Ugh. My head. The morning after the Mardi Gras has granted us ugliness. Featuring a Pokie-bought election and the Academy Awards not learning last year’s lesson.
A close confidant of mine (and also neighbour) crossed paths this morning, his eyes fuzzy through the prism of a hangover, vestigial glitter mashed into the side of his extremely chromed dome. It was 9am, and Mardi Gras had just finally concluded for him. We had discussed his hopes for the historic evening twelve hours prior (and also to complain about our bin), and we had both hoped for a great night of collective catharsis, a true coming out party, it was, for all intents, Sydney’s first great party after the great shift to marriage equality.
My neighbour double-taked my presence at the door, raising his frown to a forced smile, politely barging past, uttering four words before his door closed: Malcolm. Turnbull. Google. It.
Considering the furore attached to this image, I can assume this is what Steven referenced. I’m not knocking on his door to confirm.
— Malcolm Turnbull (@TurnbullMalcolm) March 3, 2018
Australia didn’t achieve marriage equality because of anything you did. You placed every obstacle in the way, costing the taxpayer millions of dollars instead of doing what politicians like you were elected to do in the first place: be strong, be responsive and lead the way.
— Sandi Logan (@SandiHLogan) March 3, 2018
After what you put all the LGBTIQ community through past year I think you should instead work on an apology before you post these pictures!
— Adam Kundrat (@adam_kundrat) March 3, 2018
Given the damage you’ve done to the LGBTQIA community, I’m amazed you and your spouse have the gall to appear so blatantly at this event.
— Dame Queen Fiona (@fionajreynolds) March 3, 2018
Fudging gatecrashers, dude.
Shoutout to the #78ers. Shoutout also to the ’70s LGBT activists who weren’t at the first #MardiGras for whatever reason. Shoutout to the str8 allies who rocked up to the Darlo cop shop, raised bail money, stuck up for us. We all stand on the shoulders of giants. #MardiGras40
— Paul Kidd (@paulkidd) March 2, 2018
Elsewhere in locally abetted questionable political chicanery, the dust has settled in the Tasmanian election, with Liberal candidate Will Hodgman securing a second term. Right, so why do we care about the results of the quintessential backwater election?
— ABC Hobart (@abchobart) March 3, 2018
Well, it has a lot to do with the spooky music that played underneath the process of democracy throughout. The tune is familiar to anyone who’s spent the last of their change in a room where the coffee is free, but hope is expensive.
The pokie room.
Before we all yell More Chili! in unison (before presumably all seeking help), those who were dispatched in the aforesaid election mentioned the concerns in the aforeplanted article. Greens’ leader Cassy O’Connor certainly cut to the point, gambling her feature(d) speech, stating: “…we were significantly outspent by the Labor Party and massively outspent by the Liberals.. millions of dollars pouring in from the gambling industry, from the Federal Group into Liberal coffers”
The Jacqui Lambie Network, which, for the half-awake, is that show that utters a rather gratingly unfortunate whine from your television. The JLM had a rather grim evening, failing to gain a seat, and now faces an uncertain future. For what it’s worth, Lambie also blamed her troubles on a lack of “cash”
“Tonight we have been defeated but not because of our lack of trying, not because of who we are, but because we got done over by cash,” Lambie said, before adding, “…we are squeaky bloody clean.”
…and that’s why you lost, Lambo. That, or the whole notoriously numbered section palaver/the thousand other gripes the electorate may or may not have.
The thing about the Trump administration, other than the fact that the euphemism, metaphor and protracted reference markets are booming in an attempt to accurately chart the horror, is that it is a particularly large ship with many rats to flee from many decks. Consider it the Titanic pinballing its way through the Atlantic, but reaching New York anyway, bow upturned, casting off all evidence of every collision as meh, nothing to worry about.
Last week, yet more names tumbled off the elevated stern, cascading into the icy waters of political uncertainty below, axis upset by the sharp headlines they clang into on the way down. Hope Hicks, an aide hyperbolically labelled as a surrogate daughter became the fourth communications director to quit. Jared Kushner, his son-in-law, was stripped of high-level security clearance amid revelations about potential conflicts of interest. Because employing the dude who is banging your daughter is certainly above board, and certainly not a conflict of interest in the first place. Whatever, it doesn’t matter, because the ship is not sinking. Misguided nepotism is not a big-enough iceberg to sink this turd.
But still, years after the election, and the moment that we’ve refused to accept, we’re still hoping that the Trump Administration will destroy itself, and be sent back to the netherrealm. Surely there’s a PhD in the study of the monetary gain publications have made on the articles bashing Trump. Peep this money quote from The Guardian, one where an expert doomcrests the end:
“This feels like it’s turned a corner and not for the better for the White House,” said Rich Galen, a Republican strategist, once press secretary to Vice-President Dan Quayle.
I feel like turning a corner and wandering blindly into oncoming traffic. Why? Because that will be the only way I’ll see the end of the Trump administration before its term is up.
Deal with it, yo.
And finally, to prove that America is moronic, and nothing is sacred, and lessons are never learned, the two antiques from last year’s Academy Awards, Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty will again present the Oscar for Best Picture, because such a great job was done last time around, and nothing at all bad happened.
Hollywood. No-one wants your introspective/poorly done redemption stories, especially if we don’t have to pay for it.