Containing curious but not unprecedented matters, as Dame Slap goes into decking and the sporting reptiles give social media a good decking ...

The pond couldn't believe it … okay, the reptiles slutting for Clive while also talking of Bob Hawke's death was entirely predictable, and in accordance with refined reptile tastes … 

But to be actually still slutting for Clive on election day...?

Dear sweet long absent lord, how the reptiles love their Clive cash in the paw. They're about as subtle as a street hooker going about their business on William street back in the day …

Never mind, the pond is determined to avoid the election as much as possible, and so could only spare a  moment's irony …

Uh huh, says the extremely ugly pot to the kettle …

… but enough of the ironies, because there must also be room for one noble warrior, mentioned in despatches today by the reptiles, still holding out an eternal flame of hope …

Abbott defiant? Shouldn't that be Abbott the tone-deaf dickhead? Sadly it has to be said yet again. What a tone deaf boofhead dickhead the onion muncher is. At a time when there was absolutely no need for politics to be played, there he was playing dickhead politics in the matter of a death, and after this unforced error, then  forced to retreat and clarify in the inimitable onion muncher way. 

For comparison's sake, sure, we all laughed at John Hewson’s GST cake, but in contrast he managed to sound human in a way that must have seemed inexplicable and perhaps almost magical to the onion muncher.

If the burghers of Warringah vote this onion munching dropkick back in, may Manly be the first beach disappear beneath the waves (no loss, it's not a very good beach, and the surrounds are full of drop-ins and deadbeats).

Oh here, have a Wilcox, just to warm up and get things going, with more Wilcox here …

And with that out of the way, what have the reptiles managed for this day of days as a distraction from all the cupcakes and sizzling sausages?

Come on down, Dame Slap … brimming with pride for being the very best …

Now, spoiler alert, there's a marvellous twist to this rant which comes right at the very end, in which Dame Slap proves conclusively that gender bias has gone full circle, and it's a racket for a few lucky women, and she's one of them. 

Getting to that point is tedious, but the pay-off is exception, one of Dame Slap's richest comedy routines …

Strangely at the beginning, all the pond could think about was Dame Slap donning that MAGA cap, and now the logical outcome … Alabama.

Luckily Dame Slap could be reached for very predictable comments ...

Oh indeed, indeed, it's all so unfair …

But wait there's a huge twist and an amazing reveal coming … and it's only a few gobbets and a cartoon away ...

Yes, yes, the pond knows all about it, the Dame donning the MAGA cap and the natural conclusion to it all …

But now can we just get to the big reveal? These huge rants seem endless, when all that's needed is the pay-off ...

Uh huh, it's amazing how Dame Slap routinely knocks down other women, but fear not, there's a reason and a pay-off for it all, and so to the capper, to the glorious pay-off ...

So Dame Slap has ascended the throne of the tobacco-loving, coal supporting, rabidly ratbag IPA … surely the right home for her, surely the transcendent outcome of donning the MAGA cap and taking to the streets of New York … and thereby helping the world set off off on the long road to Alabama … pausing only for a few stops along the way to talk of climate science as an excuse for introducing world government …and so gender bias has gone full circle, and it's a racket for a few lucky women, and she's one of them …

But it was that final pose, that she was one of the boys, and that she might take a man out the back at Maguires, and deck him … perhaps even deploy her speciality, the king hit, that really took the cake …or should that be, really revealed the fruitcake that she is …

What a confused, confusing windbag she is …if anyone else were to talk of a decking, or a flattening, or a haymaker, or a coat hanger, or a cheap shot, they'd be some pisspot in a bar confused about his masculinity … but it seems Dame Slap knows what gender she is, and so she knows what must be done …

And so to a further distraction of a fundamentalist kind…

The pond can count on one hand the number of times over the years it's paid any attention to the reptiles' sporting stories, but the Folau matter has been an exception, and exceptionally handy in these troubled times when 'reptile sluts for Clive' seem to dominate the political landscape … so the pond thought it would be just the right time to Folau away at some length ...

There were two reptile wordsmiths called Smith out and about today, with Wayne the first cab off the Smithian rank ...

Um actually the rail line from Central Station is pretty bendy and inflexible, and there's a certain point after Wynard (or heading from the Quay to St James) when it goes on a real angle and the older carriages set up such a screeching and a yowling in the wheels that it sounds worse than chalk on a blackboard … but the pond gets the drift of the metaphor, so do go on ...

Hmm, why would the parrot want that? 

Dame Slap has already firmly spoken on this topic, and it's clear enough, there's no room for women in the corridors of power where men sniff other men's bums, and they must be allowed to ruck and maul together and smell their sweaty body odours without the whiff of women being present … why, with women present, how can there be a metaphorical, or a physical, or even a metaphysical decking?

But do go on ...

Indeed, indeed, deck that republican chappie … some sort of circuit-breaker is needed. 

What it actually has to do with a fundamentalist bigot rabbiting on about assorted matters escapes the pond, but then that's also the beauty of the rugger bugger sport. The few times the pond has looked, it's entirely mystifying and meaningless …and the rules are utterly inexplicable … why even game of flamingo croquet seems more sensible, and just to prove it's no slouch, the pond at one time almost grasped the rules of Quidditch …

But why go there at all?

Well it turns out that all this monstrous madness is a natural segue to that other Smithian wordsmith, Patrick, rabbiting on about the unhinged doors of sporting sanity … and this is where it gets really fruity and ripe, like a jockstrap left on the heater overnight ...

It seems that the other Smith failed to understand that … gasp … it's not really those dastardly republicans wot done it … it's actually … gasp ... all the fault of social media …

Now there was a once upon a time when the reptiles would have blamed bloggers, but blogging has somewhat lost its topicality, so other forms of social media must feel the wrath of unhinged reptiles ...

So social media is responsible for cricketers cheating? The pond never quite understood why there was such a fuss in the 1930s about the Poms and their fiendish answer to Bradman, bending, if not breaking the laws of cricket by using leg theory … but at last the pond understood, thanks to Patrick. 

Fuck it,  how did the pond miss the blindingly obvious … it was social media that was the ruination of the Don ...

Indeed, indeed, and it's a pity that the pond knows so little of assorted sports, but there was a time when it watched a little tennis, and finally the scales fell from the pond's eyes in that game too. 

It turns out that John McEnroe's superbrat can at last be explained. 

Fuck it, it was all the fault of social media. 

Who knew that Twitter and Instagram were so big in those days, but there you go …

In fact, it's likely that social media was responsible for that underarm bowling incident, the Fine Cotton affair, and Nicky Winmar enduring racial taunts …

Oh okay, the pond had to cheat … like any canny Greg Hunter, it went off to a list of Australian sports controversies, for its references, all of which apparently happened under the dire influence of social media … 

Fuck it, is there no end to the virtue-signalling thought crimes of social media?

But please do finish off the rant, because it has succeeded in helping the pond completely forget that this is election day ...

Oh come on, precious snowflake rabbiting on about social media. 

Surely there's a simple answer to the tyranny of social media.

What we need is a return to the days of a good decking … but don't ask the pond for help with this, turn to Dame Slap. She'll show you how to deck, flatten, KO, do in, knock senseless, coldcock anyone in the vicinity. It's the womanly way.

Apparently, it all started with West Saxon social media, back in the days when people really knew how to do a vicious tweet and a good cnocian …

Old English cnocian (West Saxon cnucian), "to pound, beat; knock (on a door)," likely of imitative origin. Meaning "deprecate, put down" is from 1892. Related: Knocked; knocking. Knock-kneed first attested 1774. Knock-down, drag-out is from 1827. Command knock it off "stop it" is first recorded 1880, perhaps from auctioneer's term for "dispose of quickly".  (here)

But that's enough of ancient social media and the lunacy and ruination it has produced in modern sport, with athletes driven mad by thumb-power. Should they knock it off before Dame Slap decks them?

Not to worry, today there's also a garage sale, a disposal if you will, that has attracted the attention of the infallible Pope … with more papal encyclicals here …