#AusPol winners and losers: Who wrote their initials on the whiteboard of history?

The rebirth of the whiteboard, a butchered cover and a pile of double entendres ruined AusPol’s birthday cake this week. Just you wait until your father gets home.



Every Friday, your trusty commentators at The Big Smoke review the most lauded plays in the game of Australian politics from the week previous. Passionate? Unquestionably. Conniving? Undoubtedly. But it’s not about that. Headlines need to be made and an audience needs to be entertained.

So, are we not entertained? Well, no. Considering that I’m yet to start, and even then, well, no.



Michaelia Cash, for giving a lagging industry a shot in the arm.

If there’s one thing that a politician loves more than anything else, I mean other than surreptitious offshore kickbacks and the contours of a staffer’s lap in theirs, it’s saving an honest, traditional workforce from the hands of obsoletism.

Michaelia Cash, for all her slut-shaming/Bob Woodwardian pomp (whichever way you sit on her outburst), has achieved that this week, breathing life into the labouring local whiteboard industry.



I mean, there are honest people grinding the only life they have away at the whiteboard factories across this nation, trying to convince the rest of the clueless populace on the exact reasons why they need to invest in numerous pieces of a quickly dying piece of technology. What they have now is a celebrity endorsement, a moment in history to forever shoehorn into their marketing plans. Just like the Texas Book Depository did after the Kennedy assassination. There was a book depository on every corner after that. Right?

That being said, if the whiteboard lobby is as large as I assume it is, consider Michaelia going nowhere. Those stationery folk have deep pockets. Have you tried to buy copier paper?

Money move, Cash.





Malcolm Turnbull, for maintaining the standard.

Considering Cash’s outburst, which we’ve all seen, and for those who haven’t, consider it the same volume and format as those public scrapes that instantly accelerate the volume on your headphones.

However, management comes from the top. And while these verbal scrapes are the norm in society, and we can handle that, and do, but the last thing we honest Australians need is our elected leaders cursing, not in parliament, but outside of it.


You know what, Mal. Fair play. Please continue to curb Bill’s desire to be seen in public. It doesn’t end well for anyone.





Tony Abbott, for losing definition (and gaining desperation)

Broken Tony makes me sad, the moment where we kicked him out of our houses has long since passed, as thus, our humanity returns, as we again to wonder what Tony is up to. That, of course, is completely torched as soon as we see his problematic face again. But while ancient hackles are raised, and dusty emotional battlements are again hid behind, we do recognise that he’s not doing too well, and is becoming increasingly desperate in his bid to regain our attention.

This week, Tony emerged mid-summer shower, boom boxed raised above his head, the device he held aloft creaking out the hissing dub-step of his next step.



You’re just copying Sam Dastyari, now, Tone. This isn’t you.

I’m calling the police.



Michelle Landry, for being better than us.

You know what? The hardest thing about popping a joke is not laughing at it. Especially if the entirety of your schtick relies on an Elliot Gobletian level of enthusiasm.

Nationals MP Michelle Landry knows this, and all the props in the world to her, as she was able to unload this steaming pile of double-entendres that would make even the most adult of us stifle fits of the most childish laughter.



Bum. Ha.


Also on The Big Smoke



Honourable mentions

The “Golden Emerson” goes to David Leyonhjelm, for being hasty with that RT button.

As every employed person is forced to make very clear, RT DOES NOT MEAN ENDORSEMENT. Fortunately, David Leyonhjelm is not kept in check by the limp hands of Human Resources we are.





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

America, fuck yeah.

I fear we might have to retire The Spicer, purely on the basis that the Americans have turned it into The America’s Cup. Sad.

Anyway, let us tinkle the organ of dour realities and get on with it. This week, an American said this, because, ‘Murica.



Oh, also this.



You win, America.

Stop now.





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