#Auspol winners and losers: Who was locked in the cabinet of second-hand secrets?

A stupid way to get fired, an offer of participation and a ruined commute stained the walls of #Auspol this week. Welcome to the fun-zone.



Every Friday, because we hate ourselves, we sift through the seeping smelly garbage mountain of #Auspol refuse, attempting to find the smallest fragments of something barely value. Why? So we can triumphantly hold it aloft, and raise our voice to our children, wondering why people throw these things out, they’re still good, as our dead-eyed spouse avoids eye contact, and rolls up the car window.

Hooray, politics?




Peter Dutton, for allowing us to participate.

As a crestfallen Super Nintendo Chalmers once said, it’s all just a damn popularity contest with you kids. While life might be like that, the life of a politician is exactly that. The constant weaving of lies, promises of favours, and turning over your lunch on the basis that you’ll be liked enough not to be forced to move schools. Again.

Canberra’s premier bully (who you just know eats alone at the cafeteria) this week decided to afford us more power (because we’d like him more), putting forward the idea of our highest legal representatives elected in the same way he was, through the medium of public vote.



Which, no. I don’t want to be cruel here, Australia. But we’re flocking geese. I am, you are, the person you avoid eye contact on the bus absolutely is. I mean, thanks for the thought, Pete, but the mind reels on who we’d actually choose given the opportunity.






Andrew Constance, for showing the world how Australia realpolitikz, for real.

On that same point, Andrew Constance knows what Peter doesn’t. Giving the power of the vote to the populace is not what democracy is all about. This week, it became known that the limp Ferry McFerryface non-sequitur was actually a big-boy subversion of the process, clomping its feet and tracking mud all through the house.



For whatever reason, and try and follow me here, because I’m still confused, but Andrew’s department held a vote that no-one really wanted (to rename a ferry), we paid for it, it was held, the winner was chosen (which took the form of an antique joke), Constance appeared on television to begrudgingly admit that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but hey, democracy, before we discovered that democracy didn’t enter into it, as the supposed winner of the poll was really only selected by a minority, and Constance just chose Ferry McFerryface, because…well I’m not exactly sure why.



There’s a deeper point. This came in the week after the FWC ostensibly cancelled the train strike after Constance’s mob lowballed the demands of the workers. Inconviencing an entire city and simultaneously gutting the meaning industrial action, perfectly fine. Rig a pointless vote to rename a ferry, thinnest of ice.

Man, that’s how we do politics. It takes me back to the warm embrace of crazyface 2017.

Ohhh, good times.





Tony Burke, for ruining Young Christopher’s trip to school.

Some people just can’t handle the pure joy that kids have. You know the type, those who drop adult realities on juvenile hopes. It’s crushing to see, because you just know that they’re heaping their own problems on an innocent party.

Christopher Pyne is a happy-go-lucky scamp. Look at his Twitter profile. He loves doggos so much that he got two of them:


This week, Young Christopher’s parents allowed him to take the tram to school. Which was all very exciting. He planned out the route, memorised the stops and triple-checked the balance on his very own very first MetroCard.

And you know what? It was exciting. Look at his little face:



…that was until some grumpy, blurry commuter shattered the illusion. It was, as the man pointed out, not a novelty, or very special at all.



Young Christopher’s lip quivered, as his eyes turned to mist. You know what? How dare you, Tony. A child’s imagination is the most beautiful thing. Let him have his fantasy. What’s wrong with you?




Barnaby Joyce, for running out of material.

Um, Malcolm. I think your Barn-bot is malfunctioning. That or the last year has been some sort of horrible coma fantasy. It’s all been a dream, right? Guys? Nurse?

Compare the pair:

27 January 2017


1 February 2018.


Special honourable mention goes to Malcolm Turnbull off Barnaby’s shoulder in the second clip, probably railed by the same guilt Dr Frankenstein was when he realised the error of his ways, and truly understood that he probably shouldn’t have played god and created this abomination.

It’s aliiivveeee.



Honourable mentions

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

David Feeney – for being unable to sex up Section 44.

You know the type. That person who is asked to find something by a someone in authority, and while they clearly don’t have it, they waste everyone’s time with a cursory pad of the pockets, or some winding tale about how a wolfhound ate his citizenship papers. Typical. Fortunately, Feeney took the zero, and unfortunately reminded us all of those mornings in school when we fudged up. Thanks for the flashback, David.



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

The Purge, for saying what we’re all thinking.

Poorly. I mean, yes. If there was a night where all crimes were legal, who wouldn’t want to pop Donald? I’d imagine the wait list would be long, but…hang on. I know it’s a movie, isn’t the wanton suggestion of assassination a bit much.

I mean, in the good-old-days of everywhere up to 2016, the American President was only killed by foreigners, terrorists, communists, or according to Oliver Stone, fucking everyone. However, flash forward to 2018, and now the Prez is fair game? Get off my plane.

I mean, sure, I’ll load the rifle, but I don’t feel good about it. That’ll pass, right?



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