#AusPol winners and losers: Whose constitution was tested?

A return to the Golden Day of Television, a spot of viral marketing and the grumblings of a questionable constitution spotted #AusPol’s Leopard this week. So, who won?



Every week we step into the blunderdome, where those who renege on deals must face the wheel, or retreat to the backbench and pocket dem cheques, yeah boyyee.

However, seldom are we faced with a week where the lines of division are so stark, where the winners and the losers in the #AusPol sphere are so obaque, nothing more needs to be said. But we’re saying it anyway. If you were fortunate enough to miss the week via a slipping into a coma, you lucky duck, consider the headline below as the bitter zap of a disappointing aperitif.



Clive Palmer, for raking in some sweet-sweet free marketing.

As a writer, you know that any publicity, is good publicity. I’m sure J. D. Salinger was distraught at the fact that Catcher in the Rye enabled the death of John Lennon, and I’m absolutely for certain that he was even more disgusted at the surge in sales after history was made. Tsk tsk tsk…ch-ching.



This week, Clive Palmer discovered the same, as his book was unceremoniously dumped in a wheelie bin (who must have also had the time of its life, a bin indoors…wow!) in front of a camera crew. Yes, we might all laugh at Clive’s misfortune, but many of us were unaware that he even had a book. Now we do.

I wonder if it’s any good.

Is it all about his Tim-Tam obsession?

Do we finally get to see his weenie?

Questions, questions.



Malcolm Turnbull – for the long overdue recommencement of ballet-cock-teasery.

If you have ever had the pleasure of working retail, you will know that the store soundtrack invariably has seven songs on it. Seven pieces or harmless, trite, derivative safe nonsense that couldn’t possibly provoke, prod of inspire anyone. The only thing left to do is to roll your eyes and endure the awful familiarity.

The threat of an early election is the political version of that. We all know it’s coming, and we all know the bars, but we just hope to whoever is actually up there that someone in their right mind changed their fucking tune.







Also on The Big Smoke



Twitter, for thinking that the Constitution can save them.

Everyone knows The American Constitution. It’s the legislative equivalent of that copy of War & Peace on your bookshelf you’re never going to read. Except with sans peace. The Constitution’s main function is closer to a clove of garlic around one’s neck, or a stainless steel cross off one’s wrist. Whenever evil appears you wave it at the thing and hope it goes away.

Twitter find themselves in a particularly unique situation, as the abomination they’re terrified of is their own. A Golem. A Frankenstein. A Trump. That Stay Puft marshmallow thing from Ghostbusters 2, that sources its power from collective anger, and decides to trash New York; a creature created on the fallacy that it couldn’t do us any harm. Holy fuck. Did Trump lift his Presidential plot from that narrative wholesale?

Let’s say yes.

Anyway, this week a ruling Judge (and this certainly must be a dark age for Judges) made the rule that Donald J. Trump cannot block detractors on Twitter, on the basis that it is unconstitutional, in that it limited the right of the citizen to exercise free speech.



It’s too late, idiots, there is no government, only Zuul.



The Australian Federal Police, for having their hopes dashed.

Picture the scene. You’re a person who believes in virtue. You’re also buff, and your Dad divorced your Mum whilst banging Mrs Jennings from next door. You want to get even with the world, you dream of a place where right makes right. Fortunately, you find one close enough. A role where might makes right, and you get to call yourself a Fed. Like Eliot Ness. He was untouchable. Anyway, the other side of a training montage, and you’re a Fed. But a cool hot one. Like Johnny Utah. You’re young, dumb and full of correct policing procedure.

Your first assignment? Figuring out if a sitting Minister actually liked a pornographic tweet on Twitter. You may chortle at the name of the Minister in question, because you find that kind of thing funny, hehe, Hunt, but you know this isn’t what you trained for.



Sorry, dude. I hope a bridge or something blows up next week pour toi.



Honourable mentions

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

Luke Foley, for running a tired race – racism.

Everyone knows the general concept of The Beverly Hillbillies. Fustery old Jed Clampett was shooting at some food, and up from the ground came bubbling crude. So, the entire family packs up the truck and moves to Beverly.

Hills that is.

Now, Mr Foley, this might be hard to believe, but that show is not a documentary; and I know it’s difficult to ascertain that, as it is in black-and-white, and all the war things are the same colour, but the idea that an entire suburb shifts out at the sight of someone different is entirely fallacious.



I mean, did you even watch the show at all, Luke?





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

Inger Støjberg, for making the connection between Ramadan and Hanger.

This is barely worth a preamble. Inger, bless her confused hateful socks, decided that all Muslims in her country should not go to work during Ramadan, as their hangerness poses a ‘safety risk’.



Two thoughts. a) Inger’s Denmark is clearly a Snickers ad where every Muslim turns into Ray Meagher, and that they’re not them when they’re hungry and b) She’s doing hate wrong. If you’re going to hate (and please don’t), you should punish the people you hate. Giving them a month paid leave to celebrate their religious freedoms hardly sounds like that.

You’re a shining beacon of tolerance, Inger. Well done, you.

Eid al-Fitr at Inger’s place. Woo!




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