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#AusPol winners and losers: Who split One Nation in two?

A slobberknocker of a betrayal, the completion of a masterpiece and a man fighting a fictional character headlines #AusPol’s stupid week. So, who won?



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

But we at The Big Smoke are a results-focused bunch, thus, here are this week’s #AusPol winners and losers.



One Nation, for proving that snitches do indeed get stitches.

As the other singular/unreasonable titan of a redneck industry, Vince McMahon frequently opined: Don’t cross the boss. This week, the boss of the Australian version of the WWE, Pauline Hanson had to deal with Brian Burston (who sounds like a shit wrestler) crossing the picket line, disagreeing over One Nation’s plan to support the government’s taxation plot. Et tu, Brian?

Pauline didn’t take the betrayal particularly well, but the expanse of the drama affords us a rather interesting opportunity.



Or, in other words:


I might be revealing my pre-tween preferences here, but as #AusPol is already almost scripted nonsense, borderline sports/entertainment, surely there’s space for our elected officials to be ambushed with a steel chair on the way to their seats. I mean, we’ve already had the whiteboard.

Who wouldn’t want to see Tony Abbott unexpectedly appear after the sound of smashed glass (or marble) and an aggressive guitar riff announces his entrance?

The Bionic Liberal! Bah gawd!



Barnaby Joyce, for lowering the bar to unreachable heights.

I think we’ve approached Barnaby Joyce from the wrong angle. We’ve approached the gift horse from behind when we really should have been articulating the curve of his mouth. This week, we endured the latest sequel of the Joyce Opus: The Interview. Again we were crestfallen, as our ears registered the nonsense that wobbled through the lips of Barnaby. It was for the kid. It’s not for me. Vikki made me do it.



Since the above statement, Barnaby has retreated into his lounge, taking “personal leave” until early June. In that sentence lies his genius. As Australians, we’re all unified by one unifying theory. We all want to hit the Lotto. If we don’t, we want a job that pays us handsomely to not work it.

However, most of us spend our lives dreaming that dream, and ne’er bringing it to reality. Life doesn’t work like that.

Barnaby has achieved this.

It makes me think that every stupid thing that he’s done, the plum job for bae, the deleted expenses, the threatening of Johnny Depp’s dogs, all of it has been part of the plan. He’s carefully crafted his incompetence, as he now sits in the meaty part of the Venn loophole that he’s created. Not shit enough to be fired, just good enough to keep his seat.

It truly is a work of art.

Gaze at his brushstrokes. He’s been able to take 11 weeks paid leave since December. He’s been legally employed for nine months. Annual leave, Pat leave, compassionate leave, sick leave. He’s taken in the entirety of the shirk spectrum, all while pocketing $200k.

Barnaby, salut.





Jamie Oliver, for showing that war never ends.

Jamie Oliver has fought many wars. He’s battled energy drinks, sugar and the two-for-one Pizza. War is all he knows. In fact, as you read this, he’s probably going mad under the gaze of a rotating fan, half-naked on the floor of his Kombi, waiting for a mission.

Well, it seems that everyone gets everything he wants, as now he’s been tasked to go up the cereal aisle to eliminate some icons who have become far too powerful: Tony the Tiger, Toucan Sam and Snap, Crackle and Pop.



However, it seems that Oliver’s methods are unsound, as he was accused of doing exactly what he’s endeavoured to stop, using a cartoon character to flog confectionery of his own.



The horror.



These two dudes, for refusing to be met halfway.

I’m unsure why, but two randoms coming to blows holds infinite value. Be it the scrape between two methites in a Woolworths carpark or a punch-up on a school bus between two kids from the year below, one can not look away. The context of the argument doesn’t matter, what matters is the argument.

This week, two elected officials we’ve never heard of decided to make themselves known to us, but making themselves known to each other.



Soon thereafter, it continued with the line: “Mate, you’re not a general anymore, and I’m not a private in your army,” Senator Cameron said, motioning for Senator Molan to sit down.

Apologies were soon asked for online, and requests for comment from the media went unanswered.



Considering we don’t know what happened after that, we can just make up the conclusion. After all, there’s only one thing we enjoy watching more than a very public fight: very private make-up sex.

Don’t front. 


Also on The Big Smoke




Honourable mentions

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

The Reverend Jesse Duplantis, for feelin’ so fly (like a G6).

To touch the face of God, one requires an adequate means of conveyance. Duplantis, an Evangelical from Louisana, knows this, and that’s why he panhandled his television parish to fork out for a new Falcon 7X (retail $52 million).




On his program, This Week With Jesse, he told his viewers: “….some people believe that preachers shouldn’t have jets. I really believe that preachers ought to be able to go on every available voice, every available outlet to get this gospel preached to the world. We’re believing God for a brand new Falcon 7X, so we can go anywhere in the world in one stop. Now people say, ‘My lord, can’t you go with this one?’ Yes, but I can’t go in one stop.”

The Rev already owns three private planes.

What a Bo$$. Jesse 4 Pope.



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

The New York Post, for singlehandedly saving objective journalism.

The media needs to face a simple fact. It’s dead. The likes of Schanberg, Woodward and Bernstein have long shuffled loose the typewriter coil. Despite the fine long-running tradition of yellow press going the full Coldplay, there is hope.

Yesterday, The New York Post covered the Donald/Kim Summit, wonderfully articulating the height of the high nonsense, giving the world this headline.



Superb work.

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