In which the bromancer saves the day, the onion muncher is off to purgatory and Polonius disappoints with his prattle ...

Sorry, that's a bait and switch.

The pond is desperate to avoid straight out fair average Pravda down under punditry during the election season. 

It's not as if the country isn't already full of it, and the socialists are coming is just too banal and predictable, and even worse, it's confusing. One time it was the Ruskis were coming, and then the reptiles learned to love the Donald and so love Vlad the impaler; another time it was the North Koreans that were coming, then the Donald fell in love with Kim, and we had to respect true love …

Luckily there was a hero who delivered a rant for the lizard Oz, which admittedly contained some domestic politics, but transformed itself in a wondrous way into a general shouting at clouds, ranting at kids to get off his lawn epic … 

Come on down bromancer, show us you've got the right stuff … and can match it with anything Grandpa Simpson or a rifle-toting Walkt Kowalski can offer ...

Perhaps as a preamble the pond should note that the bromancer's generation has done much to fuck the planet, and the kids will inherit the earth, and they will do with it, and make of it, what they can. So it's always been, so it always will be, and good luck to them, because the pond won't be around to see it. But there's always a King Canute ready to shout at the incoming tide …

Oh that talk of unfashionable right-wing law abiding is so rich and so tasty …

Oh that left a sour taste in a few mouths, a US President inviting a government official to break the law on the promise of a pardon, but we must move on with the ranting at the clouds ...

Yes, everybody's working terribly hard on their emissions, except the reptiles of Oz, who can't stop emitting, but more of climate science anon with the bromancer's great friend, the onion muncher … meanwhile there 's the media and children on lawns who need to be shouted at ...

Ah, beloved dinkum clean true blue Oz coal, and the Canavan caravan. How right and just that should enter the picture.

Climate science? A delusion and a dream, something cooked up to beguile young folk, and being young, of course they fall for it ...

You see? What need of the newly named Katrina Grace Kelly to talk of the dangers of socialism when the bromancer can get hysterical about vast social activism campaigns, with stupid people actually taking climate science seriously.

And then there's all the other nonsense about sex, when as everybody knows, poofters are doomed to spend an eternity in hellfire, unless they repent. Why a representative of the rugger buggers assured the nation of the fact only last week …

Oh it's all the fault of young people, have no doubt about. The youff of today is really fucked… how the bromancer hates the youff …you young people, you're ruining everything ...

You see the joys of being a reptile ranter? Note how almost everything attracts the ranter's ire, and the "horrible demons on the Right" are dismissed in a line, because anyhoo that's all the fault of the lefties, whose madness has driven the world insane …

It's a classic strategy. The Donald. Nothing to do with Fox or the chairman. All the fault of the contemporary left, and the youff of the day.

Get the youff coming, get the youff going, blame them for everything, these pathetic poseurs who just want to participate in a remake of Nick Ray's Rebel With a Cause …

And now having done a sterling, epic job - were you not entertained, was domestic politics only a part of the rant? - the bromancer will sign off ...

No, it's not clear they can build anything at all - they certainly couldn't build a Fox and Friends, or a lizard Oz, full of shouting reptiles - and knowing the decadence of today's youff, even more appalling, it's likely some of them don't care …

And so to the humour of the day, and admittedly it involves domestic politics, but it features the favoured hero of the pond, the onion muncher …

You see, this campaign all eyes are on the onion muncher's twitter account. Talk about the Twitter wars … almost every tweet sets the vultures to salivating over the onion muncher carcass, and they tweet back with wild abandon …

And don't just blame the pond, the media love him too …

A friend set the pond this little effort, which was deleted after the punters ran wild with comments …

Yes, it's the onion muncher having a casual chat with the vested interest of our man Akker Dakker …

And earlier the onion muncher had posted this piece of pious hypocrisy …

"I've always said climate change is real…"?

It's a stunning lie, but to be expected, because it seems that the onion muncher thinks he's in dire peril, and the cock has crowed thrice, so better recant, and say whatever comes to mind to the obliging folk at Sky, who'll swallow any kind of hypocritical horseshit to help save the lad … and where would the country, or the pond, be without him? 

Who else could offer that level of sanctimonious, righteous hypocrisy, who else could titillate and please at the sight of a fundamentalist Catholic deeply wedded to the art of lying?

Well, the fun began in earnest when one Angry Goddess tweeted back, with a depth of research that the pond found remarkable. 

Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, the pond thought it worth reproducing the Angry Goddess's findings in more readable form … so here we go …

Yes, the internet is forever, as devotees of the Wayback Machine will appreciate.

You can head to the tweet here for the Angry Goddess's sources, but really "I've always said climate change is real…"?

The pond was always taught that lying would lead to a spell in purgatory, and that's such a desperate whopper, the pond reckons the onion muncher just copped himself a hundred thousand year sentence. Oh if only the whole imaginary friends thing was true …

Well played Angry Goddess, the pond is in your debt, and really that should have been more than enough for a Sunday meditation… but then there was prattling Polonius to consider.

The pond is immensely loyal to Polonius, but if it were to do the Polonial dance, it would be compelled to break its rule about reptiles rabbiting on about domestic politics …

How could the pond justify it?

Well there's always the chance of a history lesson, and besides, pond professionals would hang in to the bitter end, and perhaps the result would remind them of the immortal Sherlock Holmes …

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during the winter of ’19 that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was Polonius. The candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face and told me at a glance that something was amiss.
"Come, pond, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!"
Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the silent streets on our way to the Sydney Institute. The first faint winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct in the opalescent Sydney reek, most likely a socialist intent on wreaking ruin on the nation, unless the bromancer managed to stop him. Polonius nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter and neither of us had broken our fast. It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the Ramsay centre, and taken our places amongst the Surry Hills ‘leet as they sipped on their coffees from the best baristas in the world, that we were sufficiently thawed …

And so the pond had to offer profuse, deep apologies. It was even worse than the pond had feared or expected. Poll navel gazing of the worst kind, and nary a history lesson in sight, and of course all designed to explain how the current mob were in with a goodly chance.

It didn't get any better, but now, in a Macbethian way, to switch from the usual talk of Hamlet,  "I am in bloody Polonius stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er …"

And so to a standard bout of Polonial media conspiracy theorising ...

You know, when others go off into the wilds of 'what if?' and alternative history, Polonius is inclined to be very severe with them … but doesn't he just love to do it himself … 

Look at the "it's possible" variations he produces like some wizard conjuring up an alternative reality in a style that makes the Donald sound like a rank amateur …

Well there's just one more gobbet to go, and the pond must apologise again for the lack of a history lesson, but Polonius is clearly feeling the heat, in the same way as the onion muncher is out in the hot sun, and so Polonius must bang the drum of hope, and so we end up back where we started ...

A real contest at hand? 

A tad prosaic … the pond much prefers …

"Come, pond, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!"

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the silent streets on our way to the Sydney Institute…

And so to the New Yorker's analysis of the problems of today's youff, where you're likely to be invited to sign up for the daily cartoon and where's the harm in that?