Christopher Pearson and bunging on peculiarly mirthless laughter of an inherently patronising kind ...

(Above: my very own personal elephant stamp).

Is it just me, or do others have a sense that the country is sliding into terminal idiocy?

What bright bureaucratic spark thought it was a good idea to have gherkins stationed at polling booths handing out elephant stamps to people who voted?

Sure we were in a primary school to do the dirty deed, and what a sad and sorry state the computers in the classroom were in, and don't you worry about Tony 'the luddite' Abbott caring about that, but do adults have to be rewarded for doing what is compulsory by giving them a tragic elephant stamp? (By adult, I exclude the loud boastful preening peacock of a loon in the queue explaining to anyone who might listen, and the many who didn't, that he intended to vote Liberal. It's a secret ballot, you ten year old, keep your opinions and stupidities to yourself).

The infantilization of politics in this country is bad enough, but do we also have to infantilize the right to vote? With a bloody elephant stamp?

Never mind, I was wondering how the chattering commentariat elites were going with their high minded consideration of policy matters, and their firm stance against nattering nabobs of negativity, and who better to turn to than Christopher Pearson in Rudd's assassins can expect no Labor mercy:

She imagines that what her admirers would call feistiness is a generally endearing trait. Many, especially middle-aged women, see it as vixen behaviour. She relies on smiles and little laughs to buy time to think in interviews. Yet it's a peculiarly mirthless laughter, as all but the besotted know, and it's inherently patronising.

Yep, Club Sensible is at it again. It's particularly pleasing to see that Pearson knows what middle-aged women think, and how they deplore inherently patronising vixenish behaviour, because no doubt that means he understands why many, especially middle-aged women, think he's the fuckwit bitch from hell.

Especially when it comes to convenient Club Sensible memory lapses about what actually transpired during the Howard years, when Tony Abbott alternated between being Howard's faithful attack dog and was rewarded by being allowed to become his faithful lap dog:

Another way in which she patronises her audience is to tell whoppers about her opponents -- especially on the subject of Work Choices and Tony Abbott's record as health minister -- that would strain the credulity of a 12-year-old.

What that says about the credulity of chattering conservative commentators of a Catholic kind is another matter altogether.

Never mind, let's check out how the streak of paranoid resentfulness, a particularly virulent virus common in all commentariat commentators, is going:

It's a poor reflection on local journalism, especially in the electronic media, that she's hardly ever taken to task for it, while Abbott is judged by more exacting standards.

Yep, he's judged by much more exacting standards, except of course by bitches from hell and middle-aged women who love his vixenish behaviour and his peculiarly mirthless laughter, never mind that all but the besotted know that it's inherently patronising.

Why when Abbott smiles it passingly reminds me of Vlad the impaler or the crocodile in Peter Pan giving a toothy grin, or so I'm told by scribblers who focus on matters of important policy.

So we pass our days reading the stupidities of what passes for political commentary these days in that heart of the nation The Australian. No wonder we flee the dead heart, and huddle by the sea, dreaming of escape ...

But what's even more amusing is Club Sensible's attempt at balance:

Mark Kenny, political editor of Adelaide's The Advertiser, asked the only brave question at Gillard's National Press Club appearance on Thursday. "What choice, indeed what chance, do voters have of making an assessment of the parties when both sides engage in such egregious misrepresentation of the other's policies?"

Given Labor's vengeful attitude to the fourth estate, the "plague on both your houses" element of his reproach was only prudent. He didn't get an answer.

He wouldn't have got an answer if he'd bothered perusing the rest of Pearson's befuddled column, which spends the usual amount of time maliciously mourning the absent Rudd - having spent years attacking Rudd - and then getting into the tribal chiefs and the callow faceless men.

The notion that such a rabid supporter of the Liberal party has suddenly turned even-handed, 'pox on both your houses' sent me into gales of mirthless laughter, especially as he spends his entire column wishing a pox on the Labor house alone.

If this is balance, don't let Pearson get on a see saw or we'll all slump so far to the right even Genghis Khan couldn't save us.

Well we'll see how it all shakes out in the end, but wouldn't it be grand to see a column speculating on what might happen if Abbott had a narrow win, and then began to stumble around like an elephant stamp in a darkened room, and big Mal suddenly loomed up large alongside him, and gave him a peculiarly mirthless laugh of an inherently patronising kind ...

And that I'm afraid is where we must leave Christopher Pearson, beavering away on the board of SBS as that network is driven into the ground, in much the same way as the National Museum is a shambolic wreck, and his fine insightful political commentary, since by eight p.m. tonight the nation will be throwing its "I Voted" memorabilia into the dust bin, and Pearson's views will be digital wrapping paper for digital fish and chips.

Here's hoping that however it comes out it causes Pearson unending pain.

Now excuse me while I practise my peculiarly mirthless laughter of an inherently patronising kind so that I too can become a wise member of the political pundit elite, sipping on my port while lolling in my leather chair at the club ...

I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute. ~Rebecca West