#Auspol winners and losers: Whose taste got taste?

A dessert with an appetite, a very childish narrative and an uncomfortable truth make the ingredients for #Auspol’s rancid turducken. So, who won? No-one. Duh.

 

 

Every Friday, The Big Smoke pulls out the chalkboard in an attempt to chart the week’s winners and losers in the game of #Auspol. (It should be noted: in the case of politics, one cannot chart a true winner or loser, but fuck it, we’re doing it anyway.) How did our favourites fair this week?

 

Winners

Liberal MP Julia Banks, for not letting reality ruin her dream.

Often adults long for juvenility. An intersection of time and place, one where you could say and think any old thing, and it’d be fine. In fact, it’d be more than fine, it’d be lauded, because the innocence of children is beautiful.

This week, Julia Banks slipped on her bright yellow duckie gumboots to splash in large pools of vibrant nonsense, as she believed that should could live on the standard Newstart allowance of $40 a day, stating: “I could live on 40 bucks a day knowing that the government is supporting me with Newstart looking for employment.”

I don’t want to destroy her fantasy, because these are the most important years, so I’ll quietly tell you. The reality is this:

 

 

Yes, Julia. You can go play outside, but you just have to listen to this song for an hour first. I’m sorry, it’s the rules.

 

 

Emmanuel Macron, for proving that he’s as bad for you as his dessert doppelganger.

It’s a great week for casual racists everywhere, as a dodgy French bloke landed here and tried to steal our womenfolk, just like we thought they would. Bloody Frenchies. For those who missed the taste of the gold sprinkled Macaron, he very publically congratulated Malcolm Turnbull for having a rather delicious wife.

 

 

I mean, sure. It was lost in translation. English is not his first language, and we get that. We understand. We certainly wouldn’t make a big thing of it, right?

 

 

Fucking hell.

 

 

Losers

Malcolm Turnbull, for playing against type.

We all have easy stereotypes, and this absolutely goes for our elected officials. Just like we can expect Bill Shorten to not chime in, we can expect Penny Wong to start some shit, and we certainly can expect Malcolm Roberts to build his own rocket of broken hyperbole and fire himself into our last nerve.

We can expect that, because we believe that.

What we don’t believe is someone trying to be someone they’re not. And we certainly don’t believe Malcolm’s naive babe-in-the-woods routine. Innocent or clueless he most certainly isn’t. He might be incompetent, but we know an end goal exists.

This week everyone’s favourite antagonist (who we’re still banking with), Commonwealth Bank, announced to the Royal Commission that they “lost” pertinent data pertaining to their wrongdoing, which gleaned this response from Mal:

 

 

Bruh. Best put those stones back in your tailored pockets. *Glass houses*

 

 

 

The Commonwealth of Australia, for not electing Donald Trump.

Australia, like it or not, is a nation that doesn’t turn up for work. I mean, yes, we do. But we’d really rather not. The primary thing that stops us is medical credibility. We’d all call in sick all the time if we only possessed a pile of that magic doctor stationery.

Yeah, I can’t come in. I’ve got a touch of….lupus? I am back in tomorrow. Yes, I’ll see my GP.

For all his crimes against everyone, Donald Trump has solved our national puzzle. It’s a hard thing to accept, but Donald might actually be Australian, under the rug and uber-expensive/expansive suit. Let’s do the maths. He ditches work for play, he tries to bang anything that moves, and he’s actively trying to get sacked for the job he was fortunate enough to get.

He’s that mythical Australian. The one forced in the Hogan Era, a real strayans’ strayan. The one that we all secretly longed to be, the one we assume we’d be in our youth, before we grew up and became neurotic, and hated ourselves.

Here is a man who writes his own Doctor reports. He’s one disability pension away from living the dream.

 

 

Good on ya, mate!

 

 

Honourable mentions

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

Neckbeard Luke James Mahler, for showing equality who da bo$$ iz

Plastic. It’s an invention that changed the world, invented in the vacuum of a war that changed the world. It’s a sturdy material. Resistant to water, electricity and the weedy arms of dweebs who carve great sentences of hate while living in the basement of the house they were born in.

Mr Mahler found himself in a rather testing predicament on May Day. He found a sign that he disagreed with, so, evoking his democratic right, he decided to tear it up.

Tear…it….hmmnnnhhh.

 

 

Because the internet never sleeps, and will never rest until it destroys you, some pioneering savage found this:

 

 

 

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

Alan Jones, for being the mythical dog that ate everyone’s homework.

Alan, I’m sorry, but your rant against homework sounds exactly like the thirteen-year-old who didn’t do his, but instead of accepting it, he’s taken furious pre-pubescent umbrage with the whole damn homework system, flying off the handle, attempting to goose true revolution from his startled, giggling classmates.

 

 

See me after class, Mr Jones.

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