did truly wonder how Obama had got into a sex scene tangle with the ABC.

And there it was - John Safran having a wank while looking at a picture of poor innocent Obama. Talk about coat tailing. And sure enough coat tailing along behind the pack was a Christian spokesperson.

Yep, it's the Australian Family Association's rep at work in his own inimitable way again, presumably having had the chance to scan some borrowed ABC tapes to confirm that Safran's show was indeed filth, so he could advise the Daily Terror of the new Chaser revived and re-lived "horror shock sex filth depravity" scandal about to hit our screens.

"It's offensive and its in bad taste and its certainly not something that kids should be exposed to," Mr Morrissey said.

Well not all wanking's up on the big plasma screen.

Apparently the ABC has denied that the Safran show will be inter-cut with Playschool, so that one moment you might be watching sweet Brooke or innocent Deborah, and the next you'll be seeing Safran having a wank.

But can you trust these atheistic socialistic types, and their desire to steal eyeballs that rightly belong to Chairman Rupert? Not likely.

What a pity the clown Morrison couldn't find his way to the Daily Terror's gallery The damsels of Darwin, with its fifty images of bikini clad girls, freely available on the intertubes to torment 14 year old boys eager to get hair on their palms. (You too can get hair by going here). Or notice any of the other scantily clad galleries the piously hypocritical Murdoch press offers up to its perverts, while storming around scanning for any sign of paper-selling perversion.

Me, I feel like calling for that fashion bag from Paris, draping it over my head and sitting in a corner wondering what it all means. So many loons, so little time.

Lordy, it's only Wednesday, and I feel the walls of the room pressing in, and why are those men approaching me with that funny looking white jacket? Yep, it must be fashion week in Paris!

Meanwhile, here's a taster of Mr. Murdoch's damsels of Darwin. Go howl at the moon boys.

And below, just a few more images from the women haters of Paris. At least they got the bit about the need for the gown to resemble my brain exactly right. I can't say however that the re-introduction of Chinese foot-binding skills is exactly what I need as a fashion statement right now.