Category Archives: Deadshit media commentators

A Day in the Life of Gerald Hindrance – Soldier of Truth

Ever wondered what constitutes a typical working day of one of the most elite of the media elite? Wonder no more. I have valiantly taken it upon myself to venture behind the scenes to transcribe the real reality of the daily battle for truth against the army of the rest of you. What follows is not for the faint of heart and should be read only with the understanding that you are explicitly advised not to read it. Any spelling or grammatical errors are entirely the fault of the scribe and not the subject:



6:45am:                Catch the alarm on the first ring. I’ve still got it. There’s no snooze button in the war against sandal wearing leftists. Today is going to be a good day. I don my slippers and robe, fastening the belt carefully with a half hitch. I pause briefly in front of the mirror to ensure both sides of the belt are of equal length and that the collar of my pyjamas isn’t protruding in an unsightly manner, and am horrified to find my hair in unstatesmanlike disarray. Fortunately it’s nothing a lick of my tortoise shell comb and a few ordered passes can’t correct and anon I’m en route to the kitchen to make a nice pot of tea.


7:07am:                After some deliberation I’ve selected a tea befitting my mood. I scoff at those who drink coffee and refuse to allow any in the house. Mother brought home some decaffeinated international roast sachets after attending a CWA meeting once and there were some stern words spoken by yours truly, I can tell you. We’ll have none of that socialism by stealth around here. Chinese green tea is even worse. How can they call it green tea when it’s consumed by reds? The thought strikes me as witty and insightful and I make a note in my diary to contact my colleagues to discuss coming up with a phrase about something that looks green but is really red. This is how my mind works – razor sharp and ever alert. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get one past old Gerald. 6:30am for instance, or perhaps even earlier.


                                This morning’s tea is Earl Grey. Now I know what you’re thinking. “Gerald,” I hear you say, “but Earl Grey isn’t a morning tea! It’s best suited to the afternoon!” and I would be compelled to concede that you are correct, learned and adoring reader. English Breakfast is a much more respectable choice, but between you and me, sometimes I like to live on the wild side. I bet you didn’t expect that little glimpse behind the curtain of mystery that enshrouds Australia’s greatest intellect, did you? Well buckle your seatbelt because there’s more to come. Sometimes I even have a biscuit with my tea before breakfast. I like to think that minds like mine aren’t constrained by the same rules as you ordinary folk. I remind Mother of this all the time.


7:24am                 I begin my preparation for the day ahead. I am listening to Radio National while watching News 24 on mute with subtitles for the hearing impaired. Sometimes if I squint I can pretend that the radio is in fact the soundtrack to the television. It might as well be because I’m sure these leftists are all issued the same daily talking points. I make a note in my diary to contact my colleagues and have them mention that in the next daily electronic mail memorandum of talking points. Razor sharp. I don’t know how I do it. I catalogue a few spelling mistakes in the subtitles and put them aside for use in my planned correspondence with Mark Scott later.


8:19am                 I collect the daily papers from the front yard and head to the Institute™ to begin work. The journey generally takes about two minutes as the Institute™ is conveniently located in a converted granny flat in Mother’s back yard. Sometimes it takes longer as the latch on the side gate is somewhat rusted and can in cold weather be infuriatingly recalcitrant. This is why I always leave a few minutes earlier than I need to. Tardiness is but a short step from whale music and injecting rooms, and as Director of the Institute™ I must set an example for my employees. The fact that I don’t have any employees is something I see as immaterial. Standards are standards. The Institute™ is the nation’s leading collective of superior intellects. It has a brass plaque and printed stationery. It will not be mocked.


9:00am                 The day’s journey begins. I have a porcelain dog I call Margaret that I keep in a bed I have fashioned from a Bata shoe box and wood-grain patterned adhesive paper. This morning, as every morning, she has been roused from her slumber and is now occupying her habitual position on the desk beside my personal computerised workstation. I talk to her often and sometimes I pretend she talks back to me. I even record her opinions in my much lauded weekly electronic publication which showcases the inferior intellect of everybody I don’t agree with. This is funny on many levels because she is porcelain, and therefore not a real dog, and even if she was real, dogs can’t talk, and even if they could talk, they could hardly hold an insightful opinion on the failings of leftist media, could they? I know, it’s a scream, isn’t it? They aren’t really Margaret’s opinions at all. They’re mine and I just pretend. It’s what we intellectuals refer to as a literary device and it’s very clever. What’s more, I am so clever I use two literary devices. [It’s about time I got some recognition –Ed]. Try doing that with open-toed footwear.  


                I have established my telephone dial-up connection to everyone else’s personal computerised workstations and have made an orderly pile of today’s newsprint publications in order to begin cross-checking them against the electronic versions that I have delivered to my monitor. I will of course begin, as I do every morning, with the Guardian on the Yarra – that’s what I call The Age. It’s a very clever joke and my friends never get tired of it. I’ve selected a red Kilometrico disposable 1mm ball-point pen with which to mark inconsistencies and errors. I used to favour an Artline 8mm felt tipped pen, but I found that the ink seeped through the paper, causing confusion. On one occasion I mailed a 1,500 word electronic letter to the editor of a publication I shan’t, through grace, name, drawing his attention an error that didn’t actually exist, but was in fact seepage from my highlighting the misuse of the word ‘your’ on the preceding page. How we laughed that day, Margaret and me. The editor indignantly claimed that I was in the wrong until I pointed out that my error couldn’t have occurred without his ineptitude in printing the error of the preceding page. The correspondence is detailed in full in my electronic publication, issues 124-237. [Failure to reply is clear forfeiture of position. We showed him! – Ed.]


10:00am               Tea time. The morning has proven quite productive so far. I’ve sent an electronic letter to my friend Andrew, pointing out some misspellings and questionable grammatical choices on his web-log. I know he works for a rival organisation, but essentially we’re on the same side, and I am nothing if not the paradigm of professionalism. It gets a little tiring doing this every day, but Andrew seems to appreciate it.  I’ve also written to Piers and advised him it might be wise to stop denying the existence of carbon dioxide until my colleagues at another Institute™ finalise their latest research and publish the appropriate brochure. The price of the pursuit of truth is, after all, eternal vigilance.


12:30pm               Lunch. Today I’ve packed cucumber and Nutella sandwiches. I could journey home for lunch of course, but I worry what sort of an example I’d be setting to the employees. Also, Margaret frets if I leave the Institute™ through the day. I’ve spent the remainder of the morning watching Media Watch on iView. Mother doesn’t let me watch it in the house anymore owing to an unfortunate incident wherein I accidentally used a permanent marker to draw horns on Jonathon. The television screen is now barely smudged, but Mother now insists that my finger gun and ‘pew pew pew’ noises are distracting. It is most unfair. I wrote to Mark Scott about it and await his reply.


5:00pm                 Home time. Time flies when you’re corresponding with Bob Ellis. What a cunt.


6:45pm                 Bed time. I have some concerns about Margaret and was considering returning to the Institute™ to check on her but Mother doesn’t like me traveling after dark. Instead I’ve had a nice cup of tea and listened to three tracks from the latest Susan Boyle album. I dare not listen to more as experience has shown it disturbs my sleep and can create unnecessary embarrassment in the morning. Mother is entertaining a guest from her dancing class. He’s obviously quite inept as I can hear all manner of banging noises and Mother yelps intermittently. He’d better not be wearing sandals or I will be having stern words in the morning. We don’t like those types around here. Why can’t people wear decent shoes?


Lies, Damn Lies, and Cashing in on Labels That Don’t Quite Fit

In the past few days I’ve read more words written about Melinda Tankard Reist than any human should be forced to endure in their lifetime. I have been water-boarded with inanity as article after blog post after tweet clarted down from the rank ether of God’s irritable colon. It’s not that the subject matter is aesthetically repugnant to me, although Dancing Baby Jesus knows that it is.  It’s just that to my addled and admittedly twisted brain they have – almost to a letter – spectacularly missed the fucking point.

By now we all know the story. Sunday Herald article blows smoke up the pencil sharpening cloaca of Australia’s self-appointed queen of the fun harpies. Dr Jennifer Wilson asks a couple of sensible and pertinent questions of the author of said piece, who responds (maturely, and to her credit) by agreeing that she had made an oversight in her article, but one made on the assumption that everybody already knows her subject is a God-molesting wingnut. The Tankard (props to Fiona Patten for the nickname) does what she does best and threatens legal action for defamation. Online world completely embraces its true essence.

What followed was kind of like one of those unpalatable scenes from a Japanese home production where everyone wants to land their wad of perceived wisdom on the stars of the show. It’s a free speech issue. Wait, it’s a feminist issue. No, hang on, it’s all about religion. Or Censorship. Or Bratz dolls. Or something. I’m not saying that these aren’t all factors, or valid points of discussion. I’m saying that these are peripheral to the real meat of the issue, the reason Wilson was right to ask what she did, and the Tankard responded so disproportionately.


Let’s just clarify a small point. This poor victim of scurrilous enquiries into her motivation has gone to great lengths to ensure she is portrayed as a ‘campaigner’ for female rights. Ignoring the ugly dichotomy inherent in that proposition, (others have covered it much better than I could, or would wish to,) let’s just look at that word ‘campaigner’. It’s a nice, strong, positive word, emoting visions of some lone underdog waging the good war against the amoral establishment. It certainly sounds much better than ‘lobbyist’, which carries the sinister overtones of someone acting as a mouthpiece of the aforementioned establishment, wielding influence and cash to achieve results favourable to their employer. Melinda Tankard Reist petitions politicians to vote for or against legislative change, as suits her agenda. She browbeats and intimidates businesses into conforming to her will. As has been made apparent, she’s prepared to use legal muscle to silence criticism from the general public. She is a lobbyist.

Now I don’t personally know more than a couple of lobbyists, but I’m pretty confident it’s a job that needs a pretty healthy cashflow. It certainly takes cash to hire a high-profile legal defamation specialist, so my question is this: Who’s paying your bills, Melinda?

As for why I ask, well, that’s pretty simple. The Tankard affects me directly. She lobbies to have things banned or removed from sale. I would like to decide whether I buy a coffee mug, or a t-shirt, or watch a movie or whatever. These are my choices to make, not hers to make on my behalf. Strangely, our tastes are probably more similar than dissimilar in this regard, but I wouldn’t presume to speak for others. I’m not qualified to do so, and unless MTR is as coy with her qualifications as she is with her affiliations, neither is she. When it comes to serious issues like abortion and birth control, it is vital that the public is informed as to who’s really pulling the strings. Keep in mind she’s dealing with impressionable children who may not be able to discern that she is possibly acting in the best interests of the Kooky Guardians of the Sacred Concrete Box or some such lunatic fringe cult, as opposed to theirs.

Of course I could be entirely wrong, but be damned if I’m wrong for asking the question, or if Dr Wilson is. What I do know is that The Tankard isn’t representative of some ‘new movement’. Her ilk have been around forever, burning books and music, acting to remove our right to decide for ourselves where we draw our pleasures, or what we are allowed to view as art. They have historically come from a position of power and money – the sort of money MTR wouldn’t seem to have at her personal disposal.

The Tankard’s recalcitrance in dealing with what should be a straightforward issue is telling in itself. If she proceeds against Dr Wilson she’d better be prepared for a long fight, because I’m throwing my hat in the ring as well, and I’m more than a little confident that she’s biting off more than she can chew. Something tells me that I am only one of many, and the dyke make well be crumbling around her fingers. The big danger of the Streisand effect is not the increase in publicity. A narcissistic self-promoter craves publicity like air. The danger is that people will start turning over rocks and uncovering scurrilous activity that had hitherto evaded sunlight. Surely any true moral champion embraces the light of scrutiny? Surely.

Time will tell. The dance is on. Caveat Emptor, swingers. Where’s my waitress?


Pornography -The View from My Pants

This was originally written for King’s Tribune. You should read it there, because there are heaps of things way cooler than this to read as well.


Q and A has received a fair amount of criticism of late, not least from the Tribune’s very own Justin Shaw. While much of it may have appeared fair and reasoned at the time, it can now be revealed that the writers of said criticism are terminally deluded, and seek to maliciously mislead you gentle seekers of truth.

‘On what basis does he make this claim?’ I hear you ask, as, dear reader, you are so often wont to do. The answer is simple, and undisputable.

On Monday, May 23rd, Q and A gave us the finest moment in Australian television history – possibly of all time, but certainly since Miranda Devine’s left nut popped out when she pulled her Basic Instinct move on Barrie Cassidy from the Insiders naughty chair.

I speak of course of the moment when Gail Dines uttered those three magic, oft misunderstood words, Arse To Mouth. There was silence in the streets as a whole nation collectively battled their gag reflex, or searched frantically for somewhere to offload the mouthful of sick they had just acquired. It was a thing of true beauty. Should I die tomorrow, your humble scribe will consider his life to be complete.

For those unfortunate souls who missed this exquisite little nugget of WTF, a little background information is required.

Some folk regard Gail Dines as a prime example of the Fun Police. This is not the case. Gail Dines is the Fun Mossad, assassinating pleasure with unbridled lethality.

Her mere mention of the word ‘erection’ is enough to render any mortal man incapable of having one, often for months afterward.

Her place on the panel was in keeping with Q and A’s long running policy of ensuring that the sanity of other guests is counterbalanced with at least one raving wingnut. This compliments the show’s other policy of rounding up as many mouth breathing Young Liberals as they can prise away from Mummy’s computer in the false pursuit of ‘audience balance’.

And rave? Boy did Gail rave. Gail raved harder than a metrosexual with a Hello Kitty lunchbox full of disco biscuits.

I find there is something almost awe-inspiring about watching a moral crusader in full froth. Perhaps it’s the sheer tenacity of their fervour, or their idiot child-like comprehension of life’s complexities. Most likely there’s an element of sheer relief that I can manage to get through a full day without becoming outraged at what someone else chooses to do for fun, something I doubt Gail has managed to do since she was four years old.

You see, like all true nutters, Gail knows what’s wrong with the world, and she knows exactly how to fix it. Actually she didn’t really get around to the latter, but the former certainly seems to revolve around arse to mouth.

In Gail’s World™ pornography is bad, mmkay? Apparently it was invented in 1953 by Hugh Hefner and ever since has been destroying our capacity for happiness, intimacy and something something. Our children now progress straight from Marco Polo to the uncontrollable urge to sodomise each other with garden implements. All men who watch pornography are diseased and women who watch it are actually men, or self-loathing Jews, or something something. I’m sure you get the idea.

Much hilarity ensued on twitter, and not a few thought provoking conversations carried on long after most of us had showered to wash off the bukkake of wowser we had just endured.

It occurred to me then that as deranged as the performance had been, it was not wrong (in the way that picturing Nicola Roxon giving a hummer is wrong) merely misguided, and dangerously naïve.

I don’t presume to speak for all men. That would be presumptuous. I do, however, have a penis. It is a very good looking penis and I call it Captain Winkie, but that’s a conversation for another time. The good Captain grants me the right to speak for myself on the issue of how men view pornography; certainly with more authority than some harpy who was weaned on pureed capers and wasabi.

Similarly, I know women with vaginas. They’re my favourite kind of woman. They can also speak for themselves. (The women, not the vaginas; though I would definitely take the advice of a talking vagina. Again, I digress.)

So here’s my perceived wisdom on this delicately nuanced subject. I seek to set the record straight, at least in my own terms, and for the sake of people I know: Pornography is a form of graffiti. Occasionally it can be beautiful, but mostly it just dirties the place up. Somewhere in between the tawdry and the artful is a form of communication that has been with us forever, and holds some attraction for all of us.

I enjoy watching images that reflect my own admittedly vanilla tastes. Provided the tastes of others don’t cross the boundary of criminality, I have no problem with them.

People – especially women – are sometimes exploited by the makers of pornography. It’s iniquitous and we should be talking about it, but we can do that without prefacing the discussion with an assumption that all men are violent, hate-filled slaves to their own penises.

As I write this the Perth Sexpo is ramping up in the centre opposite my apartment. Couples are indulging in the sort of behaviour that brings Gail Dnes out in hives. They seem happy, and sexually charged. They are leaving with their showbags of carnal depravity and going home to their apparently dysfunctional lives, hand in hand. They are kissing, touching and being flagrantly enamoured with each other in public.

They are obviously yet to learn of the depth of their perversion. I for one am fucking glad for that, and if I was capable of praying, it would be for Gail’s overactive bile duct to rise up, detach and lodge itself in her throat. Or something something.

Love letter of despair to my fiance

Honey, peel off your panties and grab the cognac. We’ll roll back the sunroof, bust out of this paved prison and tear up the Hume in a streak of molten, righteous fury. Forget veering off into the city that never wakes, there’s no respite for us there. Hokey-pokey crackpot lawmakers with revolving heads are spewing enough venom to kill all the grass within a six mile radius of the special house. The air is polluted with populist hyperbole so thick that local cats are birthing two-headed kittens. No, push on we must. We’re refugees now and it’s Bandt country or bust. Crank up the Beck, we’re driving til we can scrape the tread off the Yokohamas with a cold butter knife.

It’s just not safe for us here anymore, sweetheart. The pond scum of the media have built themselves a moral vacuum that can suck the skin off a wild pig in full flight. People’s brains are spraying through their ears and the streets are awash with mega-litres of toxic zombie arse-clown. Climate change has got nothing. It’s the threat of concentrated stupid that seeks to destroy us now.

I’m not sure how to break this to you baby, so I’ll just put it to you straight. People hate you. You were born in a third world country, which makes you worth 35% of a nigger in the old scale, allowing for inflation. It doesn’t matter how smart you are, how capable or how damned beautiful you are. You’re a parasite, a blight upon our way of life and a threat to national security. We have fridge magnets warning us of people like you. Hell, we have purpose-built detention centres and you’re so damned obstinate you won’t even avail yourself of their services. You’re an ingrate, and the community has had enough of you not costing the tax payer a cent after we’ve gone to such length and cost to incarcerate you.

The good news is that they hate me with an order of magnitude that dwarfs anything they may feel for you. I’m a class traitor, which is the most heinous intellectual position imaginable among those who struggle to imagine a bowl of porridge. Not only do I love you, I don’t even have the decency to be contrite about it. I couldn’t give a tinker’s curse (which is worth 82.5% of a cobbler’s curse in the old scale) if some woman wants to marry another woman. I want to marry you, and you’re only worth about a third of a nigger. Never mind that you’re of fairer skin than me, I’m white and you’re apparently not. Regarding you as an equal is an insult to every One Nation/LNP voting crab-walker with enough grey matter remaining to negotiate a decent lick of their bus window.

So put your hands or lips to this thing that has come between us, Mrs C. I’ll concentrate on pressing the pedal flat and possibly avoiding school children. Possibly. My sole concern is our survival now, and taking what few pleasures we can from the ever diminishing suite of rights the nutters haven’t yet legislated against. We’ll break into Bandt territory and claim asylum. They can’t turn us away under local rules regarding human decency. The downside is that we’ll have to live in Melbourne, but that’s another problem for another time.

All your base hatred are belong to us

There’s a festering sickness within Australia. It has always been there, eating away at the flesh of our collective psyche, but of late its spread has worsened, manifesting in the putrefaction of whole pockets of society. While many, if not most of us refuse to even acknowledge this cancer, it is a cause of despair that those that do have entirely misdiagnosed the condition.

This week at least thirty desperate, vulnerable people perished within a literal stone’s throw of our shore as they sought our protection. As elements of the media celebrated the tragedy as some sort of demented political goal, and decent people looked on in appalled disgust, others gave voice to their small mindedness in a xenophobic tsunami of vitriolic cuntness* almost awe inspiring in its magnitude.

While it is all too easy to view pathetic human failures of print like Andrew Bolt and Miranda Devine as the authors of such repugnant detritus, to do so is to give them undue credit for original thought. They are merely vultures, nourishing themselves on the diseased and dying pathos of a community which has forgotten what it stands for, and how it came to be created in the first place. Seeking to correct the actions of these carrion feeders, who are only acting in accordance with their nature, can achieve nothing without acting to remove their source of sustenance.

Sure, view the vile elements of the media with the pure contempt they deserve, but don’t forget that if there weren’t so many hateful, shamefully stupid racists out there they’d starve. The real problem festers on unchecked.

* OK, that might not be a real word. You think of a better one.