Sunday, March 8, 2009

Piers Akerman, Malcolm Turnbull, Kevin Rudd, Cheerleading, Toni Basil Mardi Gras gear and Belling the Cat

(Above: the fat owl in special Toni Basil style gear he had made up for Mardi Gras)

Sunday's always a special day, because that's when the fat owl of the remove aka Piers Akerman struts the Sunday Terror like a behemoth, smoting the wicked.

Or acting like a cheerleader. Now it might be hard to imagine the fat owl in short skirt, skipping up and down, prancing about, shouting "Go mules", but that's what he does. Oh dear that gentleman in the second row seems to have fainted, but whether from erotic arousal, or the sheer Conradian horror of the imagery, it's hard to say. Please fetch him a pail of water, we will say no more about the fat owl in a very short skirt trying to imitate Toni Basil. 

But you can't walk around it. Amazingly, this is how the fat owl makes a living. 

Sure he pretends he's a columnist, but that's just big words for rampant one eyed cheerleading of a kind rarely seen outside Manly and its support for its team of thugs, who deployed wrestling techniques to win without a word being said against them.

Anyhoo, Akerman is on familiar ground with Turnbull brevity beats rambling Rudd.

Team Turnbull has been doing badly lately, failing to dent the poll numbers, so the fat owl steps in with a wonderful piece of cheer-leading:

In a 2569-word essay in The Australian, Turnbull shredded Rudd's economic strategy, his philosophical core and, finally, in little more than a paragraph, his character.

It's fair to say that Rudd led with his chin, writing a clunky, disjointed piece for the January issue of the narrow Left-wing Melbourne magazine The Monthly, published by one of Melbourne's Left-leaning millionaire Morrie Schwartz.

What a fine example of dog whistling to Sydney-siders. Note that the fat owl doesn't write that multi-millionaire Turnbull shredded multi-millionaire Rudd. Or that multi-millionaire Turnbull comes from Sydney. No, the only millionaire mentioned is a Left-leaning millionaire (who maybe made his money from oil in Soviet Russia, typical left?) and he comes from the vile, horrid town of Melbourne. And notice the extraordinarily exact word count. What meaningless detail. And the use of the word 'narrow' as opposed to the broad and expansive mind of the fat owl. Enough said already.

Rudd's piece, according to the fat owl, is rambling and barely coherent, but approaching it is a dangerous business:

It is two months since Rudd's piece appeared and few Australians would have actually read it. Nevertheless, it is still risky to publish a demolition job as hatchet-wielders are always likely to be branded as negativists.

Thank the lord for the heroically brave fat owl, who's prepared to take any risk, jump on any high wire, scale tall buildings to tell us the unvarnished truth. Sure you might brand him a nattering nabob of negativism, but few people would now remember the wonderful Spiro T. Agnew, even if he once was the vice president of the United States of America.

Then it's on to a fair minded review of Team Ruddster vs Team Turnbullista. Rudd provides dross, failed meaningless Christmas cash hand-out, failed stimulus package, failed jobs policy, failed schools policy, failed tanks in the home policy, failed solar panel policy, failed payroll policy, failed Murray-Darling policy. Malcolm provides 2569 words. Game, set and match.

But the worst crime of all? Rudd isn't John Howard.

And then a QED. Placing an argument can be a high-risk proposition, but Turnbull has boldly belled the cat in the Lodge.

That's right, the Ruddster is really a pussy. Be brave o you liberals, you can bell the cat. Funnily enough the phrase evokes the reality of the Liberals right now, which is hapless gits (sad but a little more true than the fat owl's cheerleading implies, and this comes from someone - me -who has no time for Rudd and even less for Stephen Conroy and his evil censorship empire). 

The phrase comes of course from a fable involving a colony of mouse suffering from a cat terrorising them. A young mouse suggests hanging a bell around the cat's neck so they'll be able to keep track of the beast. Everybody gets excited until an older and wiser mouse asks the obvious question: "Who will bell the cat?"

Did the fat owl realize the weird relevance of this expression? Are the Liberals just a bunch of silly mice, do they think hanging a bell on the dangerous cat will somehow stop him terrorising them?

But then the fat owl can always be relied on for inanity. Placing an argument can be a high-risk proposition? Does the fat owl chortle when he writes such ponderous stupidities? 

Does a deep belly laugh gurgle up into his throat when he delivers such profundities into the computer via the keyboard? Got to wow them with a punch line, he muses. I know, how about the idea that presenting an argument in politics is like, you know,  a real high risk proposition. Like that dude who walked the wire between the twin towers. Wow. Yeah. Like, Malcolm dude, you're such a high wire risk taker.

Whatever, curiously, the fat owl fails to mention the one thing in Turnbull's wretched, dull piece of prose that caught the eye of hacks and hackettes everywhere, and that's when he played the man (and the wife) for making squillions out of the privatization schemes devised by the Liberal government (unless you count that very small, low key dog whistle reference to Turnbull destroying Rudd's character). 

I guess what makes it hard is that a squillionaire abusing a mere multi-millionaire - as a fine and detailed high risk policy argument - strikes many people as a lot of hot air and humbuggery.

At the least it's a peculiar argument. The Liberals devise a scheme to allow people to make money by being more efficient and adept than government, then if they're the wrong stripe (left leaning socialists), that means you can abuse the heck out of them. Why not abuse the Liberals for devising schemes so easily abused by leftists?

Anyhoo, on a quiet Sunday, if you want a quiet cackle while crunching on corn flakes, the fat owl always delivers the goods. Long may he fulminate and postulate and predicate and confabulate. After all, cats is terribly dangerous, and we all must do what we can to bell them (especially the vile Stephen Conroy).

But sadly I wouldn't actually cross the road to pick up a Daily Terror to read the fat owl's musings. That said, it's free on the intertubes, until Conroy bans it, and  if ever you want a lesson on how to deliver a mindless eye gouge, a coathanger, a ball grope, a finger up the bum, or a kick in the shins, read the fat owl. He just has to be a Manly supporter ...

Now close your eyes for here is the fat owl in short skirt singing his own special song:

Oh Malcolm, you're so fine
You're so fine, you blow my mind, hey Malcolm, hey Malcolm
Oh Malcolm, you're so fine
You're so fine, you blow my mind, hey Malcolm, hey Malcolm
Oh Malcolm, you're so fine
You're so fine, you blow my mind, hey Malcolm

Repeat in an insistent high toned voice until the throat wears out or insanity sets in. What, you want more?

So come on and give it to me anyway you can
Anyway you want to do it, I'll take it like a man
Oh please baby, please don't leave me in this jam Malcolm.

Oh Malcolm, what a pity, you don't understand
You take me by the heart when you take me by the hand
Oh Malcolm, you're so pretty, can't you understand
It's guys like you, Malcolm
Ooh what you do Malcolm, do Malcolm
Don't break my heart, Malcolm.

(Below: the fat owl in special Mardi Gras gear inviting Malcolm to take him any way he can so he can take it like a man)

And a special cheerio to all you gay boys detoxing after Mardi Gras. Our house guests stumbled in at seven this morning, suggesting things went off with a bang.

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