SEEN BETTER DAYS
It speaks for itself …
SMELLY TONGUES
Beyond the soft palate
Tag: Alan Jones
June 14, 2013
IS THERE ANY TRUTH IN THE RUMOUR …
Bear with me a moment as I crudely scrape the bottom of a few barrels …
… Is there any truth in the rumour that schlock-jock Alan Jones is a bitter, sad, woman-hating old fool who trolls public toilets desperately seeking sympathy blowjobs from dark, handsome strangers who’ll simultaneously fist him with a metal-studded glove?
Probably not, but let’s just put it out there and see what happens, shall we?
Is there any truth in the rumour that Christopher “Mincing Poodle” Pyne has a two centimetre micro-penis and the only way he can get it up is by shoving it into a vacuum cleaner nozzle while he watches his wife diddle herself with a fourteen-inch black dildo?
Probably not, but let’s just put it out there and see what happens, shall we?
Is there any truth in the rumour that Federal Opposition Leader Tony Abbott regularly scours whorehouses in whatever town or city he happens to be in at the time, and will pay double for a root if he doesn’t have to use a condom and triple if he can urinate on the girl of his choice while spanking her with a badminton paddle?
Probably not, but let’s just put it out there and see what happens, shall we?
Is there any truth in the rumour that radio broadcaster Howard Sattler is an addle-brained, juvenile fuckwit with the imagination and emotional intelligence and maturity of a three-month old child?
… And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where we find ourselves today.
Where public discourse about matters of politics has become primarily concerned, obsessed, with body parts, bodily functions, private relationships, gossip, innuendo, smear and rumour.
It’s all the news that’s fit to print, or to broadcast, and that’s as deep as it goes.
It’s cheap, it’s tawdry, it’s a circus in a toilet without a tent, and the big finale is a fart-lighting contest between its participants.
It’s not scraping the bottom of the barrel, so much as living under it.
Stay classy, Australia.
June 13, 2013
TONGUE OF THE DAY
Via GetUp …
Meet Sunrise’s ‘panel of experts’ on matters of sexism: Alan Jones, Michael Costa and Kochie.
You really couldn’t make this stuff up.
You could, but nobody would believe you.
November 30, 2011
NOISE AND PEACE
Years ago.
John Howard’s war on refugees is in full swing, there are children in camps, the foreigners are muck, they’ll kill us all, and our very own blackfellas want to take our backyards from us and barbecue our pasty, pure white babies on the Weber.
What country is this?
The Sydney Morning Herald run an edition with a wrap-around cover featuring thumbnail photographs of the refugee children we’ve shoved into camps, their ages range from baby to teen, and I sit on the train to work, seething, looking at these pages and feeling like I’ve just been punched in the face.
I get to work, and fire off a letter to the editor, the first time I’d ever sent a letter to a newspaper, and they publish it. It was sent from another computer, I don’t have a copy, but it went a little like this …
“If my objections to the institutionalisation of child abuse in this country as a so-called “security measure” mark me a Howard-hater, then I’m just fine with that.”
… It becomes a regular habit over the next few years, this writing of letters and their occasional publication, not so much now.
But it’s the NOISE.
Every day it seems, some new loudmouthed halfwit slouches into view to proudly bellow it’s bogan pride at all and sundry, “We’re just sayin’ what people are ‘fraid to say”, which is, in essence “We hate niggers and we hate wogs and they should all fuck off and die and if they don’t we’ll kill ‘em”.
Alan Jones approves.
Stan Zemanek nods his agreement.
He’s dead, Zemanek. Brain tumour.
One night, all these many years ago, I’m standing outside the cinema complex in George Street, Sydney, saying goodnight to a friend after we’ve caught up for dinner, I hail a cab, one pulls over, I get in.
Two things strike me.
The driver, his skin is indistinguishable from the night.
And he’s listening to commercial talkback radio. Stan Zemanek.
Why, I have no idea, but it strikes me as … incongruous, to say the least.
Blah, blah, blah, goes this vile noise in the background, “Boats! Refugees! Terror! Illegals! What’s becoming of our country! Send them all back!” Blah, blah, blah, I’m not listening to this shit, I start talking to the driver.
Small talk. “How’s work?”, “Busy night?”, that type of thing.
He tells me he is from Somalia, maybe somewhere else, but some hellhole, and has been here a little while now.
I wish he’d turn the fucking radio off. The NOISE.
I ask him what he makes of this place so far. What is it he likes, if anything.
“The peace”, he says, “Very peaceful here. I like that.”
I have been given perspective.
“Very peaceful here”, he said.
I suspect he would know what peace is, this man.
The rest of us? Not so much …
March 1, 2011
I AM A POLITICIAN
Julia Gillard has L!I!E!D! to the people of this great nation!
A CONSPIRACY is afoot!
We are betrayed! The people are revolting!
Millions will suffer in infernal penury as a consequence, the remainder of their wretched lives to be spent sucking rancid spots of special sauce from the discarded wrappers of Happy Meal cheeseburgers, and Alan Jones is appalled, appalled, to have been kept waiting for an interview with this Lying Red SCUM QUEEN a whole TEN MINUTES after it was scheduled and, by God in Heaven and Christ on the cross and all that is holy on this earth and on the blessedly fluffy hereafter, we cannot have that, no, we cannot!
What does she mean when she says one thing at one point in time and something completely different at another? What does it mean when this Vacuous and Vicious Vile Vomitous Vixen has the audacity to even think she may match wits with the magnificent specimen of manly man that is the marvellous Mr. Jones and keep him waiting?
It means this …
“I am a politician.
“Like every other politician on this earth, regardless of political party or ideology, I will lie to you, I will steal from you, I will profess to giving a damn about you, even though I don’t actually give a flying fuck if you all die of cancer, I will dissemble and connive, I will make shit up and you will believe it, I will engage in all manner of scare campaigns to appeal to the basest natures of those type of squealing fuckwits who listen to commercial radio and think “A Current Affair” is a reliable source of news, I will think you are dumb enough to fall for simple-minded three or four word slogans because you always have before, and that is because a vast number of those people that we, as politicians, represent, whether as a local member, opposition leader or government leader from any political party, a vast number of our constituents are simple-minded retards with barely a brain cell in their cranium, let alone a tooth in their stupid heads.
“Like every other politician on this earth, regardless of political party or ideology, I will profess to care for the underprivileged, the frail of mind and body, the sick, the dying and the diseased, and I will be seen attending events on their behalf and I will speak with compassion and empathy and offer, on behalf of myself and my fellow travellers, our utmost sympathy and understanding to them, even though, in private, we, all of us, regardless of political party or ideology, we’d rather they were all taken out the back of a woodshed somewhere and shot through their useless fucking heads.
“Like every other politician on this earth, regardless of political party or ideology, I will try not to be too obvious about any of this, and you out there, the great unwashed masses of unthinking tuckshop-armed bogans and bowlegged boofheads in faded beer and b.o. branded t-shirts whose entire lives amount to little more than flitting from one childish, paralysing fear to another in screeching outraged hysteria because you all have the attention span of a bowl of fucking goldfish and there’s someone moved in down the street who has a deeply suspicious tan, you stupid cunts whom I have to pretend to be one with, to suck on your fucking sausage sandwiches at some crappy fete in some flyblown bumfuck town every goddamn election cycle, you stupid cunts come election time, you’ll vote for whoever the fuck promises to line your pockets with a little gold, no matter how little or how much, because you think it’s all about you, don’t you?
“Well, it isn’t.
“Because I am a politician, and like every politician on this earth, regardless of political party or ideology, it’s all about me, it’s all about us, whatever name we choose to brand ourselves with, so fuck you with the sharp end of a stick, thank you very much.
“But what I won’t do, what I definitely will not do, like that other guy, and the ones who preceded him, like this guy, is kowtow to that fat cunt with a voice like a middle-aged castrato gargling sand who goes by the name of Alan fucking Jones and who thinks he’s the centre of the known and unknown fucking universe. Fuck him and fuck the gonorrhoeal donkey he rode in on.
“Because I am a politician, and like every other politician on this earth, regardless of political party or ideology, sometimes even we have limits to the things we’re expected to do in the course of carrying out our work.
“So you can take that sausage sandwich and suck the living fuck out it for all I care, darling.”
(Cross-posted from Groupthink)
