In which the writhing reptiles in the herpetarium revive the pond's pleasure in life, and the Caterists get the wrong end of the wagging dog ...

(Above: and more papal visions here).

There has never been, it may be said with considerable gusto, a more exciting time to be a blogger blogging about the reptile commentariat.

Even Media Watch, which has lately been showing signs of Murdochian Stockholm syndrome, couldn't resist the pure undiluted pleasure of celebrating the Daily Terror's front page follies, or the way the Fairfax poll was relatively close, while the Newspoll reptiles of Oz drifted off into la la land (take that, puffed-up Order of Lenin hunter).

There was a time recently when the pond was finding the going tough.

Towards the end, the long march made the pond feel like one of Mao's peasants, or perhaps a retreating foot soldier returning in winter with Napoleon or fleeing after Stalingrad. The pond even began to understand cricket analogies ... the nervous nineties, and then, after the 100 days had been reached, too many silly points, and miscues, and lots of reptile thick edges ...

The Daily Terrorists, supposedly guaranteed to deliver the west and a cure for baldness, ended up delivering nothing, not even a follicle, and so this day decided to have a nervous breakdown and revert to true tabloid form ...

Deliver western Sydney? They couldn't deliver a heart attack with a cheese-laden pizza ...

The Currish Snail was still back slugging it out with a coulda, woulda, shoulda bout that started to get the pond interested in punch-drunk boxing analogies ...

The HUNsters at least understood that the past was the past, and that the future was problematic ...

But as usual the sheerest delight was produced by the bewildered reptiles of Oz ...

But, billy goat reptiles, if they revolt against Turnbull, they truly will produce anarchy, chaos, confusion and a Billista government ...

Oh what joy it was to see the reptiles cavorting and writhing on the front digital page ...

The bromancer telling how to be a good PM?

Like his onion-munching, wall-punching mate? It doesn't get more delightful or surreal than that.

Of course at some point the pond had to settle down and take its medication.

And what surer way to tame the kraken and induce somnambulistic stupor than to release the Caterist?

Now the pond really appreciates the Caterist attempt to introduce the pond's favourite movie, Wag the Dog, into the discussion, while at the same time realising that this would likely show that the Caterist was totally out of his shallow pool depth ...

You take the fruit of forty years, hard lessons, mistakes, and you call it wisdom, or you take a grifting, grafting, taxpayer-bludging dullard sociology student and you end up with a Caterist ...

Now right about there, in that last par, the pond realised that the dullard Caterists just gave the game away and ran up the flag.

They really did want to fuck over Medicare - well the Caterists might call it "fixing it", but we know what a Caterist fix looks like.

Run off with taxpayer money in the shape of a grant, and then spend your life explaining why others shouldn't get a grant.

Yes it's another rectitudinous sermon from a man with his paw in the taxpayer till, pocketing generous grants to keep the Menzies Propaganda Centre afloat ...

And around this point, the pond couldn't stand it any longer.

You see, Stanley Motss, as immortally played by Dustin Hoffman, wasn't a director, as suggested by the Caterist in his very first and his very last lines.

It's a small point, a trivial point, but it's an indication of just how clueless the Caterists are about everything.

The entire point of Wag the Dog is that Motss is a Hollywood producer, not a director.

You only had to listen to the dialogue to get it:

Winifred Ames: Oh, God. What do we do now? Huh? Huh? What do we do now, huh, boy producer? Huh? Mister win-an-Emmy, social-conscience, whale-shit, save-the-rain-forest, peacenik-commie, fuckin'-hire-a-convict-shithead? Huh? What do we do now, liberal, affirmative action, shithead, peacenik commie fuck? What do you want to do now? 
Stanley Motss: This is nothing! Piece of cake! Producing is being a samurai warrior. They pay you day in, day out for years so that one day when called upon, you can respond, your training at its peak, and save the day! 

That's producing, not directing. Three horsemen of the Apocalypse dead, and you can still put on a show. Oh and while we're quoting ...

[all notice a mini TV in the wreckage, playing the opposition's commercial demanding that they produce Schumann] 
Winifred Ames: [Winifred takes the TV from Connie and throws it down to the ground] Fuck you! Conrad 'Connie' Brean: Leave it alone! What did television ever do to you? 
Winifred Ames: It destroyed the electoral process!

Actually Winifred, there's a good argument that the Murdochians and the Caterists destroyed the electoral process.

But at least the pond got a take home message from the Caterists. They also want to "fix" Medicare ...

Winifred Ames: How are we going to explain that when the world is watching? 
Stanley Motss: Fuck the world. Try a ten a.m. script meeting, coked to the gills, no sleep and you haven't even read the treatment.

Oh and while we're quoting ...

Stanley Motss: Look at that! That is a complete fucking fraud, and it looks a hundred percent real. It's the best work I've ever done in my life, because it's so honest.

Conrad 'Connie' Brean: Stanley, don't do this. You're playing with your life here. 

Stanley Motss: Fuck my life! I want the credit.

Fuck it, Stanley, let's really fix Medicare ...

Oh and while we're at it ... let's revive George Romero's Night of the Living Dead ... with thanks to Rowe and more Rowe here ...