In which the bromancer and "Ned" perform digital fish and chip wrapping duties ...

 

 

Digital fish and chip wrapping paper. That's the lot of the reptiles this day, and so the fate of the pond too. 

The reptiles are like children on Xmas day, with the presents laid out, but a cruel parent forbidding them to be opened. Who knows what will be in them? A lump of coal, the very best sort of reptile present, or perhaps a bulldozer. And who knows when they'll finally get to know what's in the box? Perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps an endless round of postal delays ...

All that can be done is expunge the anxiety, the doubt, the fear and the loathing with place holders, gibberings and blatherings that will fill in the time, and the inverse proportion rule - the greater the length of the blather, the more meaningless it becomes - must come into play.

With that preamble in place, the pond will place on record the reptiles' musings this day, knowing that they are shallow substitutes for the ecstasy and the rapture, or the descent into the outer rings of hell that will come tonight, or in the morn, or on the morrow ...

First thing to note is that Klive's kash in the klaw has gone away ...

 

 

 

Actually that should read that the reptiles are chasing a second miracle, but the tone is hesitant, uncertain ... with the digital edition looking equally troubled, as the bulldozer lines up paws to 'doze...

 

That link at top of page to simplistic Simon saying "look, no conflict of interest here Bid", and besides saying ...

The final Newspoll of the election campaign shows the nation is heading for a change of government – for better or worse.
On the numbers as they stand, it is hard to see how the Coalition can form government. A primary vote of 35 per cent would represent a historical low for the Liberal and Nationals parties.
It reflects a broad rejection of Scott Morrison. And it would suggest that Labor win with a comfortable majority.
The fantasies of a teal coloured hung parliament are doused. But anything is possible.
The unprecedented level of support for anyone other than the two major parties has thrown all predictions into doubt.
At face value, Anthony Albanese is set to become only the fourth Labor leader to return his party to government from opposition since World War II.
He would be the first to do so from the Labor Left. This would be a remarkable achievement considering the poor campaign Albanese has had.
But then it could also reflect the deep level of voter disengagement.

... puts the reptile dilemma in a nutshell. And so they must ruminate on their fish and chips, knowing that whatever they scribble is going to be cast aside in short order.

Who better to provide an existentially meaningless and useless treatise than nattering "Ned"?

Might the pond humbly propose a full serve of the bromancer ...

 

You see? Blather about the great unravelling ... and the bromancer continued to unravel though an excessive number of gobbets ...

 

 

You see? Nothing to see here just yet, so fill in with blather about Boris and the mango Mussolini and Bongbong and a snap of that plume woman ... and the graphics department was so desperate that they followed suit, with snaps of the two charlatans ...

 

 

 

Entropy, woke, whatever, though that mention of the woke will produce a marvelous irony at the end of this bromancer outing ...

Meanwhile, he's going full W. B. Yeats ...

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   
The darkness drops again; but now I know   
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

And so to the rough, fragmenting beasts tormenting the bromancer ...

 

Sadly the pond can only fling in the occasional poem, and must endure the bromancer in full despondency ...

 

 

 

 

Ah, another mention of the woke, and a snap of the tranny bashing Deves, and we've still to reach peak bromancer irony ...

 

 

 

Indeed, indeed, a tremendous set of triumphs, with the UK comprehensively fucked and led by a charlatan, and the GOP still dancing to the delusional tune of a snake-oil selling authoritarian who dared to dream of a coup ...

And so to the irony, replete with a sense of despair ...

 

Sssh, not a mention of the Switzer swishing away on the ABC - instead relish that appropriation of James Baldwin. 

How woke can you get? And in that woke cause the pond offers the bromancer a Baldwin quote ...

The American Negro has the great advantage of having never believed the collection of myths to which white Australians of the bromancer kind cling: that their ancestors were all freedom-loving heroes, that they were born in the greatest country the world has ever seen, or that Americans are invincible in battle and wise in peace, that Americans have always dealt honorably with Mexicans and Indians and all other neighbors or inferiors, that American men are the world's most direct and virile, that American women are pure. Negroes know far more about white Americans than that; it can almost be said, in fact, that they know about white Americans what parents—or, anyway, mothers—know about their children, and that they very often regard white Americans that way. And perhaps this attitude, held in spite of what they know and have endured, helps to explain why Negroes, on the whole, and until lately, have allowed themselves to feel so little hatred. The tendency has really been, insofar as this was possible, to dismiss white people as the slightly mad victims of their own brainwashing.

Sorry, sorry, the pond doesn't know how that reference to the bromancer slipped in, though he does indeed sound like the slightly, or perhaps excessively mad victim of his own brainwashing ...

Another quote please ...

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death--ought to decide, indeed, to earn one's death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.

Sheesh that's a bit heavy for election day, even as the reptiles find themselves in the grip of so many petite morts ...

And so before the new world order takes hold, the pond did a final check of the comments section ....

What a plenitude of suffering, with the oscillating fan boldly calling it, and the bouffant one still talking of a step into the great unknown, so unknown that the bouffant one is apparently unaware of the DLP in the 1950s ... you know, back after WWII when tykes of a certain kind turned their backs on the major parties ...

Well the pond will stick to its traditions ... prattling Polonius doing his both sides routine will be sent to Sunday, though he might be wildly irrelevant, and the dog botherer can bulldoze away in a late arvo slot. 

 If we're going to do digital fish and chip wrappings that even a seagull might ignore, then fuck it, come on down nattering "Ned" and bore the socks and stockings off the planet ... because better to be numb than dead ...

 

Realising that the portentous, pompous, long-winded windbag was going to deliver a big balloon of empty verbosity, the reptiles arranged some visual and click bait video distractions. As an organ of reptile record, the pond perforce must recognise and include them ...

 

 

 

 

 

... but naturally the pond defanged the click bait video, only pausing to ask, when has "Ned" ever discovered an encouraging omen? 

 

His whole tedious business model is the routine donning of sackcloth and ashes, and Chicken Little impersonations ...

 

Even his half-hearted attempts at good cheer are dire, as he seems to be unaware that it was News Corp that produced the dangerous populist known as the mango Mussolini ...

 

Please, be fair. That talk of a bulldozer has been a delight and a relief...

Too early for an infallible Pope? Nope, it's never too early, especially as we've still got endless gobbets to go ...

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles of "Ned" to go before I sleep.

Or kms, if you will ...

It's at times like this that the pond must pinch itself, return to a woke condition, and remind itself of its chief mission ... that the world know how dire and plodding and pathetic it must be to be a "Ned" in dotage, sublimely unaware that in boring himself, he manages to bore the world ... and that's why the reptiles began slipping in snaps... anything to leaven the verbiage ...

 

 

 

 

 

A central paradox? Only a pain in the arse could scribble that about a gigantic pain in the arse, such a pain in the arse that he felt the need to go fully woke and promise not to be a bulldozer, even though 'dozers must do what 'dozers do, and "Ned" shows the efficacy of a weekend doze ... come on reptiles, give him another snap to help wake us from our slumbering ...

 

 

The real tragedy in all this? Though there's no sign of "Ned" reading himself to the world, the pond can hear his dithering and whining voice running through the noggin like feeble chalk screeching at a blackboard, and so what joy to reach a final gobbet ... and lordy, long absent lordy be praised, it's a short one ...

 

 

 

 

Maybe there's the odd seagull that can be gulled by that interminable blather about ultimate paradoxes, but it's just digital fish and chips wrapping to the pond ...  all sausage and no sizzle, but with more Rowe here ...