If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Thank you Rudyard and Akker Dakker.
Frankly the pond is sorry, very sorry. Yes, that'a an apology.
Confronted by the vast ABC and Fairfax media conspiracy, a conspiracy which makes whatever went down in Dallas a mere doddle, the pond routinely underestimates the hard work done by the sycophants (no, it's not spelled psychophants) and the hagiographers.
When the going gets tough, and the conspiracy is at its deepest and darkest, the tough get going, and sort the vile, filthy conspiracists out.
Bravely, bravely, steadfast, standing tall and true, like an English batsman facing bizarre moustaches and strange tatts bearing down on them with malevolent fury. Oh and they said the pond didn't do cricket metaphors.
Oh songs will be sung around campfires just as Alan-a-Dale once celebrated tales of derring do in Sherwood forest:
Come listen to me, you gallants so free
All you that loves mirth for to hear
And I will tell you of a bold brave hearty heroic wondrous pollie
That lived on the north shore and occasionally in Canberra shire.
And so on and on.
Sorry, it doesn't scan, and anyway it's not nearly as good as Dennis 'the tie, the suit and the lustrous bouffant hair' Shanahan when he gets down diligently to the burnishing and the buffing and the shining:
Oh you childish pathetic conspirators, you see, Dennis is at the moat and at your throat, ready to celebrate the brave Tony, the St. Sebastian of Labor crimes if ever there was one.
Meanwhile, you wretched conspirators, you're so confused you even leak your pay details to anyone who asks.
No, it's not good enough to pretend that this has revealed that the preening reptiles at the lizard Oz are about as clever at investigative journalism as the notorious Small Throat ...
But what else can be done? What Homeric odes can be chanted, what urgent national business can be contemplated?
Ah, the fine art of the squirrel.
Look, squirrel Rudd!
Why of course, with the ship of state righted, and the fearless leader steering a fearless path into the heart of darkness - only so things can be sorted by bare minimum commentary, except to tell people that love means never having to say you're sorry and oh the love, the love - what else to do but brood about the momentous mistakes of the former Chairman Rudd back in 2006 ...
Because 2013 is so naff, so not now ...
Oh sure there are quislings and lickspittle lackeys, possible infected by the ABC and the Fairfaxians bug of compromise. Why they might even be in on the conspiracy
Oh they talk of concessions, in a way certain to arouse the fury of the righteous and the splenetic, not limited to, but certainly including the Bolter and Miranda the Devine, but where will it get them?
Into the halls of shame, specially erected so that the populace can throw pulpy tomatoes at them.
Do we have an example of this craven, cowardly, unmanly, Rudyard Kipling-hating, forelock-tugging?
Oh dear. Concessions the only way to respond?
Who is this lickspittle sell out?
Paul Kelly? Oh to die of shame, the pompous Kelly revealed as a tool of the ABC and Fairfax!
Why after reading that, the only image that can come to mind is the tin man in need of a heart ... or is that a scarecrow in need of a brain?
Ssh, whatever you do, don't mention a lion, it'll send the Bolter into a foaming frenzy about the treasonous Paul Kelly ...
Doesn't the goose get it?
Shocking, shameless. Is there another quisling in the house?
Oh no, not the Obama ploy. Apologise?
Who is this abject, reprehensible apologist?
Et tu, confused, craven, oscillating Peter van Onselen?
Surely this is a house divided by the most base, demeaning and wretched cowardly lions.
What next? Calls for unmanly swimwear? A cry that dear leader untog and unbike himself and become the subject of coarse, crude humour?
There's a deep-seated conspiracy at work here, and no, it isn't Chairman Rupert's minions spying on the rich and famous.
It's the meejia, and Chris Kenny is on hand to explain just what a treacherous, traitorous anarchist bunch they are:
You see, you see!
Spilling the beans on what people earn ... no, let's not dignify them in that way, let's not call them peeple, let's call them what they are, leather-elbow patched, cardigan-wearing, horn-rimmed glasses anarchist traitorous conspirators ...
These so-called journalists, who dared to scoop the Murdochians, wouldn't know a decent journalistic investigation or how to do it if it bit them on the bum.
Exposing how much these wretched peeple get paid is absolutely a top notch example of investigative journalists probing suspect government activities like Q and A.
This is miles away from cheap, stereotypical suggestions of Big Brother and Chairman Rupert spying on the citizenry using hi tech digital know how and devices.
It's certainly not wages voyeurism, it exudes a higher ideal, the ideal of showing how cheaply these peeple can be paid to indulge in their traitorous anarchy ...
Why the next thing you know, all that should be decent and upright and Queen and long absent God fearing will be revealed as a closet supporter of gay marriage and the republic.
Is there no end to this astonishing conspiracy.
Oh okay, you guessed it, the pond looked at the deeply superficial headlines of the deeply predictable hagiographers and decided to look no further, because life is tedious and to read on would have been to descend into the utter fatuity of being an apple polisher like Akker Dakker:
All causes shall give way. I am in blood
Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand,
Which must be acted ere they may be scanned.
Apologise?
Crawl like the creepy crawly Obama?
To Indonesians?
No, no, summon up the courage, stiffen the sinews, etc et al.
Or close the wall up with our dinkum Aussie lizard dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility
Or even a craven apology:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Forget the cowardly lion caper and cheap talk of apology;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Or even pry through the contents of a mobile phone
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest dinkum Murdoch reptiles.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, and Downers too,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
In a proper traditional loving marriage blessed by Queen Bess
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war.
And you, good yeoman, who sing brave songs of Abbott,
Whose limbs were made in Woop Woop, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Doped up on cocaine, amphetamines, caffeine and EPO,
As all the best greyhounds in NSW are,
Straining upon the start.
The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'Long absent god for Tony, dinkum Oz, and Saint Rupert!'
But is there any consequence, any downside?
Show us First Dog, show us what it means to look into the boiling, steaming cauldron of right wing backlash fury. And as always more First Dog here.
It's the only link the pond has bothered with today, perhaps because it's the only link worth having. If you want to step into the bloated briar patch known as Murdoch la la land, feel free to do it, but there's no way you can blame the pond for facilitating it. Meanwhile, click to enlarge:
Dot - you provide little gaps in the paywall so I can press and eye to the barricade and terrify myself with lickspittle offerings.
ReplyDeleteOh but I am feeling queasy after First Dog's disturbing satirical predictions.
Peerless A would one of the first into a boat too and how he would squeal if it were turned around.
I am heartened though to see Paul Kelly recover a bit of sense.
TA cannot be allowed to treat Indonesia as the Opposition. They are well on the way to becoming an economic powerhouse.
He couldn't negotiate with Tony Windsor. How can he possibly match it with the shadow play of the Javanese political elite. Someone help him. For the first time I find myself wishing him well. The sycophants in the media should put the nation first. Not TA.
NZ maybe not such a bad destination, where APEC, TPP, Crosby-Textor, Philip Morris & John Key can call any #TobaccoShill a f*n tool.
ReplyDeleteNothing changes in the Opinion pieces of the Murdoch rags: so many words, so much garbage.
ReplyDeleteBut from Indonesia here are a few words that sum it up, perfectly.
http://tinyurl.com/lhyvtdk