Talk about a reptile parade of heavy hitters this day ...a bromancer troll, a "Ned" Everest, and aging, battle-scarred Dame Slap under threat from vulgar youff ...

 

 

 

All the top notch reptiles were out and about, on parade in their weekend finery, making it really difficult for the pond in terms of choice. 

But dedicated herpetologists are accustomed to the difficult business of selecting the finest reptile in show ... and the pond has to hand the starter's gong to the bromancer, with as fine a bit of librul trolling as the pond has seen in recent times.

What a way to startle the possums, scare the horses than by celebrating the imminent return of the Donald ...

Cry freedumb ... and never mind if that beginning photo,  dear sweet long absent lord "Save America" was a post-modernist, post-ironic piece of whimsy.

You see, the bromancer doesn't bother considering what it might mean, the return of a gang of coup lovers, criminals and make-out bandits ... he just wants to do a troll ...

 

Um, but that curious category, "a Trump person", has done a heck of a lot, and in any sane world, it would be game, set and match for the level of sleaze offered by Miss Lindsay or perhaps even a "shut the Gaetz when leaving the property" ...

But the point here isn't about past behaviour, it's to appeal to the base and to own the libruls, and let nothing stop in the bromancer's way ...

 

 

And should he win the primaries, and go on to win the Presidency, what then? Well don't you worry your heads about that, remember the art of the game is the trolling, and generating fear ... so that the bromancer might sup on librul tears ...

Who wouldn't want a crazed, loathed, detested, grossly self-centred loon intent on revenge as the next President?

 

 

Ah there's always a both siderist escape clause in every bit of reptile trolling, and it came with that expertly done, distilled essence of bromancing: "Can he win? Yes, he can, though he certainly can also lose."

Can the bromancer scribble? Yes, he can, though he can certainly also deliver a huge pile of horseshit.

But we are at the last gobbet now, the trolling almost done and dusted ...

 

The fabulous weirdness is that the bromancer expects US aid in his war with China. 

Good luck with that if the mango Mussolini, lover of dictators and strong men, gets a chance to go around the block again. But it's never no mind for the pond. If the United States, the bromancer, Chairman Rupert, and the gang at Faux Noise want to catch the bus again, what a fine bus crash it will be ... pity about the planet though, shame if something was going to happen to it ...

And so to nattering "Ned".  The pond usually reserves this Everest for a late climb, but the pond was in such awe and delight this day at the return of the reptile graphics department that it simply had to celebrate ...

 

 

 

 

At last the return of one of those tortured illustrations, this time in classic lizard Oz style featuring a tortured 'roo and a bemused emu ...

But of course a decision made in haste to indulge in wild celebrations means a long repenting ... six whole gobbets of "Ned" ... full of the usual worry wart hand wringing, anxious sighing and crying out to the cloud gods ... with a goodly dose of both siderism, and resorting to all manner of loons to fill in the blanks ...

 

It's sublimely comical in its own way, when all that really worries "Ned" is whether SloMo will win the next election, or head off to the rapture ...

If you wrap up his fate with the future of the federation, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever, of course a headless chook like "Ned" is going to run about in the garden, blood spurting, wings flapping, voice croaking with fear ...

And yet the hand wringing of "Ned", somehow transmogrified, pond-style, into the "Inquirer" has just begun, and there is much more chicken littling to follow ...

 

 

Indeed, indeed and speaking of Dom and the tiresomeness of time spent with "Ned", why not have a break with an infallible Pope?

 

 

 

Ah that's better ... on we go, and who better to bring into the conversation than the craven Craven, asked to move on from his last job, but always with a home at the lizard Oz ...

 

 

 

Find his inner John Curtin? What the fuck? What fresh form of loonacy is this? Oh okay, he could have urged the rapturous one to find his inner Ben Chifley, but whatever happened to finding the inner Ming the merciless?

Well the pond is all in favour of secession ...

 

 

 

 

... and shortly expects to be the first president of the state of New England ... you know, by channeling the pond's inner Jack Lang ...

Sorry, sorry, but there's still three bloody gobbets of meaningless "Ned" chaff to go ... so now we must pause for the obligatory both siderism, and a filling of the column with endless thoughts from others ...

 

 

Ah, a "sign of hope" ...

 

 

 

Oops, sorry wrong denomination ... should have been something pentecostal, because we all know that worshippers in the tent of the Babylonian whore are destined to eternal hellfire ...

Sorry, sorry, but at least it was a distraction, and now there's just two gobbets of handwringing and crying out to the falling sky to go ...

 

 

 

Consider this point. The latest surge in Victoria came directly from gold standard Gladys. Credit where plague credits are due. And let's not forget gold standard Gladys's earlier effort with that cruise ship ...

On second thoughts, don't consider this, contemplate instead how much "Ned" wants to sound like an old fashioned preacher with that "The final chapter is coming" ...

The final chapter? No, you bloody loon, it's just another election ...

No, you idle loon, the final gobbet is coming, and not before time ... and if that must mean turning to a bully boy for advice, so the pond can swallow the rich irony whole ...

 

 

There is one broad scenario in the pond's future. More relentless blather from "Ned", and so what a dark, dismal future it will be ...

There was only one point to be resolved. The pond managed to lightly skim "Ned", but what of a reader forced to endure "Ned" reading his own words? What of them, what of their epic suffering?

But hang on, there was no "Ned" player in all of that text. What happened to it? Where did "Ned's" tormenting of his readership with his audio ship go?

For an answer to that, the pond had to turn to Dame Slap ...

 

 

 

 

In the spirit of both siderism, to be fair to "Ned", this week Dame Slap is almost as tediously long as him, and the piece is full of the usual Dame Slap shibboleths, and that might explain why the reptiles felt the need to stick in some happy snaps ... after opening with a horror snap of that terrible woman in urgent need of a Dame Slap taming, or at least a good slapping ...

 

 

 

 

Whenever Dame Slap gets going these days, the pond is increasingly inclined to turn Freudian, and there was one little slip that seemed to sum up Dame Slap's deepest, darkest fears ...

"The young woman" ...

Yes, Dame Slap is a bit of a veteran, a long-standing player in the culture wars, and she's showing her age ... and the best she can offer is a ritual stabbing of the sacred cow of vulgar youff ...

And now to solve the mystery of "Ned" ... yes, they stuck him in Dame Slap's piece, just in case readers got tired of the aging woman ranting and raging at vulgar youff ... because if you really want Neil Young doing an old man take a look at your life, who better than "Ned"?

 

 

 

Say what? It's not even "Ned" doing this day's dirty deeds?

As for Stoker, the pond refers anyone curious to Crikey here ...

 

 

 

 

... and going a little further back, here ...

 

 

And so on and on, and perhaps that's why the reptiles felt the need to insert this hagiographic snap of the god botherer giving Tame a gong ...

 

 

Why not the god botherer with the god botherer, so we could get a little more god bothering going?

And then after a little more stoking of the Stoker flames, it was on to another Dame Slap Freudian slip, with a standard assault on an even younger threat ...

 

 

 

Of course Dame Slap herself is just an aging climate science warrior. Long gone are her glory days, her wild affair with "Lord" Monckton, her reckoning that the UN would use climate science to introduce world government by Xmas ...

These days the aged, battle-scarred warrior is just a lickspittle lackey of Gina's, an IPA chairman who follows the company line, but rarely gets into the thick of it, contenting herself with asides about "climate zealots" full of passion, saying "patently silly things" and blathering about adulating activists ... as any aging Cleopatra might do when forgetfully talking to a cockroach, and completely misremembering her own patently silly words, and her adulating "Lord" Monckton activism ...  

These days it's others who set the pace, as in Crikey ...

Of course they go on to celebrate coal and the Canavan caravan and such like, but Dame Slap's climate warrior days seem to be gone, or at least just a pale echo of what she was once, as vulgar youff snaps at her heels, and she feels tired, and must retire to Gina's lap for a quiet purr ...

Or even worse, and completely bizarrely, evoke Arthur Miller in the context of Pauline Hanson ...

 

 

Fuck that's weird, as if Dame Slap doesn't recognise at all her own intolerance, and her desire to conduct burnings, preferably of young and threatening women ... those bloody witches, and worst of all, they're jut just witches, they're young witches ...

Perhaps that's why the reptiles had to slip in a snap of an aged demon ... just to reassure Dame Slap that she was still relevant, she could still do a Pauline at vulgar youff ...

Could it get any weirder, should the pond have elevated Dame Slap to her position at the top of the pond? Well yes and no.

It does get a hell of a lot weirder - Dame Slap next turns to Shakspere - but it's just another sign that the aged, battle-scarred warrior is losing her touch at this point in her scabrous career ...

 

 

 

Sad really. The aged warrior pleading for mercy, but only deserving contempt ...

Once she would have stoked bitter partisan divisions, and danced on the graves of her enemies.

Oh sure, she continues to do her best, but she's old and battered, and besides there's Gina's lap in which to have a quiet purr of coal contentment ...

But enough Freudian analysis. Instead let the pond celebrate by offering a Rowe, and Barners' balls to Dame Slap ... with more ballsy stuff always here ...