#AusPol winners and losers: Who redecorated their greenhouse with masonry this week?

Judge Judy fantasies, inadvertent self-flagellation and a footrace to the bottom. Winners, all. However, in the harsh game of #AusPol, who secured their Internet legacy?



As I tally off the days left of my sentence with a sharpened toothbrush into my cellmate’s back, I notice a pattern. One Nation. As the chalk souffle falls in on itself, and the music swells to an orchestral note usually only heard when a peasant village is butchered in Hollywood, it would be easy to devote an entire piece panning their innate ability to make a bad situation worse (plus we did that last week), however, that just lets everyone else off the hook, and there’s plenty of snark to go around. So consider this week’s Winners and Losers a One Nation free zone.

Except for Malcolm Roberts. He’s an island upon himself.



Tony Abbott, for coming dangerously close to living out his dreams.

A great philosopher once wrote: “Don’t let your dreams be dreams.” Well, going off the evidence presented, consider our ex-PM to be of the highest order, pushing this week for his own kangaroo court to punish ex-Jihadists, among others – a court that can, in his words, “hear evidence that may not normally be admissible.”

To be honest, he’s not framed well in the picture above, but the elastic nature of his statement seemingly reflects the elastic nature of the court which, knowing Tone, could take many forms. Either the chain, leather and fire circus of the Mad Maxiverse, or a dingy dusty long-forgotten cellar underneath Old Parliament House. Or, hopefully, a rather dodgy Pulp Fictionesque setup underneath a pawn shop featuring Cory Bernardi as the shotgun-wielding proprietor and Abbott as the chopper-riding enforcer who turns up late, in time to get medieval…with his perceived punishment within the words of the law. Not what you think.

You’ve seen too many movies.



Barnaby Joyce, for making the Auspol nutcase sack-race a two-horse event.

Bless you, Barnaby Joyce. For most of the year, the pickings regarding the most out-there pollie have been so slim, the whole thing’s borderline emaciated, sleeping in the lap of Malcolm Roberts. However, heavy lies the crown, and homeboy be slippin’, because from the chattering depths of the New England electorate breathes a challenger, one that threatens to usurp the throne of abject stupidity. In this very week, he’s tabled two vastly different, but equally valuable pieces of double-talking political fuckknockery.

Exhibit A) Dissing the Beaconsfield Mine disaster, the leader of the opposition and the custodians of this ancient land in two furious minutes of tomato auspice:

Exhibit B) Whatever this tangential clusterboink is trying to approach, because I’m not entirely sure what his destination is:

Not to be outdone, his great rival, Amundsen to Joyce’s Scott, Senator Malcolm Roberts fired back, trying to link a satirical academic paper (which was about the preconceptions of gender studies) to the fraudulent nature of his older enemy, those who fear climate change. As far as leaps of logic go, it was an attempt to reach New Zealand from the capital.

The pronged digestif followed the main course earlier in the week, when he retweeted everyone’s favourite South East Asian real-life Dirty Harry, Rodrigo Duterte, praising the man’s methods:

In the interest of fairness though, the man did drop a modicum of logic on his Twitter feed, railing against the left’s methods to quash radical Islam:

Which, unfortunately puts Barnaby ahead in the race to the bottom. I do love the races, me.


Also on The Big Smoke



Peter Dutton, for being the playa that hates his own game.

Picture the scene. You’re Peter Dutton. The entirety of the country, and even those outside the borders long for your (political) death. You wake every morning, brushing your teeth, making small talk over the breakfast table, washing your dishes, and doing so knowing that just outside the thin layer of brick and glass, those people are out there, and the only thing making these walls a sanctuary is that your address remains unknown. The person in your bathroom mirror is the most hated man in the Commonwealth. You turn the bathroom light off.

A kind of existence, seeing everyone as an enemy develops three brand new personality traits. Paranoia. Suspicion. Defensiveness.

You somehow roll the windows tight enough closed, you drive to work, radio off, eyes on the road, desperately trying to avoid eye contact at all costs. You fall into the welcoming concrete tomb of the bowels of the Immigration Department office, and finally, sanctuary once more. You bid good morning to your assistant, whom you’re suspicious of. They serve you, but do they believe in you? You fidget in your chair, your laptop on the desk remains closed, the “In” pile of the morning’s business undisturbed, for your touch on either will loose the baleful demons within, but at least for these few precious minutes, you’re not certain that everyone still hates you. Maybe you’re…loved?

Nope. The first photocopied report painted in post-it red urgent turned over reveals the truth. And typically you overreact. A Muslim organisation is helping Muslims hide evidence when entering the country. So, you type a letter, fingers wiggling in furious spasms, typing until the typin’ is done:


The complaining left, for saving an old giraffe from being put down.

I’m not naming names here, but as soon as the news dripped down onto keyboards and feeds across the nation that the Happy/Healthy Harold program was set to be defunded, a veritable typhoon of nostalgic millennial complaint (da best kind) rose up out of the ether, battering the whatever of whoever until those bloody fat cats get their paws off the decapitated head of that giraffe that lives in a van, deemed worthwhile because only through cosmic fluke we got to see his peak. We think. Irritatingly, later in the evening, Education Minister Simon Birmingham stepped in, vowing to save the endangered species, but not expressing how. What irks me, is that we complained until we got what we wanted. And for what was an essentially baseless hill to die on.

The irony of the entire thing was exhibited by those who whined. A raft of people who were either halfway through punching a cone, eating fast food, on the vague borders of orgasm or half pissed. We don’t even follow the teachings of Harold, which apparently means enough to us to try and protect him. Unpopular opinion, but I don’t think Harold wants the help from the very people who betrayed him. Moreover, don’t we prove that the entire program doesn’t actually work?

You see, this is exactly why the older generations don’t listen to us.

Because we’re fucking stupid.


Also on The Big Smoke


Honourable mentions

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

Alex Gardega, the sculptor who placed a urinating dog statue next to Wall Street’s “Fearless Girl”.

The “Fearless Girl” statue of Wall Street “was not made by some individual artist making a statement,” Mr Gardega told NBC News. “It was made by a billion-dollar financial firm trying to promote an index fund. It is advertising/promotion in the guise of art. That was my only point.”

Here’s the image. You be the judge.

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

Predictably, the man the award is named after, one Sean Spicer. This week, the demigod of hyperbole somehow has rescaled Everest, built a block of flats on its peak and planted a new flag on its roof, by trying to add legitimacy to something that is entirely illegitimate, 2017’s most enduring mystery/typo, covfefe:

Just admit it was a mistake already, for fucks sake.


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