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#AusPol winners and losers: Who are we kicking out for ANZAC Day?

A short-priced favourite, downstairs loving and sprinkle of Christmas magic decorated the tree of #AusPol this week. So, who won?



Politics is like that social thing 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, and thusly no-one can figure out if they had fun or not. Or in the case of politics, cannot chart a true winner or loser.




Scott Morrison, for keeping the magic alive.

Yes, he might be a shard of bespeckled flint leaning against an abacus, but ScoMo has a heart. Especially if you happen to be eight years old. You see, and perhaps you might remember the attention of your standard young lad/ladette swirls around three events. Their birthday, school holidays and Christmas. ScoMo realises that false Christmas is only three months away, so he thought it best to jangle the sleigh bells within. Ho ho ho.




Yoweri Museveni, for totally saving my neck muscles.

Yoweri Museveni is seemingly two things. He’s the President of Uganda, and an incredibly selfish lover. This week, he struck the top step of the podium, railing against a pox that is plaguing his people. Oral Sex. According to the man, the mouth should only be for eating. Which, frankly, is a ringing endorsement for the act itself. Two reasons a) the slangy venacular that surrounds third base, and b) disobeying the censor is forever cool cool.

Strangely, it seems that the Eden of bibletimes has been right under our lover’s nose the entire time, as it seems that the only issue that Uganda faces is the excessive amount of oral pleasure being had. Horribly, Yoweri made his point through the medium of shithouse poetry, stating: “We know the address of sex, we know where sex is. You push the mouth there, you can come back with worms and they enter your stomach because that is a wrong address.”

Tell you what, Yoweri, put a banging techno-grime beat over the top of that, and you’ve got something.

Something to go along with that brain damage.




Richard Flanagan, for making his case for expulsion.

According to tradition, April 25 is the day where we all come together in prideful celebration to honour the fallen ANZAC by kicking someone out of the country who dares to question it. Two-Up, one finger up, it’s a great day out with the kids. The only question is who will be shackled to the last post and thrashed by grammatically absent nationalism?

Well, hot dog, we have a wiener. Richard Flanagan, Man Booker Prize Winner/writer of that book on my shelf that I swear to god Richard, one day I will read it, may have booked his tickets to the populist glue factory, after he fronted the National Press Club to question the Australian culture.



Also, I want to meet Richard Flanagan, so if the future baying mob can organise to seat me next to him on the rocket due for the sun, I sure would appreciate it.




Twitter, for being the bird grooming the elephants who never forget.

Look. Let’s be real here. Tweets age, headlines yellow and points are pivoted upon. It’s what politics happens to be. If you print off a quote from 201- and apply it to the modern rhetoric, your point is invalid. Because there is no point. Things are different now. It’s the same theory as those who attempt to judge the movies of yesterday with the moral code of today. Innocent classics, like in Animal House when Pinto decides to have nonconsensual sex with a passed out underage girl he got drunk before wheeling her up to her house in a shopping trolley before ringing the doorbell and making a run for it. Ha, classic.

To that end, the banking royal commission is Australia’s Next Top Lightning Rod of Discourse, so it makes endless sense that we’d wind the clock back in an attempt to pierce the flank of the white whale that murmured against it in a soothing low timbre.



You can’t do that, guys. The past has totally passed.



Also on The Big Smoke


Honourable mentions

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

James Comey – for aiming low, and missing.

Jim, bruh. Let’s get it straight. Yes, emulate who you want to be. That’s a fine selfie-philosophy. But don’t take a selfie with those who that person admires, and try and hoodwink us into thinking that you’re him. You’re not Martin Shkreli, James.

And you never will be.




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

Rowan Dean – for rubbing himself in snake oil before sliding into his point.

We’ll attack the point, not the man. Climate change, despite what Malcolm Roberts and a ream of Reflex (and no gag) will tell you, is real. However, it is rather real. Rowan believes it’s not. Which was hard to articulate, as the amount of tongue in cheek exhibited below barely made the man legible.

We live in a nonsense space. One where anti-vaxxers, chem-trailists, faith healers, homoeopaths, I’m not religious – but spiritual is greeted with a certain assumed reverence. Believe what you choose to believe.

But not this. Because Submarines.





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