In which Dame Slap goes fruity speechwriter haywire, the dog botherer does an impression of a monoturd, and it's left to our Gracie to analyse the narcissists ...

 

 

In its daily walks, the pond has noticed the curious phenomenon of the odd couple. 

This usually consists of a woman wearing a mask, and a man not bothering, thereby rendering the point of the woman wearing the mask entirely moot. Not once has the pond noticed the phenomenon in reverse, with the woman maskless, and the man covered up ...

The pond has occasionally thought of wandering up to the odd couple and asking "and your fucking point is?!", but realises that this could be dangerous, with the woman offering up a submissive sigh, and the man carrying on like a ratbag devotee of the dog botherer or Killer Creighton ...

Better just to walk by, maintaining the distance ... but it reflects the troubled times in Sydney, accustomed to an easy superiority, but now required to do a few hard yards, and wilting under the strain and sending sundry reptiles into a state of hysterics.

As a result, this day at the pond is exceedingly boring and tedious and yet at the same time astonishingly weird and wondrous, and who better to start off proceedings than Dame Slap?

 

 

 

Suddenly it's urgent?

Might the pond humbly suggest another urgent emergency? The need for the reptiles to fix their graphics department ... oh and perhaps get back to some good old-fashioned climate science denialism, so we might enjoy the Dame Slap of yore ...

 

 

 

Need any more compelling evidence? To accompany Dame Slap's discovery of the bleeding obvious they dig out a Getty Images snap of a queue? A queue? Might as well run a snap of paint drying...

Forgive the pond, but this is an unmitigated catastrophe, a crisis of the first water, and the reptiles must develop a sense of urgency if they're going to win the race to fix it ...

As for the other matter, you know, people dying in their homes, here's where it gets truly weird ...

 

 

Say what? Dame Slap has turned PM speechwriter? The chairman of the IPA is going to put words into Scotty from marketing's mouth?

Is she really that keen to provide evidence that SloMo is just a reptile sockpuppet?

Never mind, let the charade begin ...

 

A couple of notes:

It turns out that Dame Slap can be as batshit boring as any political speechwriter.

And surely it was a mistake of the reptiles to show the real PM in a clickbait video clip hard up against Dame Slap wanting to put words in his mouth? 

The pond had to neutralise images of the real SloMo immediately by way of a screen cap, lest some stray passing innocent felt the need to see the sockpuppet speaking, and yet somehow failing to do his sockpuppet duty, and sound off in the manner demanded by Dame Slap in her inimitable way ...

 

 

Um, how did the reptiles allow that? That is not political speechwriting. That is a dreadful assembly of cliches, truisms and dull rhetoric of the tedious "to our people, I say" and "I want to insist on one point" kind ...

It's hideous, it seems designed to make the pond grateful for real politicians,  even one as dreadful as Scotty from marketing ... and it doesn't get any better ...

 

"Therefore, I proposed"; "regarding flights", "regarding the remaining elderly"?

Tedious, pompous, bloated, stilted, and with curious notions, such as the elderly must be "doubly cautious in watching themselves" ...

So the elderly must sit in front of a mirror and contemplate their navel? Can they do it in a meadow, ad infinitum?

Sorry, the pond was racing ahead there a little, in its urgent desire that all this end ...

 

"My friends"?!

That's the giveaway of course. At one point when one of the pond's email addresses was being relentlessly spammed by US politicians, the opening line was always "My friend", when the scribbler had about as much familiarity with the pond as a bar of soap had to Tamworthians trapped once a week in a bath tub ... and it was always followed by the line "my friend, send me a quadrillion smackeroos and I will make you rich and the planet a veritable paradise", and as the emails usually came from Republicans, the pond knew at once it was a devious lie ...

For a moment the pond ended up being endlessly spammed by the orange one, but the pond will leave donning the MAGA cap to Dame Slap ...

So thank you very much, but no thank you at all, please, someone stop Dame Slap from ever repeating this dreadful experiment.

The pond has no idea what came over her, but it's convincing evidence that we were better off when she just ranted, and raved, and heckled and carried on like a pork chop ...

Speaking of pork chops, next up was the dog bothering, and he was in a right old state of hysteria ...

 

 

 

 

At last an evocative illustration, even if it's one worn down by repetition, because the dog botherer is determined to punch somebody or something or someone in the moosh ... 

It's the dog botherer way, and clearly the current lockdown has had a severe impact on his mental health, which true to tell, has always been a little suspect ...

 

 

Might the pond interrupt the rant here to quote John Birmingham? The poor lad was recently in a state of medical shock, as he outlined here ...

On Saturday, three things happened.
A young, otherwise healthy woman, Adriana Takara, a 38-year-old accounting student, died of COVID in Sydney.
Thousands of protestors marched through the streets of the same city (and through Melbourne and Brisbane) raging against lockdowns, and masks, and black helicopters, and 5G nanobots, and Jewish space lasers and whatever and ever amen.
And my surgeon came with the results of the biopsies.

Oh dear ...

 

Well yes, and luckily there was good news at the end of it all, and the pond knows feeling -  the pond was once pronounced dead on the operating table, and for years, the pond's mother was convinced that it was the power of prayer that brought the pond back, but there's a certain clarity that arises and speaking of performative wanknuffery and fringe-dwelling monoturds, on we go ...

 

What a whining, moaning, whingeing, foot-stamping snowflake ... or monoturd, if you will ... as on and on the dog botherer rambles, with meaningless lamentations about some kind of mystical and non-existent national character ...

We all know the sort who blather on about national character ...

 

 

Back to the dog botherer, full of the vapours ...

 

 

East Germany? Oh for fuck's sake, and there was Polonius prattling about Burnside, and yet here's the dog botherer evoking the Stasi?

And yet the real emergency is that the reptile graphics department has reverted to form, as if a shot of two politicians in masks somehow illuminates the dog botherer's Stasi words, and help with the crisis at hand ...

 

 

Yep, it takes a dog botherer to defend a useless mob of fuckwits and loons, but perhaps that's because, as a monoturd himself, he feels a comradely kinship ...

Some might wonder if in any of this, is the dog botherer helping, and of course he's helping himself, because he needs the occasional brain fart to ease the tension ... but luckily there's only one gobbet to go ...

 

 

Did the pond mention monoturds and precious snowflakery? 

JB ended his piece this way:

I was plenty sick, but the nodules were most likely an imaging artefact.
I received this happy news on the day Adriana Takara struggled for her last breaths, and Jon-Bernard Kairouz the Tik Tok Covid Numbers Guy guy filled his lungs to roar out that he was the ‘People’s Premier’ and he was protesting for ‘free dumb’.
It all seemed connected and disconnected and freighted with meaning and meaningless.
By the end of the day, however, Kairouz had deleted any evidence of his having been at the rally, perhaps thinking he could claim that his earlier livestream from the event was some sort of imaging artefact too.
But fuck that guy. He was there. They all were.

Yep, and the dog botherer was there too, yelling his version of free dumb and blathering about wimps and pussies, while stumping about like a bullying monoturd ...

At the end of it all, the pond finally understood the odd couple syndrome: the dog botherer was the one without the mask, roaming around, and shouting at the clouds, and the masked woman walked three paces behind ...

 

 

 

For a more detailed analysis of the syndrome, the pond turned to our Gracie ...

 

 

The pond would have hesitated at diagnosing the dog botherer as a narcissist, but in her new and free state of mind, our Gracie didn't hesitate ...

 

 

Indeed, indeed. Or they might end a column with ...

 

 

 ... and think it a fine rhetorical flourish, as monoturds are wont to do...

Please, do go on with the analysis ...

 

A grandiose sense of self-importance? A lack of empathy for others? A need for special admiration? A calling out for special treatment?

Could we add blather about national character, because then we'd have the dog botherer down to a T ...

As usual, the pond began to wonder how much longer our Gracie might want to turn up on this reptile platform and nestle cheek to jowl with the dog botherer ...

Look, there they were this morning ...

 

 

 

The monoturd narcissist and the shrink on the spot to do an analysis of the narcissist ... but as usual, everything must come to an end, even a session on the couch ...

 

 

Sorry, Gracie, but the dog botherer and News Corp in general will go on infecting the country, it's in their nature ... and how much are they paying you to act as their shrink and in-house therapist?

Luckily, after a Freudian session, the pond can keep on being distracted by the immortal Rowe's alternative games ... with more alternatives here ...