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AusPol winners and losers: Who measured Barnaby’s member of parliament?

An adult movie no-one wants, a terrible 90s reference, and many many falls from grace stain the glass windows of AusPol this week. Who won? Who cares.



Politics is like that party you show up to, where the only person you know isn’t there yet. So, you awkwardly stand in the corner and try your best to look serious. The music on-tap is the most overplayed remixes of 1990s glory day hits and the fridge is only filled with bitter. Eventually, the owner of the house kicks everyone out before it gets rowdy, or anyone has a chance to explore the upstairs bedrooms with a stranger. Everyone parts, trying to figure out if they had fun or not.



Barnaby Joyce, for flogging the last of his log/capitalising on his popularity.

As the Star Wars and Pirates of Caribbean franchises attest, as soon as they make a pornographic subversion of yourself, you’ve made it. Hello to you, Star Whores. Not too long after the whole bundle of Joyce incident, it seems the casting for the XXX equivalent is underway. Which, pardon me for going there, but the whole thing seems to be a premature cinematic ejaculation.



That being said, skin flick producers, if you’re taking suggestions for character names, how about Barney B. Moist?



Canberran lawmakers, for keeping our lawns safe.

Three years old, the Australian landscape was a dangerous place. A slope littered with the rapid cartwheeling horror of limbs and the high decibel screech of kids running amok. We don’t need that in our nation’s capital, we never yell. And certainly not at the cathedral of democracy, Parliament House. But, you pesky kids, you chose to tumble down the corridors of power nevertheless, unbridled, unchecked, uncompromising.

We were fortunate that our governatorial protectors took charge, erecting a barrier to save us from the terror we birthed, and named.





Malcolm Turnbull, for picking the wrong person to appropriate on International Women’s Day.

Oh, Malcolm. Yesterday, to celebrate the day of all things women, our PM decided to splay some mad inspo across his social media feed, pasting this fine piece of motivation.



Sadly, it seems that he was inspired by a rather questionable individual, R Kelly. As the above is a lazy mangling of the hook below:

I mean, yes, it’s a banger, and even the two decades since release (and movie tie-in), it still gets me amped, but Malcolm, for IWD, it’s probably best to sample someone with a less questionable track record with women.

Just sayin’


The assumed nobility of political discourse, for revealing the true ugliness of its features.

For those who don’t know anything about it, the romance of politics is the virginal assumption that it is adults discussing adult things. The future of our nation and its people. Sadly, we soon realise that our hopes are the first thing to be fucked.

Front-and-centre to that point of clarity is the entirety of the below. Dearie me.




Also on The Big Smoke



Honourable mentions

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

Jake Tapper, for illustrating the point of when something beautiful loses its appeal.

Like noble Icarus before him, Jakey Tapper is a mere mortal that flew too close to the megawatt glow of something they really shouldn’t have: Millennial prompts of disgust.

To wit:



Which, other than the fact I have no idea what the fuck your tweet says, I’m disappointed because you can (and have) done better, Jake. Bring back this Tapper.

We miss that guy.




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

Sarah Sanders, for the egregious crime of not lying well enough.

The Press Secretary is a right honourable position, your worth measured by how much polish you can add to the turds that spill out of Donald Trump’s mouth. While Sean Spicer had his alternative facts, Anthony Scaramucci had bravado, it seems that Sarah Sanders has a whole lot of not much, as Trump is disappointed in her for not adequately dispelling the (probably true) rumour of his fumblings with conservatively monikered adult film actor, Stormy Daniels.

Just to recap. She’s in strife because she didn’t bend the truth enough. Instead of twisting it upon itself, much like a pretzel, Sanders’ weak attempt and bending has merely created a boomerang which is now spinning directly toward the window of Donald’s house.

And you don’t want that. You’ll never get your things back.





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