In which the Caterists come through in the nick of cash in the paw time ...

How could the pond have doubted?

How could the pond have had such little faith?

Of course the Caterists were going to make a strong pitch to be the last posting at the top of the pond page during the Xmas/New Year break.

Such a simple message, and yet so poignant.

Who wouldn't want efficiency for Xmas?

Hearken ye Canberra cardigan wearers and gather around ...

Now please, what is it that you must do more efficiently?

Of course ... shovel cash in the paw down the capacious throat of the devouring Caterists ... and never mind the mix of body parts or metaphors ...

That's all you need to do, in an efficient way, to bring efficiency and joy to Xmas ...

Oh okay, there's a few other things, and regarding these, the wise Caterist, bloated like a tick on the body politic, sucking the blood of the Australian taxpayer, will now advise ...

Damn you idle, derelict croweaters, you've forced the Caterist into mixing his metaphors and giving the season of yuletide a bloated belly.

'Tis the season of good cheer and copious grants and your failure to pander to the Menzies Research Centre with a little grant of goodwill is a shameful, shocking thing ...

Please, allow the pond, courtesy of the Caterists, to explore your wickedness in more depth ...

Indeed, indeed. Now please, useless croweater cardigan wearers, answer this simple question, and pass this simple test.

Please explain what is the problem to which the following grant is a solution?

Warning, if you can't answer, the pond will be forced to ask a second question - what exactly are you doing here in the first place, you useless bludging cardigan wearers ...

Did you pass, oh did you pass?

The pond would have been terribly distressed and traumatised to have ordered mass sackings just before Xmas.

For those who aren't public servants, the simple reason for giving a grant to the Caterists is that ticks and leeches must have their blood, and it would fly in the face of the Xmas spirit to deny them a share of taxpayers' precious bodily fluids.

And that's why cardigan wearers are here in the first place.

To ensure good old Nick gets his slice of cash in the paw so Nick might enjoy his Xmas. And remember cardigan wearers, after the Xmas round of drinks, the next chance to share a drink with Nick is coming up in January ...

In other happy times, it was called a laugh, and everybody laughed and was happy ...

If only all cardigan wearers understood as clearly as this fine bunch who failed the stern Nick test of cash in the right paw...

Indeed, indeed, the more people sacked, the better we all will be, and the more transferred to the dole, the more we can complain about welfarists ... and then even more will understand the joy and benefits of government cash in the paw.

That's what's real efficiency, cardigan wearers ...

How dare you want to get paid more for the simple business of transferring some cash in the paw electronically into the coffers of the Caterists ...

Why it's outrageous. You see cardigan wearers, raising taxes is a mug's game at any time, but pissing money against the wall is profoundly wise, up there with the three wise men dropping a little gold, frankincense and myrrh on the newborn king. Well it's always wise to hedge your bets ... and besides, where's the harm?

After all, there are many international competitors for cash in the paw, and it would seriously disadvantage Australia in the international blather stakes if the Caterists had to do a decent day's hard yakka ...

Yes, you fools, with your silly creationist talk ... what godlike powers do you assume in your feeble attempts to deny the rightness of funding of the Caterists?

And that talk of the political class reminded the pond of a classic example of the clowns who gathered to celebrate the publishing of a certain book ...

See if you can spot the political class anywhere in these pictures ...

And that's how the Caterists can look like well-fed, self-satisfied clowns entertaining the political classes for their supper ... see, the smirk of the well-off cat that yearly devours the taxpayer cream ...

See the irony? Relish the rich irony of the actual title of the book ... 

You see? The lucky grant culture ... and the rise of an Australian grant culture ruling class ...

And now let us proceed to a final flourish of irony ...

Now at last you see?

Government grants should not be measured by what goes in - a dangerous combination of money and the good intention of ensuring Nick has a good Xmas - but by what comes out ....

And what comes out is always pure unadulterated, self-satisfied, modestly ironic and satirical Caterist blather ...

Now some might question this as an outcome.

But please, touch not a hair on the self-regarding Caterist head, ask no question about the efficiency dividends of accountability.

Allow the pond to put it simply ... the pond needs the Caterists and without the Caterists it would be bereft and forlorn on a Tuesday ...

We must continue to insist that bureaucrats, oh ye brave cardigan wearers, must be pushed from their comfort zones and continue to piss money against the wall on the Caterists ...

The country needs these make-work programs ... because the pond needs the Caterists to parade like fatuous idiots and preen and pose in the pond's banner as we celebrate good old Nick nicking off with the loot in the season of St Nick ...

And now, for those who missed it, Liam Neeson did a wonderful impression of the Caterists threatening Canberra bureaucrats to come across with the loot ...

Warning sleepy bureaucrats, he's watching you when you're sleeping, he's making a list, he knows who's been naughty, and who's been nice, handing out the nice cash in the paw ...

Release the cash!

In which the pond rules out more losers, wannabes, softies, drop kicks and little Timmie Bleagh ...

A kindly reader suggested that, in view of the pond's competition being in tatters, thanks to the reptiles' singular failure to perform their duties during the Xmas season, perhaps the pond should look to little Timmie as a substitute fielder ...

Surely he could hold up the head of the page while the pond takes a little holy day.

But the portly Timmie looks like he couldn't punch his way out of a wet tea bag, let along a wet brown paper bag ... and besides, there's no way on earth that the pond could leave its last post of the season in the hands of a lightweight gadfly dropkick who makes the expression 'brains of a gnat' seem like a handsome testimonial to intelligence and wit ...

Oh sure, it's fun to imagine little Timmie turning his vast intellect on the Christ child and mocking the way that another marshmallow-soft bedwetter has been born on the hay in a refugee stable ... for a nanosecond, or perhaps by stretching it, a millisecond ...

But in the end, a fuckwit who thinks 'bed wetter' is a funny term of abuse must be dismissed as an idle fuckwit, perhaps still enduring some private nappy trauma in the remaining fragments some care to call a mind ...

It calls to mind the pond's time in Tamworth schoolgrounds, where bullies punched kids and called them bed wetters, and only much later did the pond come to understand that they did it out of a deep sense of personal inadequacy and failure ...

Moving on, the pond must also decline the kind suggestion of going with a novelty item from the deep north ...

Okay, it's immensely funny, and for the reasons the reader pointed out to the pond, coming as it did on the very same day that the front of the digital page carried this ...

The google juxtaposition of the stories was equally rich ...

Now the pond knows why the reptiles do the talking up of Pauline and her mob. 

It's like the Donald, it's easy click-bait, and it's a simple distraction from the complexities of the real world ...

Celebrating as a potent someone with absolutely no guaranteed solutions to anything  is a sure fire way to keep the country heading downhill and therefore in urgent need of coal, coal, coal (only Victorian brown if you puh-lease) and tree-killing newspapers ...

And besides, with ceaseless repetition, who knows, it might be possible to get the redhead into a game-changing moment, just as the reptiles managed with the Donald ... and then think of the easy flow of ambulance-chasing headlines as the country, and the planet, go to hell in a handbasket ...

Well for what it's worth, here's deep north Jamie doing his very reptile best, and putting his most solemn po-face look on, so he can talk about farcical proceedings with a very straight face ...

Please, no cackling when the talk turns to maturity and discipline, faithfully regurgitated by reptile Jamie:

Sadly, it's a very lightweight outing, and thatpunchline about discipline comes way too early in the piece ...

Save your best lines for just before you leave the stage Jamie ...

So the pond swears by Grabthar's hammer, by the suns of Worvan, that neither little Timmie nor deep north Jamie will be the last pond post of the Xmas silly season ...

There's silly, and then there's just plain stupid ...

And so while the pond lives in hope and scours the reptiles for signs of life, and a genuinely competitive field, a few cartoons ... because at least the American reptiles have given us the Donald to celebrate as we laugh gaily and merrily on our way to hell ...

In which it's revealed the lazy reptiles are doing their best to ruin the pond's competition by trotting out dropkick losers like Kev ...

Bah humbug indeed, fellow Newtonian, and how reassuring and joyous it is to see your sign get hung out each year ...

... because just as the pond's competition was supposed to be hotting up - the one to see which commentariat cuisine would reign supreme at the pond over the Xmas-New Year break - key players have left the field, picked up bat and ball and keyboard, and toddled off into limbo ...

Where's the Oreo issuing stark warnings about western civilisation?

Where's the major Mitchell, when Order of Friendship hunting should be all the go?

After decades of shrieking "The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming", when the Russians are actually coming and everyone's enjoying a good SNL, the major Mitchell goes missing in action?

What does the pond have left? Just losers, try hards, tosspots and second rankers. Oh no doubt they try hard, but they're plodders, plodding away without much in the way of inspiration or stunning Oreo insight.

There's 'Becca the urbane tending her usual fields ...

That's rich ... all 'Becca does is rage about those who dare to be different.

But if that's disappointingly tedious, look what's at the top of the tedious digital opinion page ...

Henry looking for the hole in the bucket, and Hudson trying a little equivocating hand-wringing trying to pretend it's a joint blame game, when everyone knows it's Zinger Bill's leftist fault?

The spiteful, meanie, vicious reptiles seem determined to destroy the pond's competition and its reputation ...

Actually bird in the bush Bushnell frivolous legal actions - or even Eddie Obeid pissing oodles of money against the wall protesting his innocence - prove diddly-squat about anything, you silly twit, and as for Dame Groan doing another line about kicking the can down the road ...

How many cans will the reptiles click before this metaphor collapses into silence in the gutter?

Oh sure there's one try-hard wannabe who makes it onto the digital front page ...

But Kev's pretty much a dropkick loser, always blathering on while pursuing his Judeo-Christian agenda, and besides the google splash sounded an ominous note for the pond ...

What's that?

Does the pond have to apply the old apostrophe rule? 

"Given it is old-style statist view of education ..."

No, that can't be right. Is there a simple rule to avoid embarrassment and getting flamed in blogs?

That simple rule here, but it meant that the pond couldn't read poor Kev and hear what he was saying.

Instead every ounce of energy, concentration and focus just had to be devoted to waiting for "it's" to pop its ugly head up ...

Nope, no "it's" there, nor even a mention of Gramsci, just the usual blather about Marx and a bit of climate denialism for good measure, and talk of the prospect of failure, because calling people losers and dropkicks is the only proper way to move ahead in society, and in this competitive world.

But deep in its heart, the pond knew that Kev would show how the prospect of grammatical failure held no fear for him, and he would somehow manage to drag in Gramsci.

After all, when writing for the Catholic Boys' Daily, it's possible to mislay an apostrophe, but it's simply not right to ignore the fiendish Gramsci, who, it goes without saying, is much more diabolical than Vlad 'the impaler' Putin ...

Sublime really, that Kev should talk about 'provider capture', while celebrating the joys of Catholic indoctrination ...

Or perhaps it's not sublime at all, just the usual second rater loser dropkick blather of a try-hard wannabe trying to steal the pond's competition on a lazy Monday when all the top reptiles decided they'd go on holiday, depriving the pond of the very best of neo-Catholic politically correct kool-aid inspired group reptile think ...

It's not fair, the pond is inclined to chuck a Tamworth tanty ... though the pond always lives in hope, because tomorrow is another day. Will the Oreo turn up to save the competition and save the day? Is the field clear for Planet Janet to scoop the pool while kicking the can down the road?

Deserted by the Oreo - here no treat, no treat here - and by the major Mitchell, and losers proving the epic failure of the education system to teach the difference between 'it's' and 'its', and abandoned by the infallible Pope and the immortal Rowe in its hour of direst need, what's left?

That'll do nicely Mr Green.

Please, Kev, take your Marxist Gramsci jackboots and shove them down your Catholic education throat ... and yes, details matter. Its a fact ...

And aren't we all lucky that Vlad 'the impaler' Putin isn't an actual Marxist commie peverted swine, just your average dictator in bed with rorters, plutocrats, cronies, Rex Tillerson, Bahamas-based US-Russian oil companies, and Russian oligarchs ...

And now, since the Davids seem to be on leave ...here's a hint for the major Mitchell to get cracking ...

In which Bunter makes a play for the top position at the loon pond tuckshop ...

Before getting on with the hunt for the reptile whose cuisine will reign supreme on the pond as we prepare for a seasonal Xmas holy day break, the pond would just like to note the appalling behaviour of what used to be called the ABC news division ...

Yesterday, it being a slow news day, the cardigan wearers were all over a 'get tough with China' report which was routinely sold as being the work of an "independent" think tank.

The story's online at their ABC here, and presented as an "exclusive" by defence reporter Andrew Greene, as if shamelessly presenting a report in a shallow way, without much context or contending responses to what is just a set of opinions, represents some sort of "exclusive."

Being a thinly resourced font of hackery, News 24 repeated the story and the mantra - get tough with China - endlessly, though it finally dropped the nonsensical use of the word "independent" ...

Which is just as well, given the reality that the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessment gets a substantial amount of its funding from Defence Department agencies and defence corporations ... here ... and anyone who's watched War Dogs recently will know what that means ...

The author Ross Babbage, a well-know hawk, who includes in his CV time spent at the Menzies Research Centre, was given a free hand in drumming up hysteria and pounding the drums of war ...

Who funds the MRC? Well there are the usual suspects ...

The report was directed at the Trump administration, and lathered up the anti-Chinese, anti-Confucius rhetoric in a way that would have left Vlad 'the impaler' Putin with an even bigger grin on his face ...

It was deplorably shoddy and shallow and slipshod reporting of a kind designed to fill in a hole on a slow Saturday with something purportedly sensationalist. Shame, ABC alleged news service, shame ...

And now back to the hunt for the perfect way to end the pond's postings so that punters might keep returning for the read and new punters might be wildly excited at the prospects for 2017.

Naturally the pond turned to that old trooper, that first class warrior, Akker Dakker, the Billy Bunter of the Terrorist reptilian tuck shop. These days, poor old Bunter rarely makes it to the front page of the digital edition early in the morning.

It's that dreadful Peta woman and the Devine who make it to the top of the litter, and Bunter is the runt ...

But then later in the day, when the demographic of angry white men and doddering aunts have struggled out of bed, Akker Dakker still becomes a Terror colossus, and can still shove the Devine to one side ...

Now the Devine has made a strong run with her dimwitted piece celebrating a dimwit. 

After all, as everybody in Canberra knows, if one tries to be discreet, and discreetly talk of the latest dumb decision by a dim-witted minister - say with the mutton Dutton in mind (a remarkable light bulb that routinely runs on one watt), it's likely to result in grievous error and confusion.

Everybody will immediately assume that the talk is actually of Barners, dimwit supreme, Barners being so dim there's no sign that the light bulb is glowing ...

But the pond is loyal, and Akker Dakker rarely disappoints, and besides this day he's giving the croweaters a hard time, and he's also showing that dreadful Peta woman, trying to sing from the same song sheet, how an old hand, made steady by snorting, really sticks it to the pesky blacks ...

As always, Akker Dakker is spot on.

The many iwi to be found in New Zealand - Greg Hunt a list here - happily explains why the Treaty of Waitangi was never actually signed.

Upon discovering that they would have to deal with a variety of difficult, tricky, pesky Māori chiefs, the British gave the game away ...

As a result, in that wiki listing, you will find this forlorn alternative Akker Dakker approved history:

Today the failure to sign the Treaty is generally considered the turning point of New Zealand as a nation.  It was feared it would often be the subject of heated debate, and much disagreement by both Māori and non-Māori New Zealanders. Many Māori might have felt that the Crown did not fulfil its obligations under the Treaty, and may have presented evidence of this before sittings of the Waitangi Tribunal, if that had ever been formed. 
Some non-Māori New Zealanders might have suggested that Māori may be abusing the Treaty in order to claim special privileges. Happily the Crown is now not obliged to act on the recommendations of the non-existent Tribunal , which might have arisen from the unsigned treaty, and there is no need to accept that there have breaches of the non-existent Treaty and its never-enacted principles. 
Settlements for Treaty breaches, if the treaty had been signed, might to date have consisted of hundreds of millions of dollars of reparations in cash and assets, as well as apologies. 
The date of the signing would have been a national holiday, and been called Waitangi Day, at least since 1974 if it had been signed, but thankfully New Zealanders were spared the calamity.

Now back to Akker Dakker, and the mighty scholar produces a gazumping argument about treaties only being signed between states and foreign powers, and if Aborigines aren't damned furriners in this country, then the pond must be on the wrong alt right team ...

Oh the wretched indolent bludgers. Why can't they just churn out a column or three for a handsome stipend from the chairman?

And so to the concluding claim by Akker Dakker for his right to hold sway at the head of the pond over the break ...

Well what do you think, valiant, heroic wretches who made in this far at keen risk to losing all intelligence, while emerging from the read a certified Confederate-flag waving member of the racist black-bashing right?

Has the loopy loony Akker Dakker won the competition and earned the right to represent all loons over Xmas and the New Year?

Now the pond knows that there are still plenty of keen contenders.

How about this for a short snappy attempt, found here, amid talk of attempts to suspend Ross Cameron from the Liberal party - not for being a first class fool and an A-grade loon, but because he wants to turn the Liberal party into an alt right front ...

Say what? The chairman's pride and joy isn't media?

No one watches it? It has an audience smaller than Gold Coast Medical?

But, but, but, billy goat smarty pants anonymous defender of Mr Cameron, that's the home of the Bolter!

And surely the Bolter must be considered a prime contender for his many valiant efforts ... the man's always on fire ...

Sadly the pond must disqualify the Bolter. 

Oh sure, it's important to ask who let into this land the parents of this child bomber, delivering criminally insulting sprays of abuse on a daily basis ... verbally bombing anyone he doesn't like on sight ...

And frankly, this is a lesson for multiculturalists, because when you import some people, you import not just them but their culture, and sometimes the very worst people along with the very worst aspects of the culture ...

But it would be unfair to allow the Bolter to play the game.

This is a man who is in the pantheon, who lives in a Valhalla of fear and loathing, who hunts in the happy hunting grounds of bigotry and hate, who nestles in Abraham's Judeo-Christian bosom and rolls on the lush grass of Elysian fields egregious contempt, a man on whom the sweet light of the Hesperides nymphs does glow ...

How could the pond try to trade off on this noble rhetorician, scribbling furiously in favour of the Donald, and so win the prize of obvious for itself?

Besides, there is much more at stake ... there's a new world order coming and much moola to be made. Start counting now ...