Piers Akerman, the Matthew Johns affair, the Kevin Rudd Col Allan Scores affair, the Heiner affair, and the fat owl master class

(Above: He shoots, he scores. Scores West on West 28th Street in Chelsea. Sadly shuttered after a prostitution sting took it down. Below: Scores  East at 333 East 60th Street, which saw leases exchanged last year. We offer this information gratis to any rugby league player looking to have a friendly drink with a prime minister or a Rupert Murdoch employee while in that fornicating den of inquity known as New York).

I confess. I haven't been reading Piers Akerman, aka our very own fat owl of the remove, lately, because when he starts to rant about the Labor party it's like a monomaniacal screech of the kind you'd expect from Billy Bunter when denied jam at the school tuckshop.

Put it another way. It's a bit like a scene in a Brian de Palma horror film, where you take an electric drill, press the bit against your temple, then send it burrowing deep into your brain.

There's an upside to this kind of lobotomy, in that you can then drool and dribble in an offensive way, just like Piers, but I guess the downside is that any active thinking and reflection is thereafter denied to you.

Hey ho, time to either become a newspaper columnist or a blogger.

Now for those who came in late to the story, a long time ago the ancestor of the current Phantom swore on a pirate's skull to ... Oops, sorry, that's a different fairy story. Quick, rapid cut, fast enough to induce an epileptic fit in unwary viewers, to Piers Akerman's latest column for the Rupert Murdoch owned Daily Terror, as profound and masterly an exercise in conflation as we've ever seen.

And yes, we mean ever. Covering up Rudd's indecency is doctor of mendacity stuff, an A+ effort which sees Piers sink to the bottom of the class.

For those who came in late to the story, Matthew Johns and some other Cronulla rugby league players had sex - allegedly consensual -  with a nineteen year old woman in a Christchurch motel. Meanwhile, PM Rudd had a drink in the notorious Scores bar in New York with the notorious Col Allan, editor of the notorious New York Post, which is owned by the even more notorious Rupert Murdoch.

Which is the biggest crime?

Well actually they're equally awful and hideous, and all the same. Now let's see the fat owl conflates with the style of a Machiavelli and the flair of a Proust:

Prime Minister Kevin Rudd rushed to assure NSW voters that he belonged to the NRL tribe even as he stiffed them in last week’s Budget.

Given the current and historic problems the NRL has with its tribe’s fondness for sordid group-sex encounters, many male and female voters would have winced at Rudd’s mistimed reference but it was a reminder of his own experiences of the tawdry kind.

This is, after all, the man who apologised to his wife for activities he could not remember at a Mafia-connected New York nightclub where he was with a pack of alcohol-fuelled men gawking at naked women performing simulated sex acts while others arranged acts of prostitution in the immediate vicinity.

Labor voters lapped up his performance, while many in the overwhelmingly Labor-voting Canberra media pack claimed the experience had helped humanise the former low-level diplomat and state government bureaucrat.

Reaction to the Cronulla Sharks’ Christchurch gang-bang has been somewhat different.

That's right, any of you filthy perverts who watched a rugby league game this weekend are roughly equivalent to a tone deaf alcoholic PM who consorted with naked women performing simulated sex acts while others prostituted themselves.

But hang on fat owl, the real crime was surely that he consorted with Col Allan, as big a philistine as the world has mustered since the original mob got wiped out of Canaan? (Though come to think of it, the genes somewhere surely reside in you, so we haven't lost everything).

Didn't Col say that all that happened was that he and Rudd had drinks at a "gentlemen's club" and that Rudd behaved like a "gentleman"?

Huh,  gentlemen! By definition any man who works for Rupert Murdoch can't be a gentleman.

But wait, there's more. After a sideways bash at the disgusting activities of the young men held up as role models, the fat owl then slides on to one of his favorite, if rather tired and desperate hobbyhorses, about the Queensland Goss cabinet, and its behaviour in shredding documents relating to alleged sexual attacks in a juvenile detenton centre.

This is a favorite fat owl subject, and it attracts loon conspiracy theorists like a field of wheat does a biblical plague of locusts.

It's too tedious to rehash the details - if you google up Heiner documents and PCMC chairman Paul Hoolihan and conspiracy and fraud and Heiner affair you can spend a restful Sunday afternoon cawing and squawking with the other loons. Perhaps it's best if you're in a musty old club with musty leather armchairs and a craven waiter serving you a glass of port (though not before the sun's over the yard arm old chum, mustn't be in the company of drunkards, like that Rudd chappie you know). Then you can tut tut and harumph. Like Piers:

One would think that Rudd, a man who proclaims his Christianity, would have wanted to clear up his role in the illegal shredding of the Heiner documents, but the opposite is the case.

Rudd has ducked and weaved for 19 years now, making numerous claims about what he knew and when he knew it but never coming clean.

In that period, countless members of the Queensland government including the former governor, Quentin Bryce, now Governor General, have blocked attempts to get to the bottom of this foul episode.

As squalid as the NRL players’ activities undoubtedly are, they do not match the repugnant acts of those who would have us believe they are in a different league to the NRL grubs, even if they claim to belong to the same tribe.

That's right, this country is being run by a bunch of gang bangers, with the head romper stomper fucking the heart out of the country. Talk about repugnant acts, and no we don't mean Piers Akerman and his conflation of the Matthew Johns affair, the Col Allan Scores affair, and Christianity and Quentin Bryce ... you can't get entertainment like that every day of the week.

Does it actually mean anything? Well maybe to a loon, but it gives me a joyous sense of resignation, an almost cosmic understanding of the universe

Buddha said: "I consider the positions of kings and rulers as that of dust motes. I observe treasures of gold and gems as so many bricks and pebbles. I look upon the finest silken robes as tattered rags. I see myriad worlds of the universe as small seeds of fruit, and the greatest lake in India as a drop of oil on my foot. I perceive the teachings of the world to be the illusion of magicians. I discern the highest conception of emancipation as a golden brocade in a dream, and view the holy path of the illuminated ones as flowers appearing in one's eyes. I see meditation as a pillar of a mountain, Nirvana as a nightmare of daytime. I look upon the judgment of right and wrong as the serpentine dance of a dragon, and the rise and fall of beliefs as but traces left by the four seasons."

Put it another way. Got the power drill all fired up Mr. Serial Sex Killer? You have? Good, apply to the bit to my temple. There, that's right, drill away, let the blood spurt out, mash those brains into a custard, take me to Piers Akerman's level - you know the one where you get infinite health, plenty of ammunition and a huge amount of energy, and can go out and relentlessly kick the shit out of all those Doom monsters who threaten our scientific research facility.

You know, bring down that vile psuedo ersatz Christian lower than a rugby league gang banger who's at the heart of the alien invasion.

That's it, drill me, drill me good. Ah, I'm beginning to see a white light and strange things flashing past me ... and a strange black monolith ... and a strange ape like creature who looks just like Kevin Rudd smashing Australia, ruining it, fucking it good, with what looks like a gigantic fibula, but seems to be taking on a weird Freudian phallic shape ...

Wow, thanks Piers. Forget the acid flashbacks kicking in, you are such a stoner man. You do it for us, for the world and why? Because you care, and because we can never have enough loons doing post graduate master classes in loonacy here at loon pond ...

(Below: the Racecourse Hotel Motel Lodge in Christchurch New Zealand, part of a picture gallery generously provided by Rupert Murdoch's Daily Telegraph in its salivating, slobbering, lip smacking, titillating, invasive, sordid, righteously indignant Pecksniffian coverage of the Matthew Johns affair).