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#Auspol winners and losers: Who spilled all this lib on the floor?

A black eye for Jesus, a lib removed to create a new leader and a fresh new haircut highlight the clusterboink that is our system of government. So, who won?

 

 

Every Friday (because we hate ourselves) The Big Smoke announces the winners and losers of the nation’s most brutal form of competitive entertainment. So who marches victoriously from the #AusPol arena this week?

 

Winners

The Libspill, for coming dangerously close to living out his dreams.

This morning, something ancient, something furry, something plucked from the back of the netherrealms of the political refrigerator, an embryonic mass slopped on our plates for us all to digest. Yes, the Libspill is back. However, crucially, this new recipe has a distinctive attempt at vintage flair, tasting of that sweet-sweet latter 90s nostalgia. Same old Libspill taste, same old wobbling rhetoric. Just like John used to make.

 

 

Although, I wouldn’t speed it to the highest shelf of our disgust just yet, as the spill seems to be the work of Twitter fanfiction, with noted bandana enthusiast Peter Fitzsimons scooping a spoon into the turgid mass, retching:

 

 

Lesser noted Czech panstman/ex-ABC Journalist Nick Ross went a step further, having tasted the slop, stating:

 

 

So, do we have to eat it, or not?

 

Clive Palmer, for striking while the iron is hot.

Go, Clive. It’s ya birthday. Not one week since his ascension to the highest table of memelorddom, Australia’s premier tim-tam/slam-poem fancier has managed to keep the PR train rolling, strutting his way into our general consciousness in a Tony Manero pomp, wobbling his cocksure sure, holding the paint cans of a parliamentary return. Now, we can tell by the way that he uses his walk that he’s a serious man. Much time for talk.

Walk on, Clive.

 

 

 

 

Losers

Richard di Natale, for committing the social seppuku of trying something new.

It’s the op-shop $3 distressed jeans of social faux-pas. You’re drowning in the boring, hopeless established normalcy that has become your closest friends. It’s not working, you’re no longer challenged, and you dream of escape. You need something different. Maybe you should make some new friends and do some new things, not forever, but just for a bit, you know.

Sadly, once the original friend group catches wise, you’re subject to the very present derogatory vibe of dismissal as their eyes read betrayal, collective fists clenched behind your back, and suddenly a rash of social events are planned, and met with you no being part of it.

This week, Richard DiNatale learned this lesson, as one of his bezzy besties didn’t care for RdN’s new uppity tone, as those who know him best lashed him with that rusted, flaying barb.

You’ve changed, man.

 

 

 

Malcolm Turnbull, for awkwardly going back in time and forcing us to watch.

Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm. Tsk, etc. When will you learn? We Australians care not for sweeping artistic statements about ourselves, and we sure as absolutely shit don’t want our politicians participating in it. This week, Mal took leave of his senses, channelling his inner Toolie, and travelled to the Gold Coast (of all places) to engage in some very public, very awful karaoke, recording it on his phone to show the wife when he gets back.

Da Boiyz.

 

 

 

The morning after, Mal took to Sunrise to complain about the complaints regarding the opening ceremony, which for intents/purposes involved dancing beach towels, and orchestra Kylie Minogue cover and a message from the Queen, it seemed that we were poorly represented on a cultural level.

Personally, for the closing ceremony, I’d much rather a foot shuffling parade of ironically tattooed trendy douchebags, or a dance number that depicts the ancient clash of keyboard warriors. Or a Gershwin style duet where a rusted on LNP racist father disagrees with his uber ALP progeny about those on Manus Island. I say queue jumper, you say asylum seeker…

I’d watch that.

 

 

 

 

 


Also on The Big Smoke


 

 

Honourable mentions

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

Sarah Huckabee Sanders, for taking the miracle of Jesus out on the miracle of life.

Last weekend, it was the second birthday of Jesus, where his most loved friends got him murdered. #LadsTrip. Sadly, Jesus dogged their gift and turned up very much alive on

Sunday. Flashforward two thousand years and the better parts of J-Dogg’s massive weekend were lost on Trump’s mouthpiece, as she was asked to explain the salient points to the adults of tomorrow.

Honestly, the complete lack of fucks on display here is the true miracle.

 

 

 

The Secret Verbs and Spicers for the sauciest, most regret-inducing piece of fried hyperbole each week goes to:

Whoever made this video, for making this video.

Man, I love the internet. Whoever seamlessly stitched together this whip-pan is wasted in whatever job they’re currently stuck in.

 

 

The original was funny, but this is on a new plane of mirth.

Bravo, nameless internet dork.

 

 

 

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