In which the pond proudly presents the ultimate 3-D trip into the reptile heart of darkness ...

 

 

This morning the pond promised an epic trip into the reptile heart of darkness, and dares anyone to say it hasn't delivered with this late arvo uting.

There will be paranoid delusions, there will be self-pity, there will be glorification and exultation, there will be rejoicing and despair, there will be denunciations and deliverance, there will be redemption and casting into hellfires, there will hypocrisy and righteousness, there will be castigations and mighty smotings and smitings, there will be self-satisfaction and preening, and at the end of it all there will be exhaustion and pitiful feeble cries of enough, already, truly we have been to the heart of reptile darkness and deeply regret the pond's generosity.

You see, but for dropping in late yesterday to see how the reptiles were going, the pond might have missed it ... all 19 gobbets, though as one is just a snap, perhaps it should be 18... and what a loss to humanity and pond readers that would have been.

Oh sure it might have been mentioned in the Weekly Beast in and despatches, but this is the good oil, the drum, the genuine article, flowing out of the ground like an endless surge of brain-polluting brown fluid from an overfull cesspit ...

Well there's nothing for it but to get on with it, with the warning that the pond won't be providing any easy cheap trinkets or visual distractions. This is hard core stuff ...

 

 

 

 

Note the way that the self-confessed wanker is exuding self-pity and seeking to evade the scrutiny of others, most notably the Graudian. 

Yes, paranoia is at the heart of reptile darkness, a rich, ripe paranoia ... oh the suffering ... and yet such idle abuse is also a signification of the astonishing importance of the speaker, so within the reporting there's a certain defiance and tendency towards grandiosity ...

 

 

The pond probably should have mentioned narcissism as well and at this point the reptiles added to that thought by showing yet another snap of the speaker, looking like a deadly serious ponce of the first water...

 

 

 

Having been reminded of who is speaking, it's time to get on with it, because there are still many more gobbets to go ...

 

 

What is the point of all this? Who knows, but pointlessness has its rewards, and surely we are deep into pointlessness...

How did we get here? Why, the pond is a glutton for punishment, it has an inexhaustible capacity for punishment, having been trained in the art of guilt and flagellation by Dominican nuns ...

Is there a numbness creeping into the brain yet? Are you sure another shot of soma wouldn't help? Because we're about to have a self-glorification moment, as the noble reptile survives the shittiest of state schools ...

 

 

Ah yes, the almost godlike understanding, the preternatural capacity for comprehension beyond the grasp of the minds of the less worldly ...

 

 

And there you have it, the spruiker can't resist blather about a Golden Age ... and the high value of a company with Tuckyo Rose as one of its leaders ...

Oh perhaps just a couple of cartoons for a break and a tooth-rotting Kit -Kat ...

 

 

 

Now after that short break, back to the golden age and dodgy data ...

 

Oh fucketty fuck, is this just a chance for extended product placement? And as for the lizard Oz circulation, no mention of how many tree killer editions were tossed away for free and counted in the circulation figures ...

Is the O.Z. like the glorious days when the reptiles went into blogging?

Never mind, on with the delusions of grandeur, and perhaps voices in the head, coming from the microchip wired back to chairman Rupert's HQ ...

Repetition of words like trusted, reliable, accurate, fair and relevant don't make them so, but they do make the speaker sound delusional, and when pumping up the volume on the lizard Oz way past eleven, more than somewhat desperate ...

And then it gets really weird, with yet more blather about a golden age of journalism ...or at least the foundations, because the answer must lie in the soil ...

 

He sees simpleton Sharri every day in the lizard Oz, and he cringes? Of course he doesn't, he loves his reptiles inserting themselves into the stories, doing beat-ups and contending for the prize ...

 

 

 

 

Sorry, the pond promised no visual distractions, because it's a very long slog ...

Indeed, indeed, and the transparency in News Corp is wondrous to behold, but the pond must press on ...

Oh sheesh, another plug for the goods, but still, shamelessness is just one of the many reptile values on parade this day ... and so to the paranoia ... and a hearty dose of it at that ...

 

 

 

And so the smiting and the smoting of enemies cranks into high gear ...

 

At this point, if there's a psychotherapist in the house, perhaps they might be able to advise the pond if the lancing of the sores, of the letting out of the bile, is therapeutic, or perhaps just an ancient form of medicine, akin to voodoo and witchcraft ...

Relax, relax, the pond isn't going to go on about News Corp being based in Surry Hills, where the finest baristas in the land ply their trade. Nor is the pond going to ask where Rosemary Neill lives. She certainly wouldn't live in a leafy area of Sydney among the 'leets. 

No, Neill can be seen with all the other reptiles out at Kellyville, or perhaps Blacktown, doing the daily slog into Surry Hills like FIFO workers, at one with the people, and visiting the alien land of the inner city or the wealthy 'leets like explorers landing on Mars ...

And if you believe that, the pond has a Golden Age of Journalism to sell you, going pretty pretty cheap ...

 

That constant harking on and yearning for a Golden Age of Journalism, with CAPS? It made the pond wonder whether it had gone Barking Mad ... and so to more blather about assorted, sundry mortal enemies 

Yes, for all its length, this rant is really just more of the usual reptile memes and tropes, packaged into one ginormous Ginsbergian howl of pain... and, eek, social media ...

The pond can feel a certain restlessness and agitation growing, and has decided to make the last two gobbets easy and short. 

You know, the after dinner mint situation after too much hearty dining, or perhaps more like the auctioneer at a Sydney house auction who will accept bids in dogecoin for the last five hundred dollar bids, because you never know, you might get another squillion from the exercise ...

So here's a short chunk of exquisite paranoia, coupled with moronic notions of simplicity ...

 

Objectivity, Impartiality. Fairness. Accountability? Not to mention truthfulness and accuracy? 

The pond had promised an astonishing level of self-delusion and complete lack of self-awareness, and surely that last gobbet delivers on the promise, at least for the few hardy souls who have made it this far ... and now you have one last telephone hacking scandal to remember before plunging into the final gobbet ...

A New Yorker cartoon? One minute railing about the inner city 'leets, and the next minute closing with a New Yorker cartoon, the epitome of the 'leets? 

Even though doctors and dentists rooms are no longer what they once were, the pond can still recall the New Yorkers littering the Toorak mansion it once squatted in (below decks of course because the rich were never above taking a few shekels from lodgers) ...

Well the pond did hint at promises of hypocrisy and massive stupidity on parade, but after all that, why not a few New Yorker cartoons to pander to the inner city 'leets? 

Go on, you've earned them (and a lot more if you made it to the end, but the pond has run out of medals with the words "I made it through a dire Dore ramble and lived to tell the tale") ...