Let's talk of frothing stallions over a few beers ...

(Above: go the gee gees).

The pond rarely goes back to the trough for a second sip of the magic water; rarely nibbles on the hay bale as if it's a magic pudding that keeps on giving ... must watch the weight for the maiden outing.

But then a reader urged a second look at Paul Sheehan's piece Why Seven needs this beauty with the beasts.

Well not so much the column as the comments. But there were only 45 comments, before they put the beast out of its misery and locked it off, and most of them a predictable response to the ramblings of a senile old billy goat.

"Bizarre with a hint of creepy" seemed to summarise trends, with a joke or two about how the prepared article celebrating Mitt's win  had to be thrown into the bin, and this brain-dead tosser dross was all that was to hand.

It was almost universally agreed that Sheehan had sunk a few conservative brandies before hitting the keyboard, and much was made of mention of frothing stallions. There was talk of strings of drool causing tongue burn, and payback addressed to Ms. Sheehan and even a reader indignant at the explicit misandry.

Naturally magic water got an outing, with readers gobsmacked by a pointless piece of twaddle, and there was nattering about fifty shades of Sheehan, and it was all good fun so far as it went, but the pond didn't see anything unusual.

That's when the twitter feed called its siren song. First out of the box in terms of well-known media names was this one (no hot links, these are screen caps):

The pond isn't quite sure what "fevered extrapolation" might be, but it helped start a twitter trend:

Horse shit assertions and kind offers were made to do the job for half the price:

 Indecent proposals were also made:

But the tone remained generally grumpy:

And as of this morning, still more were joining in, and it made the pond realise that the twitterati had scooped the pool. This November racing carnival season, Paul Sheehan had become Sir John Kerr:

Kerr retired as Gee Gee a few weeks after his drunken outing at the 1977 spring carnival, and no doubt there are hopes that Generally Grumpy Sheehan might hang up his keyboard.

But hang on twitterati, Sheehan has the hide of a rhino and the staying power of an elephant and the insight of a gnat. 

He made a gorgeous goose of himself back in 2002 over the matter of magic water (Too good to be true),  and yet here he is, a decade on, still flaunting himself and shocking people and provoking titters. Paying attention isn't the solution, it only encourages him to linger on street corners exposing himself ... in a metaphorical way of course ... It almost goes without saying ...

And look at that. He's wasted another three minutes of the pond's life. That's longer than sex with the average Australian male during spring carnival ...

There's absolutely no time to contemplate David Penberthy's stark, giving declaration of man love for King Charles III in My kind of oddball: Arise, King Charles of Australia (not that there's anything wrong with man love, but must it always be completely indiscriminate and rampant?)

Oh okay Penbo's only doing it to tease, and because there's a certain madness in the air this spring carnival season, and not once does Penbo mention a desire to become a talking tampon, but he does wrap it up this way:

Between the endearingly left-field conduct of Charles, the decency of William, and the top-shelf, wholly commendable ratbaggery of Prince Harry, at least we will end up with a head of state who would make interesting company over a few beers.

Over a few beers? If you want an example of why Penbo doesn't have the first clue, just cite this column.

Why didn't he don some Nazi insignia over his tampon gear, clutch at a naked bunny or two, and down shot after shot, until waking in greenie remorse safe in the arms of his mother figure? That's what he wants to talk about over a few beers? Why he makes Paul Sheehan look like a convivial drunk.

And there's absolutely no time to look at Alan R. M. Jones (is he paranoid about being confused with Alan Jones or what), and his furphy of a piece Not a patch on Reagan's epoch-making re-election, in which he downplays Obama while going misty eyed over Reagan (behind the paywall for your children's safety).

And it's true that Obama's got a long way to go to become the high taxing, big spending, big government, big deficit leader that Reagan was. (Taxes: What people forget about Reagan).

Relax, in the end, it is just another parrot nostalgically squawking about Reagan and in The Australian of course. Where else?

And that's the end of the serious stuff this Friday.

It's time for feisty fillies everywhere to find a frothing stallion and live out the Paul Sheehan dream.

Or perhaps stay at home with a nice cup of tea and a picture of Prince Charles. Such a nice man, and don't take the pond's word for it, take Penbo's ...

(Below: and so to a few Steve Bell cartoons to wrap up the royal parade. More Bell here, helpful to mental health).