Well I'm not into bait and switch - trust me - and so here's a link to a hoary old classic entitled The Hunter and the Bear. It's not the best version, in fact it's a pretty lame and wet version, but by definition all dirty jokes are cascading gags of tumescent silliness (and you googlers should get your act together, there are more dirty jokes out there than you can shake a stick or a penis at, just not on a site dedicated to loons and loonacy).
The hunter and the bear is at least joke of the right kind - it's a shaggy dog kind of frolic, as all the best porn jokes are. You can string it out for hours, or at least until someone in the audience strangles you, by remembering only a couple of elements. First there's a hunter who keeps trying to kill a bear using an ever-escalating level of armament, while the bear punishes the hunter in whichever way gets you and your audience going (anal, oral, furry, missionary, stockings and corsets, leather gear, yadda yadda), until you eventually come out with the punchline, which has the bear say to the hunter: you're not coming here for the hunting are you? In the hands of a lascivious teller, you can feel dirty and sordid, as if you'd lived through a 1,001 nights of lechery (please always make sure you come out with the punchline. No coitus interruptus allowed here).
Well yes, but the point about lame dirty jokes is that they're the kind of thing you tell while pissed as a parrot in a pine forest gathered around the keg with your mates until one man drops to the ground and everyone else pisses on him (or so my partner tells me. Captains of industry, MPs, doctors, solicitors, farmers, all doing it. Lordy lordy. Send me money in a plain brown envelope to keep these names secret - y'all know who you are, you Armidale UNE and Farrer boys - and all will be well).
The miscegenation element also appeals to me, as apparently bestiality and all that kind of stuff is what gets the likes of Jim Wallace and other god botherers going (never mind that the bear representing the animal world is endowed with a knowing, transcendental awareness of the follies of human sexuality).
Worse - alert Will Robinson and Jim Wallace - this kind of joke is only a link away from the innocent minds of twelve year old boys (though strangely I remember hearing it when I was ten in the school yard when the internet was only a dream. How weird is that? And you don't once have to mention poddy calves, kiwis and sheep were the source of much fun in the good ol' yard!)
Anyhoo, I can think of nothing better than a dirty joke as a throw to that Polonius of the written word, that advisor of Princes and Potentates, that desiccated coconut Gerard Henderson, who manages to reduce any issue to a dull, dry, dense treatise which displays a Valium-like capacity to stupefy and render silly (whatever happened to pseudo ephedrine and that pink bit in the middle of cough tablets? Oh that's right John Howard banned them, so that now sinus sufferers know what it's like to be criminal as they try to get their fix, or foolishly they end up buying the new brands of chemicals being peddled as sinus cures that simply don't work. Not that I'm a bitter sinus sufferer. But maybe this helps explain why Gerard Henderson is so dull these days - the cough mixture isn't working so well).
Sorry, that shows a terrible sensa huma (said in Jim Carrey falsetto, please Mr Henderson type lawyer it was a joke, though you could do Jerry Lewis if you're old enough). Anyhoo, Mr Henderson this week in a mind numbingly tedious way addresses the serious issue of Oorstralia Day and what it means to be black in Settle down - it's our defining day (the header captures the tone nicely, speaking to blacks as if you'd speak to a blue heeler - settle, settle).
Poor Gerard is upset about Mick Dodson suggesting that Australia Day (aka invasion day) be shifted, especially because it's now very popular amongst the young as a long weekend for flag waving, and getting pissed as parrots in the dinkum Australian way.
And his rebuttal of Dodson is typically frank and fiercely honest - what the fuck would Dodson know since basically he's Irish black (though I seem to remember that in Roddy Doyle's The Commitments one of the band says they're proud "The Irish are the niggers of Europe, lads".)
And because Dodson is - well, let's be brutally frank, is Irish as well as black - he's not just the invaded, he's also partly the invader. And let's be brutally frank, half the blacks who do the 'welcome to country' down south are noticeably relatively fair-skinned. So as well as doing a black welcome to country, they should be doing an Anglo Irish jig or reciting a bit of Yeats to acknowledge their Irish heritage (never mind you might get called an abo or a boong, or a coon for being black, yere Irish me lad, Gerard says so, and being black and the niggers of Europe just doesn't make you a hundred per cent black. Youse all just immigrant scum like the rest of us).
You see, as Gerard goes on, in his frank and honest style, oh worthy Polonius that he is, we're all just imports, and so what if a few got here 40,000 rather than 200 years ago. And anyhoo they were black and didn't keep track of when they landed. So why not celebrate 1788 as the day the poms arrived, the important white folk, with the most refined and genteel culture, which explains why they once had a glorious empire and now a wonderful queen, and long may she reign over us, and therefore it being the most important day in this country's fair history, and most especially seeing as how ... it's when Gerard's forebears arrived (I'm guessing that bit, but you have to think with a name like Henderson, aka "son of Henry" or "home ruler" you'd have to think Gerard boasts of English and Scottish forebears, with not a trace of Irish scum, deserving of Cromwellian lashing, in the gene pool).
Then in the usual black politics way, Henderson seizes on a few comments by other black players - ALP heavy Warren Mundine and Lew Griffiths (a sidekick of right wing commentariet favorite Noel Pearson) to suggest that Dodson's just a useless stirrer, always at loggerheads with government.
You see, Mundine, Pearson and some other people who fell into line with John Howard's invasion of the north are doing their bit for isolated indigenous communities, but Mick Dodson called the intervention "storm-trooper diplomacy".
And we know one thing's for sure - anyone who tramples on John Howard also tramples on Gerard Henderson's tin-pot god and must be made to pay, double points if you call his policies like something to do with Nazi Germany.
So to the capper: "The focus on reconciliation should be on improving the plight of Aborigines along the lines of those who are more interested in practical outcomes than theoretical rights".
You know, like John Howard. After ignoring the plight of Aborigines for ten long years in his godforsaken reign, in the run up to his last and fatal election, he was threshing around for a new issue, when he bizarrely hit on the idea of fixing things in the north, as he was interested in a practical outcome - his re-election.
It was of course a desperate idea and it produced a predictable result, but let's not think that should get in the way of dreamers who just want to talk about "theoretical rights". And let's not imagine that practical outcomes have been achieved, apart from plans to close down remote settlements and herd the pesky blacks into town camps. Come back George Augustus Robinson, all is forgiven.
Let's face it, blacks (and especially those tainted pesky Irish blacks) have always been a problem, the white man's burden, and you have to talk to and treat them like children (a tone and manner Henderson most primly, pompously and persuasively adopts). And if you treat them and talk to them like children, it's a very good way to ensure they stay as children. So they can continue to be a burden and a problem, always a problem (not to mention dole bludgers).
Successful reconciliation? Not in my lifetime,and not so long as Gerard Henderson is leading the pack like a braying hound still running for the re-election of John Howard. Poor old Mick Dodson, that hapless black Irish bastard, who just happens to be called Australian of the Year for his active work in the aboriginal community, next time he mixes a metaphor or tries to start a conversation with white Australia, he should just settle, settle ... (or better still, get around behind).
You'll notice that I spent more time writing about dirty jokes than the insights of Mr Henderson, and I suspect there's a reason. The dirty jokes have more sociological and psychological value than the insights of Mr Henderson, especially when applied to the institutionalized form of interaction between certain related people in certain societies. I'm particularly drawn to the title of Donald F. Thomson's article The Joking Relationship and Organized Obscenity in North Queensland, which will, if applied the right way, explain all you need to know about the hows and whys of running the Liberal National (nee National) and Labor parties in Queensland.
It also might explain the organised obscenity of Gerard Henderson, since clearly he thinks the joking relationship he has with Irish blacks allows condescension, and a patronising, arrogant tone which would be beyond belief if it weren't so predictable and expected ...
And anyway how dare Dodson think of shifting Australia day when it's bloody hot, and the rightful culmination of a month of bludging and drinking. That's the right time for any thinking Australian to hit the beach, crack a stubbie, wave a flag, run riot in Manly, bash a wog, then head back to the rigors of work.
And that reminds me, you see there's this black hunter and a bear (never mind, it's a koala bear), so you see there's this black hunter and a koala bear (yes it could be Gerard Henderson in a furry suit, no he's not one of those Wilderness Society dudes), and so anyhoo there's this black hunter and Gerard Henderson ...
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