#AusPol winners and losers: Who pinned the tail on the Trumpie?

An ironing of the big boy pants, a case of admirable stoicism and the world’s most foolishly-named cash cave. #AusPol, you’re not right in the head.




I know not if these words will ever get out. I’ve jotted down these notes on flakes of skin and dandruff as paper, with effluent as a pen, for I must recount what I’ve seen. I’ve witnessed a place, landlocked, surrounded by a poisoned lake, ringed by concrete circles that act as a maze to hide the pit beyond, and in that pit, the walls ringed with slush funds, red leather, and the inhabitants croak in tongues and speak in five minute blocks, yet no-one listens. I tried to study them, but I was caught by a troll who wore a whip and a tattoo of church, forcing me downward into this hellish chamber from where I write this. It is painted a sickly green, I’m surrounded by strangers who claim to represent places I’ve never heard of. Their names unfamiliar, their faces hopeful, but something in their eyes tells me that they know that they’re never leaving this place. Nor will I. I should have never woke that horrible morning.




Malcolm Turnbull, for mocking his parents while they’re asleep.

Well done, Mal. To wring comedy from an inherently unfunny situation shows true genius, something that we as a nation thought was beyond your wheelhouse. For those who don’t know, the Roberto Benigni of AusPol struck overnight, lampooning the tangerine man who’s name is on the mortgage.

Props, as it’s akin to flipping off your parents behind their back, with eyes askew and tongue asunder, only to reset your features as they turn towards you. Now, as it stands, Daddy Don is yet to do that, so until then, we get to revel in the brilliance of our brilliance, in that they were stupid, and we were hilarious. And smart.

One can assume that the punishment will be severe as even Netflix couldn’t keep their lovely mouths shut about it, so perhaps the key here is for Mal not to apologise but to take his punishment and walk free, a born again genius in our eyes.

Four more years?


Brian Burston, for keeping a straight face.

Meet Brian Burston (yeah, neither), a man who subscribes to the Ronan Keating school of identity politics. He says it best, when he says nothing at all. Now, Brian is a member of One Nation, as seen on television as the guy next to Malcolm Roberts. Perhaps you’ve seen his work?

Marvellous work. Although that is nowhere near as good as this.

Outstanding. What One Nation lacks (among others) is mystery. Through Pauline and Malcolm, we know what they’re thinking, as they invariably tell us. However, with BB, we’re not sure. What hides behind those glasses? World domination? Pizza rounders? Boney M’s Rasputin?

Whatever the answer is, just tell us. For, as The Simpsons illustrated:


Also on The Big Smoke



Shannon Noll, for having his gimmick stolen.

As far as musicians go, the blue-collared, gravel-voiced and sun-beaten derma bit has been Nollsy’s ever since the mantle was passed down from the blue-chip rock face of Mt Barnesy. However, as the markings on the rune state, You wanna be professionally known as ‘-sy’, watch out cobber. The ancients were right to warn him, as a new local singer, girt by RM Williams, has emerged from the dusty depths of the New England electorate.


This week, the notable pub banger released his notable pub banger, leaning heavily on the undercurrent of Australian Eurekanism with his effort “You better be a patriot”. For those who haven’t heard it, first up: does it hurt living under that rock? And secondly, here it is below:

“We don’t care if you are saint or a sinner or a priest or a pastor, whatever you are, you better be a patriot. You better believe in this nation and, on either side of the political fence, we are not going to make excuses for people – or we shouldn’t – by people who have their interests affected by pecuniary benefit to them, especially if it is going directly into their pocket. That is just not on.”

Move over, Shannon. He’s got the touch.


Julie Bishop, when she Googles herself, for her foundation’s structural integrity.

As far as burns go, this was that bit in 8 Mile where Eminem saved Jesus from the jaws of Godzilla with a sick verse about how they never existed in the first place, because creationism, yo, and then they hit up heaven to kick it with Biggie and help repair his aviary. What a movie. Never saw it.

A less hood but no less gangsta fate befell our Foreign Minister this week after Labor responded to her allegations of foreign donations with a little thing called the Julie Bishop Glorious Foundation, which one can only hope is hyperbole and not what it’s actually called, apparently headed up by Chinese magnate Sally Zou.

Suffice to say, the Internet was unkind.

Apparently Bishop maintains she was not told, and why should she have been? If I had a murky foreign thinktank foolishly in my name with beaucoup resource money behind it, I’d surely not want to know about it. Absolutely not. And I certainly would not go the full Kurtz and venture up the Yangtze to turn fat and be viewed as a god. Dearie me, no.


Also on The Big Smoke


Honourable mentions

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

Labor Senator Anthony Chisholm, for destroying the Golden Emerson.

Some people, as unoriginal movie goers espouse, just want to see the world burn. So it goes for Mr Chisholm, who rode his verbal nuke en route to decimating the communal garbled gangbang that is political discourse.

Well. It’s been fun.

What the hell do we do know?

Game over man, game over.


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

Tony Abbott, for his reading of the Manus compensation payout.

Tony. Come on now.


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