The end is nigh

Tony Abbott will never be Prime Minister. Why? Because the world ends in 100 days.

Whyalla will finally be wiped off the map. ‘Bout time, too.

The planet will just be a rocky outcrop spinning in space with no evidence that life ever existed on it. It’s back where it all started thanks to those damn Mayans.

Ah well, maybe life will spring up again some day but let’s hope they don’t eventually evolve into something that resembles we destructive humans, and particularly Mayans. They could produce another calendar and stuff the place up again.

OK guys and gals, you’ve only 100 days left. What are you going to do?

I know what Tony Abbott’s going to do: he’ll blame Julia Gillard for the world ending. It’s not the Mayans, it’s that damn carbon tax.

Thursday funnies, starring Tony Abbott and friends

While looking through our old posts I came across some very funny comments from contributors here, the subject of humour being Tony Abbott and friends. They have provided the inspiration for Thursday funnies. Have a read and hopefully a chuckle. Let’s turn it into a post where we can keep the laughs going.


I foresee a Prime Minister Abbott delivering unpalatable policy announcements in a dull as dishwater monotone voice . . . or acting the concerned citizen bathed in angelic light like a cornball star in some hokey American family drama . . . or barking in parliament imitating a rabid dog as he criticises any opponents leaving no “hyperbole stone” unturned in order to get the attention he seeks . . . and bully his bills though . . . even standing frozen in the limelight, mouth open and closing like a fish outa water . . . tongue suddenly springing forth to wipe nervous lips, alien in ‘V’ style . . . as the media pack turns on him due to a slip of the tongue . . . Umming and Ahhing until the cows come home . . . or some adviser, perhaps the devilish one that is perched on his shoulder, comes up with some snide joke he can use in a pathetic attempt to divert attention from the original topic.

Add the cheesy action man role when showing off his talents to the overseas troops . . . one moment baring teeth and ferociously pulling machine gun trigger like a character lost to insanity as he attempts to mow down those pesky Predators . . . the next standing around like a studio extra waiting for the doughnuts to arrive. In Abbott’s case, the cameras.


Tony Abbott can’t take a dip in the Indian Ocean, walk out of the Western Desert or buy a tomato without putting on a pose for the adoring media.  He really is Australia’s Bob Hope.  “Did you get that one, boys?  And how about a shot of me snarling”.


I find it disgraceful that the media in this country keep licking at the heels of a man, who in the great big scheme of things, is doing nothing and going nowhere.  He is a political lemming.

Meanwhile we have a Prime Minister who when visiting Fukushima or attending a wedding watched by every person in England, attracts only secondary comments from horse trainers or female impersonators.  And the comments weren’t flattering.  Why?  Because she didn’t wear the right clothes, or her hair was awful.

So now we have the media and the pretend media both playing politics.  And why do I think it’s politics?  Well consider this; at one stage Bronwyn Bishop was touted as a future successor to John Howard and Prime Minister of this country.  Yes, we’re allowed to have a Prime Minister who looks like Marge Simpson but not proper to have one who looks a million dollars.


For the mere sake of wanting something to say, Tony Abbott – that walking, talking suggestion box – sniffed some political opportunism when emerging from the dusty camps of Alice Springs declaring that the place (and just about everywhere else) needed another intervention. were there to capture this Gillard trumping, black fella fixing policy gem.  It came under the heading of breaking news.  I tend to think that it was more like breaking wind.  Full of shit to be more precise.


‘what precisely is Abbott going to spend the money on?’



Could it be that Tony Abbott’s “surging wave of discontent” is nothing more than “absolute crap”, and if you’re homeless “it’s your choice” . . . But then on the other hand if you happen to be a virgin then “it’s a gift” . . . or maybe it was the other way around, that homelessness is “a gift” and virginity is “crap”.


Gillard has pulled off the double wedge. Liealot thought he was so clever knocking back the amended amendments, but unfortunately for him he was lured onto the well camouflaged path over the bottomless pit of sliding polls.

I believe the PM dug the pit and laid the camouflage with her own hands. She wanted sharpened stakes at the bottom, but PJK intervened and told her that roasting the bugger over a slow fire would be far more satisfactory.


For the life of me I cannot fathom one single redeeming feature about the man. He has no discernible intellect. He has no personality except for a confected Action Man personna, and he doesn’t even bother to pursue that one these days.


After both the PM and joyce came out to deny this (Qantas) story, tony abbott was asked if he knew anything about it. True to form, yabot had a bubble-head moment, and Labor picked up on that and pursued him all day in Parliament over just what he did know and when. He finally came out and declared that he knew nothing until the Saturday afternoon. Considering we haven’t got that in writing (or pledged in blood), there is probably a huge question mark over that.


In normal society Abbott would be considered more unglued than a used stamp in a downpour.


God knows Liealot has precious little talent except for obstruction and nay saying, but no matter how many rocks or bushels you turn over, not a single ray of light shines.

There just isn’t anyone in this rabble who could lead a kindy crocodile to the library, let alone lead this disorganised, talentless mob of has beens to anywhere but the knackers yard.

The only reason Liealot has got any traction is because it’s been supplied in gigantic dollops, free of charge, by the msm. Take that away, as seems to be happening, and his ratings, and those of the Liars Party, will fall faster than a fireman down a greasy pole.


Nothing gives me greater pleasure than watching the right resort to shrill when we of the left voice an opinion that they disagree with.  They are like seagulls at a loose chip.  Funny to watch.  How aften have we thrown away a chip for the enjoyment of watching them do battle?

The name John Howard is a prized chip.  I love to drop it.  It brings the seagulls in, squawking, flapping, fighting each other.  Only one seagull wins.  The losers turn against the winner.

So typical of the right.


Christopher Pyne, the Member for Sturt, is a man who likes to indulge in a daily hissy fit whenever he walks into, or is within cooee of, Parliament house.  It’s hard to believe that this public character reflects the electorate he represents.  The electorate of Sturt is cluttered with the elite suburbs of Eastern Adelaide.  Shopping centre car parks are packed with BMWs and the centres themselves with expressionless peroxide blondes sipping on lattes and doing nothing else but look rich.  Husbands at work won’t be home until after midnight.  The kids are nearby creating havoc.  Spoiled, noisy, demanding creatures who will have no friends once they realise that life and society expect some sort of contribution or sacrifice.  They present a good case for the return of corporal punishment.  They belong to the cohort group that Pyne has clearly been engaging with in his electorate.  His behaviour imitates them.  I wish he’d talk to their expressionless mums; the ones whose opinions are best kept to themselves, if allowed to have one.  Pyne might gain some respect if he imitated them instead.  If elected as his party’s next leader he will follow in the mold of a failed previous leader and idol of his, Alexander Downer.  He is a serious contender but seriously, is a joke.


As Tony Abbott leapt from his seat like a startled gazelle yesterday in his now famous dash for the parliamentary door I was reminded of the other door he repeatedly dashes at.  The front door of The Lodge.

Which reminded me again of something else.

Earlier this year I drove past The Lodge and noticed on the road a poor dead fox.  His deceased nose was pointing to the front gate, a sure sign of where he was headed.

Whilst I don’t like seeing animals killed on the road, even feral ones, I mused that this was an obvious sign that sly, sneaky, underhanded feral types will never make it to The Lodge.

An omen for Tony Abbott, perhaps?


Whyalla was meant to be wiped off the map at midnight this morning. It wasn’t.

Tony Abbott lied.

The place is a shit hole. For once I hoped Abbott would be right. I’ll never trust him again.