In which the pond dozes through the Major, the Caterist and the Oreo in the usual Monday way ...

 

 

The pond learns something new everyday, no thanks to the reptiles, but to the pond's correspondents, and was delighted to discover the origins of bulldoze:  

"...by 1880, "intimidate by violence," from an earlier noun, bulldose "a severe beating or lashing" (1876), said by contemporary sources to be literally "a dose fit for a bull," a slang word referring to the intimidation beating of black voters (by either blacks or whites) in the chaotic 1876 U.S. presidential election. See bull (n.1) + dose (n.). The bull element in it seems to be connected to that in bull-whip and might be directly from that word. Meaning "use a mechanical ground-clearing caterpillar tractor" is from 1942 (see bulldozer); figurative use in this sense is by 1948. Related: Bulldozed; bulldozing.
"person who intimidates others by threats or violence," 1876, agent noun from bulldoze (q.v.). Meaning extended to "an engine-powered ground-clearing caterpillar tractor" in 1930. Meaning extended to the liar of the Shire by himself ... (Etymon)

Meanwhile, the reptiles have lathered themselves into a state of excitement roughly equivalent to a coven of sadists at a whipping or a dozing ... just look at the headline in the tree killer edition ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Super pitch? And the reptiles were at the last ditch super pitch in the digital edition ...with some super relics at the revolving pictorial temple of doom ...

 

 

 

 

Dear sweet long absent lord, what are those ghosts from Liberal past doing at the top of the page? Oh wait, it's a snap to go with the dotard "Ned" as he fawns over the liar from the Shire, and so that weird vision of the onion muncher and little Johnny is entirely appropriate ...

Well the pond has already voted so the pond can pass on "Ned" slobbering  all over the shoes of his Übermensching bulldozer, and instead perform its usual Monday duties. 

Yes, the Major was out and about and the old couple couple were in the comments section right next to each other ...

 

 

No, it wasn't the bouffant Shanners warming to the task, or simplistic Simon saying "look, Bid, no conflict of interest here", or even ancient Troy standing on the edge of a new era of audacious bulldozing, it was the pond's regulars, and so the order of business for the day was set, and as always, the venerable Major, still hunting for that long-lost medal, gets first go ...

 

Interesting that the Major is on to the matter of "globalisation". Back in the day of course the preferred word was "cosmopolitan", as an evocation of the sickness of societies controlled by decadent Jews. 

The current decadence involves those "cosmopolitans" who think we've only got one planet - Muskk not having yet musked Mars - and so who'd prefer to make out with renewable energy than enjoy a splendid dalliance with dinkum, clean, innocent Oz coal. 

Naturally the Major can't stand that sort of "cosmopolitan" "globalist" heresy and so is ready to go for a ride with the Canavan caravan ...

Here, if the pond may decode another reptile word, the "national" interest may be taken to be fossil fuels and the fossils at the lizard Oz ... 

Oh how the Major hates inner Sydney, how he must be haunted by the thought that the reptiles dwell in the lost wasteland of pagan Surry Hills, where you only need to emerge from the reptile bunker and walk a few yards to find the finest baristas in the world, or so they say...

 

 

Well it wouldn't be a Major piece without a shot of the anti-Christ himself, and so the reptiles obliged in the last gobbet ...

 

Here the pond must part ways with the despairing Major. No one deserves the Major and no one deserves the reptiles and no one deserves chairman Rupert's shamelessly opportunist minions. 

We simply take our lumps, while noting that for a kissing cousin to Faux Noise to blather on about populist politics is passing wondrous and strange ... he really is a tremendous, awesome, crowd-pleasing fuckwit of the first water ...

Next up in the order of business is the Caterist, doing what humbug wannabe sociologists must do to keep getting that sweet government grant in the paw ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Despite the dedicated blathering of sundry reptiles of the "Ned", simple Simon and Shanners kind, does the pond detect a certain existential despair in both the Major and the Caterist? 

 

Why else would the Caterist open with a howl, a cry of pain, "Anthony Albanese may yet be sworn in as our 31st prime minister ..."?

The reptiles clearly felt the need to help get the Caterist back on track, and so inserted a video clip at the end of the next gobbet to remind the Caterist that if "globalisation" or "cosmopolitan" or "Surry Hills" weren't to hand, then "woke" could be deployed ...

 

 

 

There's a wealth of neuroses in that gobbet, full of self hate and loathing, as might be expected of a leech who hovers around Canberra to suck up the taxpayers' blood in the form of government cash in the paw ...

You know, the wonders and ironies of blathering about outsourcing from a devoted, dedicated exponent of outsourcing government cash ...

 

 

 

 

 

And with that it's time for a last short gobbet ... and without a hint of embarrassment at the sheer shamelessness of the rogue wannabe sociologist, funded to produce publications and reports pertaining to the matter of the movement of flood waters in quarries ...

 

 

 

 

Ah a last bit of tranny bashing to end Caterist proceedings on a gutter note.

That suggests to the pond that the reptiles are in despair ... and frankly the thought that a reformed, recovering feminist might somehow save them was probably a bridge too far, and yet give the Oreo her due, she's trying, very trying ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet more nihilism and cynicism from the weary reptiles, and yet the pond was already over it, and wanted to draw attention to where the Oreo might have gone ... 

 

 

 

 

 

That was Margaret Atwood in The Atlantic ... where you can find that link in the middle working ...

 

Yes, the pond thought it might do one of its notorious cut and paste montages so it could get to the end of the Oreo's bleatings in some sort of style ... but now jump cut to another bleat about Gen X, with the Oreo showing how not to do an evocative scribble ...

 

 

 

Strange. There's very little discussion in reptile la la land about the importance of renewable energy as a path to national economic recovery and as a way of saving a fucked planet, but then the Oreo has always been something of a rocket desperately short of rocket fuel ...

Back to a real writer, evoking the times we live in ...

 

 

 

It's passing strange, and odd and cruel and possibly heartless to juxtapose a real writer with the Oreo's tragic scribblings, but there you go, the pond has done it, and now can do a jump cut to a final Oreo gobbet ...

 

 

 

Yet another reptile waving the white flag? "Whichever party emerges victorious"?! All that special pleading and yet all the Oreo could trot out was a list of couldas, or perhaps wouldas ...

Is that how a dozer ends, trapped in a mire of couldas?

Never mind, for once the pond can end with a real writer ...

 

Well Margaret it's likely where the lizards of Oz would like to live, given their love of a bulldozer who talks in tongues to imaginary friends, and thinks a little tranny bashing is a fine way to stay in power ...

And so to answer the question asked this Sunday - "is there a Davie Rowe cartoon that is not disturbing?"

A defamatory question, and in grievous error, because there's nothing remotely disturbing about this immortal Rowe effort, with other non-disturbing cartoons always here ...

 

 

You see, MH? A comfortable suburban dwelling, with log fire burning, a nice cuppa, and that nice man from Kamperdown Kurtains (the business is just down the road from the pond) helping with the teal curtains ...