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#AusPol winners and losers: Tony, don’t bring your gun to town

Tony

Approx Reading Time-11A racist fighting racism, the loss of something beautiful and Tony Abbott polishing his rifle. I see nothing out of the ordinary. Yay, #AusPol.

 

 

 

Let me be up front. I’ve done some terrible things in a past life. I think. So, therefore it makes sense that the cosmos has sentenced me to forever drag meaning from the inherently meaningless selfish sexual conquest of Australian politics. I hope I can go home soon, and die, so I can be reincarnated as something more advanced.

Like a weevil.

 

Winners

George Christensen, for knowing when to say when.

It seems that rampant xenophobia is very much like a bowl of porridge. There’s only truly one that’s juuuusssttt right. And apparently, the taste of antisemitism is bitter on George’s palate; he railed against a pro-hate rally, as reported by ABC News:

“‘That is insanity,’ Mr Christensen told AM, adding that such references were ‘anti-Australian’ for ‘parading someone who slaughtered 6 million people, who Australia was fighting against’.”

It’s good to have morals.

 

Adam Cranston, for making every other disappointing son look better by comparison.

The only thing better than denial, is the bleat of a mountainous scapegoat. Enter Adam Cranston, the son of the deputy commissioner of the ATO, who has been charged for (among others) picking the frankly genital-enlarging sum of $165m out of the commonwealth’s pocket.

While I’ve crashed the car, run over the family cat and missed everyone’s birthday, I haven’t done the above. Although, Cranston Junior did make bail, which I certainly wouldn’t have. So, what the hell?


Also on The Big Smoke


 

Losers

The enigmatic edges of Malcolm Turnbull, for ghosting us.

It’s been a fairly galling week for the PM. While escaping lasting political damage, he lost something far more precious: his mystique. In fact, this week the veil was thrown so far back it’s taken part of the bride’s scalp with it.

Call me old fashioned, or a political hipster to whom the only good leaders are those long passed, but I don’t want to know that Malcolm is subject to the everyday failings that I am. Turnbull facing the black screen of 3am hopelessness doesn’t do anything for me. Relatability is not what we seek in our political system; we need someone who leads us from behind the window of a speeding, gilded, pegasus-drawn carriage, as we avert our gaze to the streets of mud we also call our spouse. M’lord.

 

Whoever gets this job, for reasons most foul.

Trawling through shit is never positive. Okay, maybe when used as a narrative device to carry one from the prison one is escaping, but even Andy Dufresne had a rainstorm and a Morgan Freeman narration to make an event of it.

Cast your awkward, forced, sorry-about-that-but-glad-it’s-not-me-sucks-to-be-you smile to the laboratory clerks who will have to sift through effluent, knowing full well that the end goal of their hard work and expertise will be a detriment to mankind, and will probably see a lot of innocent people flamed as collateral.

At least they’ll know how Oppenheimer felt.

Now I have become Centrelink, the destroyer of claims.


Also on The Big Smoke


 

Honourable mentions

The “Golden Emerson” – awarded to those who waste everyone’s time with complete verbal tosh – goes to:

Antonius Block, for flogging the dead horse of the light brigade.

Military service, you plank.

This week, Tony proved that a good idea is not defined by such pedestrian considerations like whether it worked or not, as he raised his eyebrows toward the Israeli system where citizens do three years of military service.

Two things:
1) we don’t live in a violence wracked land of conflict as Israel does.
2) we’ve done it before, it was called National Service, and we stopped it after a thing called Vietnam.

 

And finally, a new award is upon us. We’re retiring the Bushie, because Georgie’s presidency now (somehow?) has an air of wanton nostalgia about it. From here on out we’ll be awarding The Secret Verbs and Spicers for the sauciest, most regret-inducing piece of fried hyperbole each week.

To give it a taste-test today, let’s go to the Colonel himself, Donald Trump, for his response to the independent probe into his leak of classified material to the Russians:

This is Patrice Lumumba:

patrice-lumumba-bet

Lumumba was the first democratically-elected President of the Congo, who pushed for total resource independence from Belgium, and in his short run at the top, he faced colonial meddling, sabotage and ultimately a coup sponsored by the US.

Lumumba was shot to death by an armed cabal, before being dissolved in acid.

So Donald, damn. That’s some spicy hyperbole. Finger shakin’ good.

 

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