In which the pond suffers along with Dame Slap as she rents the air with a howl of pain ...

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix ...

Say what? The world has moved on?

These days it's Game of Thrones?

No matter, the pond can recognise a cry, nay, a howl of pain ... a shriek of endless suffering ... a sense of deep loss ... a feeling of abandonment and betrayal ... of desertion ... with consequent disturbance in the force ... and the weird species dysphoric anthropomorphism which creates the sense of being a donkey, or an ass ...

Lo, what golden ass is this that approaches?

A donkey vote.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Dame Slap confessing to being a donkey? Or worse, a Game of Thrones' fan?

Pausing in the ritual proceedings, the pond first had to acknowledge the many blood sacrifices it makes each day when it comes to blogging.

There's no time for the dog botherer, with his cheer-leading of Malware, urging him to hearken to the clarion cry of the deeply conservative on energy, conservatism having worked so well for SSM ...

With a clean scything of its blade, the pond lopped the dog botherer into the next world of terminal, tedious irrelevance, and turned back to that howl of pain from resident Oz donkey...

Now the pond confesses to sharing the same suffering as Dame Slap. 

Imagine, there she is, in a council electorate that falls within Malcolm Turnbull's federal seat of Wentworth - as close an indication as any that she's a member of those dreadful inner city 'leets and uppity eastern suburbs moneyed snobs that routinely sends the Terror and the lizards of Oz into a frenzy - and where some 80.8% voted yes ...

Imagine her intense suffering ... and then marvel at her amazing desire, nay her quest for welfare reform, because it's simply impossible to imagine anyone in this blessed Australia suffering more than her ...

Where else in the country would it be possible to languish at the suffering induced by Malware's "crabbiness when grassroots members want a selfie with him..."

Why it's simply impossible! Not even a gracious selfie from the surly perfunctory wretch? The snob, the ponce, tips in a cool million and imagines that buys him some relief?

Is it possible to imagine greater suffering or alienation anywhere else in the country? Of course not ...

Yes, we must go the donkey ... because it's gloom and suffering all the way in the eastern suburbs 'leets ...

How could any self-respecting eastern suburbs Liberal post a selfie to Facebook with Mr Harbourside Mansions glowering at, and possibly breaking the camera? Imagine the backlash in Woollahra? Or perhaps Bronte, or even Waverley?

The truth is the centre can't hold, chaos is loosed upon the eastern suburbs, and comrade Bill marches on Bethlehem ...

Indeed, indeed, speaking of being fucked (instead of speaking in dot riddles) all Dame Slap's many anxieties haunted the pond.

So many dramatic parallels, so many nanny staters, so much suffering in the eastern suburbs, so many questions, so few answers ... how could this have happened?

Hah, call that suffering?

They've never had it so good, the real suffering belongs to Dame Slap ... oh what to do, Donkey, what to do?

Indeed, indeed, so much suffering. It's a wonder Dame Slap gets out of bed each day, so depressing is her world ...

How long will she keep writing about a world of low rent political dramas that, in her own words, evokes equal doses of disgust and disbelief, and forces her to indulge in binge viewing of Game of Thrones as a way of coping with life?

Surely this is a nadir for the reptiles. The suffering couldn't possibly get lower than this anywhere in Australia ...

Why it's completely unimaginable how things might be tougher elsewhere ... though somehow Pope seems to have imagined it, with more imaginatively depressing Pope here ...