Archive for September, 2015

Where Is Tony Now? A Guide To Ostracism

September 16, 2015

We dismantle Tony’s empire this week.

We unsmuggle the budgies, pull the motor cord that starts the boats, bury the axe he took to the tax. Mount Doom is bursting apart and two MPs in suits lay on the dead rock of the mountainside, lava cascading all around them. In their direction, eagles come to swoop them away from the wreck they’ve brought to Team Australia. Thee eagles pass a helicopter going the opposite way, fleeing with a woman who wears pearls and claims this ride on the dole. One suited MP on the rocks whispers, “It’s over. It’s finally over. I’m glad to be here with you, Julie Bishop, at the end of all things.”

Smoke rises from the mountain of doom. The hour grows late and a new leader takes his throne of coal.

It’s been eight months since they set out in disguise to topple Tone. The New PM, Turnbull, jabbed some subtle barbs at Tony during the February leadership spill including a “captain’s call” comment. Anyone could see that before the February motion which Tony survived, #it was #on.

Silence and discontent, more and more news polls which showed everyone was unhappy with the government, until last Monday’s challenge. The #ItsOn tag dominated Twitter.

Now Malcolm is victor and the mutiny is complete. What’s next for Tone? Is he hiding in the ceiling of the PM’s house, rolling around in a field of his beloved coal, being boiled alive by South Pacific island chiefs? Is he fishing in a cave, walking on his hands and feet?

No, we have revived an ancient tradition.

In Athens, the voters would have regular elections. They wrote their vote on ostraka, pieces of broken pottery which were so common that people used them as scrap paper. If the winner of this election had more than 6,000 votes, they’d be exiled from Athens for ten years. Ostracised.

I can name 6,000 people in my neighbourhood who have been voting this way in their sentiments, prayers and those hideous renewable energy sources we’ve started buying since we don’t really have an ozone layer anymore.

So where did Tony go first, after we launched him into the Pacific Ocean with nothing but his wits and speedos?

First he found the body of Peter Dutton floating by, water lapping at his shoes. Tony used it as a raft, but NOT A BOAT. It’s a raft, okay?

He paddled to his nearest friend, New Zealand. The Kiwi People treated him to hospitality and bid him watch their athletic games. Then he learned that 79% of their energy is renewable. Tony vomited up his edible plate and would not eat their food, or drink their water tainted by renewable hydroelectric damming. He survived on the body of Peter Dutton and rectally ingested his iron heart.

He spent a long time lost among the islands of the South Pacific, floating often on infinite fields of water. Soon the local sirens sung him down to the sunken islands of Kiribati, where they kept him and cared for him well. Tony soon remembered he had to get back to his wife.

He used his triathlon skills to find the nearest island. It was enormous. Tony climbed a palm tree to look out over the land. Never had he seen land so fertile and ever-reaching. When his elite English tutors taught him that Australia was the largest island, they must’ve been lying.

It was the bloated political body of Joe Hockey. That wasn’t a palm tree, it was a cigar.

He swam until he found a real island. On the way, he encountered three boats. Each one asked the same: What news in Australia? There is word of mutiny. Tony told them, The country is lost to the greenies! Turn around! Turn around your boats, lest you be treated like people seeking asylum and not concentration camp inmates! Turn around!

All ignored him. They were doomed.

At the island, a thick throng of native men greeted him holding worker’s tools. They showed him hospitality much like New Zealanders. He asked who they were, if they recognised him. The natives pointed to him. “Man.” Then themselves. “Us.”

He was one of them. Tony wore the local clothes, a polo shirt and shorts with thongs, the attire of the peasants whose dole money he once spent. He drank their kava and they chanted, “Man! Us! Man! Us!”

He asked again where he was and an old man parted the crowd, a beard reaching to his knees. Tony asked again, Where am I?

The man looked him up and down. “You are Uncle Tone. You have been here before.”

He looked around. The crowd was still chanting. The old man pointed.

“This is the man who kept the camps open! This is the one who visited us last week! He was the man who laughed.

Man. Us. Manus. Manus Island. Papua New Guinea.

They ate Tone and rectally ingested his heart, a piece of coal whose size Santa would admire.

Tone’s house filled with greenies, who competed to be the man of it. Tone’s pet Credlin grew old and died on an unmaintained pile of kale. The day they ate Tone, wind turbines sprouted all over the country. The ozone hole he adored and cared for closed its burning eye forever.

The Eye of Climate Change Denial.

The Eye of Climate Change Denial.


It’s ok! They’re Christians

September 11, 2015

Clause I

We, the government and white creators of the Continent of Australia, people so white that we decided our island should be the shape of the Bat Signal, in the presence of the one and only God of the Anglicans who may or may not be King Henry VIII with his shirt off, do hereby declare that we will take more Syrians.

We will help Christians, who worship of the sky that did create the Earth and chopped off His wives’ heads. We will help those who go to church and rest on Sunday, but not Friday or Saturday for that is when we drink and when no one in God’s entirely green non-warming flat Earth has their holy day. We will take the mild mannered, the heavy drinkers, who are white and racist but not against us. We will help people who most resemble Australians, living in occupied land and not really at the same risk of dying as the Muslims in ISIS territory. Wait a minute why are ISIS killing the Muslims? I thought they were the bad people. Oh okay, that’s just what we tell them. No don’t type that.

Clause II

We do declare the sea level may be rising. The dwelling of Rl’yeh may soon swallow the South Pacific and this is quite funny. Oh shit a boom mic. Climate change is still complete crap. Please respect my private conversation, by the way can we have your Internet metadata? You have nothing to hide if you’ve done nothing illegal. Oh yes, you have been a naughty boy or girl. Oh yes, The Pirate Bay. Oh, South Park reruns, yes! ASIO will be watching you close, you miscreant.

Source: ABC News

Clause III

We declare that jokes about Pacific islands and people’s homes sinking into the ocean will have no effect on a political career. If the joker was someone whose office heard twice about the decision to stop and search people for citizenship papers in the street, then denied knowing about it, you may consider that to be the lubricant that prepares people for this self-fucking moment caught on film. The moment will fit smoothly and be forgotten after a while, so loose will be the morals of politicians. This microphone-clad event will glide in and out of the public psyche and the people will do nothing, even while the joking minister feels the salt spray of his joke fill him with embarrassment like a seawater enema. Other politicians will remember and ask, hey Minister, remember the time you fucked yourself? Then all present will forget it.

It looks something like this.

It looks something like this. Source.

The exception to Clause III will be if the people make this business viral. Keep reminding each other and the politicians involved. Bring it to the Minister’s attention and let that self-fucking sensation pummel through the colon of politics, until good sense lashes into it and dampens the fires of arrogance.

Ipso facto, a Minister cannot fuck himself and feel it (what do you mean or herself? Can you get female members of cabinet?) unless people help a little.

How Other Countries Treat Refugees

September 4, 2015

Now that the tragedy of death at sea has circled the world in an unsettling photo, the Aussie government is determined not to let this happen in our backyard.

Let it happen in someone else’s.

If traffickers want to beat Arabs and lock them in the hull while their boat sinks, then they’re doing the government’s job for them. Italian politicians planning to sink boats that have smugglers on them? Great. Are a few still getting in? Do what your two year old kid would do for a drowning bug, put ’em in a box far away with just enough food to make it look like you’re feeding them and guard them with carnivorous termites. IF YOU CAN’T SEE THEM THEY DON’T EXIST.


The Italian government tends to pile up its boat people and drop them in Libya, which is a family friendly place with many cheerful communities who’ve been in close contact since ousting Gaddafi. Well, ousting gives an image of Libya kicking his backside over the Tunisian border with a “Aaand stay out!” A more accurate word would be face-shooting. There’s also ISIS, who’ve been absent from the recent peace talks and have had minor success in grabbing Libyan land since the former dictatorship’s face-shooting.

But at least they’ve signed a peace treaty, so it should be fine to drop them there. Looks like Libya is safe for those wartorn families. Right, The Guardian?

The factions have yet to agree on details.

Diplomats say both governments face pressure from hardliners who favour a military solution.

Anyway …

Italy is doing God’s (Australia’s) work. Libya even helps return boatloads of war refugees to the war. This is called Operation Mare Nostrum, or Our Sea translated from Latin. It’s much like Australia’s habit of either sending them away or putting them on volcanic rocks on the equator to become proud citizens of Mordor. So when the Aussie PM told Europe to solve the “terrible problem” of refugees in boats his way, Italy must’ve agreed. Right?

Italian navy chief sceptical of Australian asylum seeker solution to Mediterranean migrant crisis

Even the people who dump their refugees in war zones are against Aussie-style turnbacks? The nerve.

In 2014 we launched a campaign to inform refugees that people would never be settled in Australia. If it was safe, we’d toss them back home. People like the Afghani Hazaras. That year, close combat increased in Afghanistan and both sides bombed civilian areas with no regard for what got destroyed. 22% more civilians died in 2014.


But Italy has it all. While they turn back boats, more than 800 refugees died when their Italy-bound ship capsized off the Libyan coast in April. This was when Abbott urged Europe to turn back their refugees, which is like asking someone whose computer is on fire “Have you tried smacking it? That works with my Xbox sometimes. Hit it bro.”

Italy’s PM had to comment on the 800 deaths and the world news reports tied up Italy in the issue, while Italian coastguards rescued the survivors. If a boat aims for Australia, sinks near its own country and no one is around to hear it, then we’ve stopped the boats.

But wait! Hungary can dehumanise too.

Refugee protesters threw themselves on train tracks and went on hunger strike yesterday because Hungary wanted to send them to camps with notoriously bad conditions. The refugees begged to be reunited with their families in Germany, while chanting “Media, media, don’t leave!” knowing that the police would bundle them onto trains bound for camps when the press went home.

Refugees begging to be sent to Germany so that authorities don’t shove them in trains and send them to deadly camps. The real news story is that we’re living in an alternate universe.

That brings us to today, the queasy image of the Turkish guard looking down at a toddler on the tide. They were bound for Greece, which has been flooded by 205,000 refugees this year. 18% of those are Afghani. Greece is preparing for disease to spread through its squalid camps.

It’s a good time to reread the government’s You Will Never Call Australia Home comic aimed at war refugees.

If places like Australia were willing and able to do more for foreigners, those numbers might lighten. She could live up to those bits of paper she signed for the UN or try something outrageous like both rescuing refugees and treating them humanely. More Afghanis might be encouraged to leave, knowing that they won’t be assaulted in every way by security guards and hostile Papua New Guineans. Those hostile locals have a strange prison on their land where all the inmates are punished for escaping war, something that wiped out a third of Papua New Guineans not long ago. The nations of Europe might not be, as bogans like to call our country, full – and still taking more. Life might be liveable for millions. Others might still have their lives.

When the Italian coastguard salvaged a dozen bodies from April’s shipwreck that killed 800, they sailed into Malta. For a while they considered where the dead should go, who they might belong to. In the end, they buried the bodies right there.