In which the pond tackles the reptiles' deadliest move … the unholy triptych ...

The pond looked at the reptile line-up today, and blanched, went in fact as white as a sheet, and took on a ghostly, ghastly edge of fear …

The reptiles had deployed their fiercest, most fearsome move … the triptych of terror.

The pond can think of only one superior move …

This was a line-up for the ages … but at least the pond had learnt its lesson a long time ago. 

Don't step up to the reptiles, don't argue, don't get into a bar room brawl - instead present them as ethnographic and sociological wonders and marvels to behold…

Let others decide what irritated them the most. Just enjoy the journey, and the destination - a love of pure, sweet innocent coal - would look after itself ...

Doing a Gandhi was the only way to retain sanity on the long haul, because all of the reptiles were feeling their oats, even Shanners. 

The pond's readers had been worried about the hagiographic powers of the reptiles, but today they came back strong, these bin chicken 'crane move' kung fu fiends of Surry Hills.

Naturally the honour of going first feel to central panel in the triptych, the dog botherer at the heart of the matter. That way readers could drop off like flies and be spared the horrors that were to follow …

Now all this is well and good and soundly cynical, but the dog botherer was just warming up, and when last discussed on these pages, there was some contemplation of his favourite words, whether luvvies or woke or such like, but the pond realised that it had completely forgotten the rolled gold cheap trinket known as "virtue-signalling, pure and simple"...

Where would the virtuous reptiles be without 'virtue-signalling', since every knows that like love, virtue is a despicable thing, and might have something to do with that reprehensible Xian socialist who stalked the earth thousands of years ago preaching virtue and love, as a disguised Satan surely would ...

The point in any of these screeds is never to mention climate science, because given the dog botherer's scientific credentials, he might be better off fucking a dog than making a fool of himself …

And it goes without saying that behind it all, as well as the climate science denialism, which is a given, there's a Hill Song-like devotion to sweet, nurturing dinkum clean Oz coal. Oh sing its praises, celebrate with joy in your sooty hearts...

Yes, indeed, it's much better to go on fucking the planet the way we are, with all this nonsensical talk of recycling, reusing, sustainability, and other such gibberish, which is a mortal sin in the eyes of the dog botherer … though the next line is another classic dog botherer Sergeant Friday routine …

Our debate is dominated by unrealistic posturing rather than cold hard facts …

Could "unrealistic posturing" be up there with virtue-signalling? We know about the rest, and the rich fantasy life the dog botherer leads with the cold, hard facts …

Just the fags and the cold, hard facts, ma'am, and if you fuck your lungs and the planet, where's the harm?

Yes, let the fight for coal continue, terrify the wimps with talk of nukes, and whatever you do, don't take climate science seriously.

And so the pond went on to the left panel of the unholy triptych, and this time it was the bromancer, and sure enough the heavenly campaign for coal was in full swing, with the bushfire season hopefully forgotten, and the propaganda machine ready to go back to its old ways ...

It's the oldest reptile argument of all. Nobody's doing anything, so why should we do anything? Why can't we just keep pushing coal up to Asia? Leadership? That's for virtue-signallers …

Now please, a graph at the end of this gobbet to make the bromancer's point ...

No doubt about that. Sure, we might be insufficient, but look at all the other recalcitrants. Surely that's a better aim, to be as malingering and naughty as they are. All the cool kids in the class get to be naughty ...

Shed a tear if you like, call it sad, but it's the cold, hard reality, which as everyone knows is kissing cousin to just the cold, hard facts ma'am ...

How did we get from coal to the coronavirus? Why that's the magic of reptile thinking, and the need to burble on at endless, tedious length, so that any reader reels away, numb and chanting, four legs of coal good,  two legs of wind and solar bad, and terribly destructive and expensive to boot …

Now can we have a mention of those malign wretches who unfairly demonise sweet, pure, virginal, innocent coal ...

Wondering what new coal is, as opposed to old coal? Well it's simple real. Australian exporters have devised the perfect solution, and produced new dinkum clean coal for export …

And with all that, and with everyone committed to coal, coal, coal, still the bromancer hasn't finished ...

The pond had to wait all this time for the best line of the morning? The Canavan caravan is one of the best informed circuses from any party on energy and climate issues? 

And what does the most informed mind know? Well it turns out that we don't know anything, everything is uncertain, nothing is but what is not, the only known known is that everything is unknown, the only certainty is that everything is sweet if we accept uncertainty as another word for having a beer on a banana lounge, and don't you worry your pretty little head about any of the nasties, and for the love of the long absent lord, don't lift a finger, except maybe to show you give a XXXX ...

More uncertainty for the informed Canavan here, because please remember there are unknowns which will forever remain unknown, provided it helps us do absolutely nothing but love sweet, dear innocent virginal coal ...

Strange, one day Western Civilisation is the font of all wisdom,  and worth enormous study, and the next day it's just a bunch of elitists in Europe and New York …

Ah well, if the bromancer wants to piss on the elite westerners, maybe he can get a professorship at an Islamic college.

Never mind, the pond gets the message. All is well, coal is the future, climate science is a fraud, why should we do anything, we must certainly not show leadership, and when 2050 comes around and the planet is comprehensively fucked, what a wonderful joke the reptiles will have played on the poor buggers still alive to have a bloody good laugh …

And so to the third panel in the triptych …

Now some might think that the third panel to the right in triptychs can be a worry …after all, there are some kinky precedents ...

But relax, it was just poor ordering by the reptiles, with the pond foolishly following suit. 

The third panel is a lot more like a repeat of the first panel ...

There had been some worry about the hagiographic powers of the reptiles, but how pleasing it is to report that the bouffant one has returned to top notch form with a joyous, bouncing piece, full of bright-eyed enthusiasm …

Oh bright eyes, burning like fire … is it a kind of dream?

Perhaps starting with a snake oil salesman wasn't the strongest move, especially in the current circumstances, and to be fair, the pond should note that there were dissenting voices this morning ...

Or as the immortal Rowe might have put it …

But that's just the oscillating fan, and anyway, where's the harm in Shanners being played for a fool? 

When you actually are a fool, you may as well enjoy being played for a fool … and what's more, for a Shanners. piece, a fool at an exceedingly tedious and excessive length.

These days hagiography doesn't come in a short gobbet or two, it's more like those vile overloaded buckets of salted, butter and heart attack-laden popcorn people chew in picture theatres ...

Yep, they've spent a decade or more arguing and bickering amongst themselves, and are littered with denialists and coal lovers, and have achieved three fifths of fuck all, and yet suddenly it's an opportunity, and everything's going to turn out hunky dory.

Is there any end to the hope or the delusion that springs to the ardent reptile breast? Remember the nukes! There ought to be nukes! Bring in the nukes, and it'll sort out the timing in the career ...

Technological solutions are to hand. They're just around the corner, or perhaps in Alaska or Wapakoneta, and they could be here if we just went nuke, or stayed true to pure, dinkum sweet coal …

The time is right for a SloMo revolution, a veritable rapture ...

How weird is it to read a couple of reptile pieces explaining that it's all a waste of time and there's no need to do anything, and then read the bouffant one explaining that SloMo has all the solutions to the problem that isn't a problem, with technological solutions blossoming.

Sure they aren't actually in country, and they have five fifths of fuck all to do with the actual problem, but Shanners, blinded by the SloMo light, thinks everything is sorted, right down to the chicken shit … (just the cold, hard facts and the hard reality of chicken shit, ma'am) …

Well the pond has been rigorous this morning, and mostly gone cold cartoon turkey, so it only seems fair to bring in another immortal Rowe for a little light relief, with more Rowe as always here …because everything is looking up, and everything is for the best in the best of all possible SloMo worlds, especially when the dumb scientists get around to realising that coal will fix that virus. Is there nothing dinkum clean Oz coal can't do?