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While you were asleep: Barnaby Joyce promoted, Prince George becomes a revolutionary, Pam calls out Dutton

Well, it’s morning. In the hours beforehand, Barnaby Joyce did us proud, Prince George became our new deity, and Pam Anderson criticised Manus for a rather non-issue.

 

 

Barnaby Joyce valiantly continues his solitary war to keep politics entertainment, fails upwards.

It has been articulated that the 2017 cabinet squeaked far too often, and that rust had taken control of the hinges. Tritely put, they were all insane, they made us look bad, and we’re glad they’re gone. Well, yes. But mainly no. Yesterday, as we lost noted antagonist/sometime protagonist George Brandis to the world of diplomacy (read: champagne breakfasts and lunchtime Étouffée with delegates from Siam), I think we’ll truly miss the entertaining insanity come 2018.

I mean, let’s be real here. We’ve lost some gems; which would be gems in the traditional sense (value) versus the contemporary entertainment please stop talking sense (good value), nevertheless, we’ve lost two memelords in Ludlam and Dastyari, we’ve lost Malcolm Roberts and we’ll no longer get to find out whodunit on the final pages of George’s diary. It’ll all be washed away quickly, as we’ll probably have a new government as a byproduct of new year, new me euphoria.

What we’re left with is an empty house. A rental property that was all party all the time, and while the residents stopped you from sleeping, they were certainly good for a laugh. Now all that’s left is the mystery stain on the carpet, and the large part of our hearts they flew out the door with, and while we might keep the bond as compensation, our lives are as broken as the hot water system.

However, hope springs anew as the final captain and bastion of the good/bad times, Barnaby Joyce has earned himself a promotion. He’ll now be running something we all fear, and sadly, all subject to. Infrastructure.

Let the good times roll.

 

Prince George wears shorts to a formal photo, becomes Guevara incarnate.

I’d imagine that the primary reason why those shiftless unelected sponges in their gaudy houses remain popular, is that they promise the possibilities of an eloquent existence. The royals have something we don’t. Something different. Something above the anonymous slog we shoulder daily, shuffling our feet to work, to dupe ourselves into feeling pride that we assure ourselves that we actually feel (we don’t), all to earn a meagre paycheck, and to carve out a speck of meaning in the meaningless, knowing full well that the barriers that hold us are flimsy, perishable and our partners don’t love us anymore, despite what they tell us to accompany our exit every morning. It seems to be that we all long to subvert social norms, and do nothing over something. Not caring for the structure that wounds us, as we all wish we could just do what we like.

For example, I dunno, wearing shorts to an uber formal family photo moment.

 

Now, up to an including the four minutes it took me to wobble the above, I merely pictured Prince George as the next piggy to sup correctly from the crystal trough of entitlement, but, now, he’s my new god. To hell with the social norms. I’m calling in sick to eat tiramisu in my front garden with trousers on my head. Viva la self Revolucion!

 

 

Pamela Anderson lands on the beaches of Manus, points at alleged animal cruelty as the issue.

There’s a very famous general that criticised a very famous fat man for his decision to invade Italy instead of France in the second world war two. It was called ‘periphery pecking’, a resistance to address the issue head-on (in that case, Nazism), in favour of advancing yourself on a less important platform. Wind the clock forward to 2017, and noted faux-lifesaver/wife of Borat, Pamela Anderson applied the logic of Winston Churchill (which is a wild sentence), choosing to criticise Manus Island, not for their historic abuses on humankind, but rather for their apparently questionable treatment of a solitary doggo.

 

 

Allow me to add a quick qualifier. I have a dog, and if anyone did her harm, I would bathe in their blood. She’s real cute, but. Would you like to see a photo? She’s my fur daughter, y’know. Oh. Bro. She actually got in the bin the other day, and I came in the kitchen, and there was like rubbish everywhere, and I’m like oh no! and she looks at me and…

See. Periphery pecking. Not to cheapen animal cruelty, or indeed the important work of PETA, but in applying quick maffs, the calculator is showing ERROR.

One dog or six hundred plus people.

Come on, Pam.

 

 

 

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