My nipples are indecently erect. Carol Duncan, starlet extraordinaire of wonkworld has announced a competition that we exist to win. Up to 20 of us can experience the glory of the Hunter with Carol herself. We win this – we give birth to a potential new institution. What will bring it on home is 200 words – carved from a flawless block of pure inspiration.

We need definite numbers – the first 19 wonks to register here make the cut. We also need to coordinate our entry. Let this be the forum. If we don’t win this then we have officially failed at life and should probably die quietly in a corner.

Let’s do it.



Break bread and imbibe with me on this auspicious eve. Let me weave for you an air of rusted strings and broken voice, a dulcet dirge to herald the passing of all things hale and comely. Draw close. It is in tones conspiring that I warble in the dark to the few ears yet to turn away.

These are days of incandescent mediocrity. The age of conviction lies behind us as a maiden defiled. Shame hangs palpably from our wet lips as we bequeath the embers to progeny destined to feast on naught but the bitter fruit of our malaise. This is no song of hope.

Our once beautiful tongue has been usurped by the depraved and unhinged. It was not the violence of lusty battle or the failed, overreaching arc of our desperate pursuit of beauty that ferried the corpse to our door. The truth is far less palatable. We simply ceased to care. Let the mighty halls of time reverberate with our apathetic mumbles.

They do not love us, our new masters. That much is writ large amongst the letters of disdain their hackneyed machine spews forth. The machine voices the mouth, and the mouth has no eyes to appreciate its disabuse. The incessant drone of failed intellect pervades the ether like a wet fart while we quibble over the rights of the pygmies of measured thought. The sadness, the all-consuming idiocy would drive a monkey spare.

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.

A Brief History of Dickhead

Somewhere back in the dim recesses of time, when Happy Days was still new to the Earth, an evolutionary divergence occurred. Whether it happened by mutation or genetic obstinacy is unclear, but the human race split into two definitive and eternally irreconcilable strains. One branch, Homo Pragmaticus, was to progress and elevate humanity to new, hitherto unimagined realms of achievement. The other; Homo Spankis, devoted themselves to not understanding their children’s music and bitching a lot.

For a while the two subspecies coexisted somewhat peacefully, in an almost symbiotic fashion. Pragmaticus would write books that Spankis would use for heating and light, and occasionally as a source of food. The latter of course constipated them terribly, and it has been postulated that diet was a determining factor in their subsequent accelerated social and psychological regression.

Pragmaticus continued to evolve, however. They developed concepts like scented candles and universal human rights. They began to uncover the immutable secrets of existence and formulated theories to explain them – such as chaos and string theory, and if you pick up that acoustic guitar and play one more fucking Joni Mitchell song I’m going to punch you really hard in the fun-sack. These insights led to technological breakthroughs that culminated in the pinnacle of all human achievement, the Personal Computer.

The Personal Computer changed everything. It was affordable, and Spankis could for the first time communicate with a world that existed outside of their own stunted imagination. They didn’t even have to get on their knees to do it, although many of them still chose to out of habit and familiarity. For one glimmering moment it seemed possible for the subspecies to reunite under the universal banner of porn.

Alas, it was not to be. Spankis failed to grasp the concept, much as they had failed to grasp every precedent societal development. While they embraced porn wholeheartedly, they introduced donkeys and their Uncle Muriel then wept with guilt in the corner, effectively cruelling everybody’s fun.

Realising that the only way to counter Pragmaticus’ dangerously guilt-free and progressive behaviour was through repetition and loud complaints, Spankis prudently incubated a number of homunculi to utilise the tools of their perceived enemy, while they busied themselves building frightening structures with great big fuck off sound systems within which to preach the virtues of humility. War had been declared and was to be waged. Pragmaticus was caught entirely unawares, as it was collectively seeking a decent Pho and arguing amongst itself as to whether Radiohead’s artistic pinnacle was OK Computer or Amnesiac.

So began the war of the bleeding obvious, a gruesome battle destined to shed much blood, and not a little semen from those amongst the ranks of Spankis who had moved on from farm animal porn and into the rarefied glory of science denial. ‘Fuck you and fuck your scientists’ became the rallying cry of those who didn’t understand that their Personal Computer was a by-product of the science they held in such contempt. ‘Humans have no impact on the environment’ cried those who wept about the population explosion bringing strange looking people into their neighbourhood. ‘Their beliefs are an affront to our way of life’ said the people who threatened doctors with creatively painful deaths. ‘I’ll pray for you’ squealed those using medicine to keep themselves alive.

The war continues. It will probably outlast this generation, and maybe even the next. Spankis is a subspecies with an enormous bank of stupid and money at its disposal. Pragmaticus is weak from eating tofu and suffering an overwhelming fear of soap. The only thing that is certain to us at this crucial moment is that the battle will be dragged further into the sewer, and the victor is likely to be the subspecies which breathes best amongst the shit. Alas, we all know which fuckers have the gills.

The Shame of Being Australian

Here’s a thought swingers. How about we grow a pair and start stepping up to the crease? Why don’t we stop trembling in the corner like Aspidistras with Parkinson’s disease and actually take the fight to some of these festering rodents that somehow managed to get elected, despite their multitudinous social handicaps and glaring ineptitude? The last time I checked, our elected officials were meant to be servants of the public, yet they operate – almost to a man (or woman) as mouthpieces for the minority interest groups who fund their grubby campaigns. Our votes empowered them, and our apathy allows them to make the proverbial hay unchecked. Fuck that. I’ve seriously had enough, and I’m seriously pissed off with you for being so damned complacent.

The Liberals have acted so contemptibly for so long that we’ve become inured to their poison. Tony Abbott stumbles from one verbal travesty to the next and we don’t even blink anymore. Scott Morrison breathes excrement like the rest of us breathe air and nobody bats an eye. Hockey dares to display a hint of humanity and is forced to retract within one revolution of the news cycle, under the threat of crucifixion. Turnbull – perhaps the only creature of conviction within the leper colony – eats his own spine and stays stum, quietly hoping his party will implode so that he can rise from the ashes on the wings of ‘I told you so’. It won’t be so. This bunch of clusterfucks won’t countenance anther liberal Liberal in my lifetime. Most likely they never will again. It is the party of science denying, religious wingnuts. All hail the American Midwest. Fuck you if you don’t love my God.

Labor is no better. We just had to go and sacrifice integrity for the novelty of a woman in the top job. Hooray for Julia. Hooray for women. Without the women’s vote we would have had the grubby little failed social experiment that is Abbott. Unfortunately that’s not anywhere near good enough. Julia wheeled and dealt for the sole purpose of Julia, and time and again we’ve seen real reform laid out on the altar of political expediency. Every genuine reform effort Rudd made has been hopelessly compromised by an opportunistic idiot – a woman so enamoured with her own image as to render herself cripple.

The saddest, most pathetic card in the deck has to be handed to the Greens. Bob – here’s a tip for free. The Greens are no longer a ‘protest’ party. You doubled your primary vote in one fell swoop, yet continue to alienate your growing base. I voted for you because my conscience dictated so, but I can’t stand stupidity, and that’s what you’re putting out there. I know your policies. I’ve read them all. Yet you allow the press to misrepresent you on a daily basis without rebuke. It’s like you want to fail, and you will fail – for as long as you remain a party of wishy washy ideals and not a party of action.

I really don’t know how much more I can stand. Children are being whored out to the filthy uncle of politics. While I eat my dinner whole families are in prison, multinational mining interests are raping the land, and perhaps most importantly, we are becoming an embarrassing joke to the rest of the world. Do something, for fuck’s sake. It’s your vote, and it’s your voice. Make it count.

A dick in the mouth of democracy

While most of us were struggling to recover from, or still indulging in, the excesses of the stupid season, a ruling was made by the NSW Administrative Decisions Tribunal that all but flew under the radar. Indeed, if it wasn’t for Joe Hilderbrand’s article on the 27th, I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all.

The tribunal found in favour of the Catholic church’s argument that to disallow them to discriminate openly against homosexuals was in fact a form of discrimination against the church. One can only attempt to grasp the nature of this logic when one remembers that these people believe in a god who fathered himself so he could commit assisted suicide because some naked tart took the culinary advice of a talking snake. The only approximation to ‘Catholic logic’ that I can find in modern literature is Doulas Adams’ improbability drive, although that requires far less suspension of disbelief from the reader.

Of course it is no accident that the ruling of this fruitcake tribunal was released smack bang in the middle of the festive period, when most of us were still so inebriated we were struggling to remember the purpose of opposable digits. Any political reptile knows only too well that if you have unpopular news, you release it when nobody is looking. It’s the media equivalent of timing your fart to the sounding of the vuvuzela in the stand behind you. All power to the NSW government, though. Through a skill born of years of necessary practice they have elevated the sneaky fart into an art form par excellence. With almost zero reportage, the release disappeared like a drop of pubescent semen into the vat of cottage cheese that passes for the Christmas news cycle.

So, years of ballooning public sentiment and robust argument in favour of GLBT equality have finally been found to be an assault on the legal rights of the long-suffering and imminently vulnerable Catholic institution. Truly a day of celebration for persecuted multinational corporations everywhere. I can only say, in the revered words of the Virgin Mary, thank fuck for that. Now we can properly get down to business.

The obvious first step in further extending the security blanket of the law over the church’s emaciated metaphorical thighs is to remove the heavy bourdon of tax exemption from their operations. I get to pay taxes, and therefore feel empowered to take my place in political discourse, rather than being some parasite that merely leeches off the sweat of others and should rightly remain voiceless in the public debate. The law in its misguided benevolence accords the same right to our evil gay oppressors. Hell, even minors get to pay taxes, though we rightly tell them to shut up and go their room at voting time. Denying the church this basic right is a criminally negligent oversight that needs our lawmakers’ urgent intervention.

It follows that the church should be invited to participate in full public disclosure of all of its business dealings, as all publicly listed companies have the right to do. I own shares in the company I work for, so I (and anyone else who cares to look) have the right to see how my money is being spent. As every person who puts money in the collection plate on Sunday is a default shareholder, surely they should be afforded the same rights as me, both in seeing how their money is spent, and voting on key issues of direct impact on their investment. Also, in the same manner that we extend the protective hand of law over our indigenous kin in term of how they spend their income, we need to protect the church from the possibility of its own bad judgement. Imagine if it was found that the Catholic church had accidentally invested in pharmaceutical companies that manufacture birth control medicine, or (heaven forbid) munitions companies. How on Earth could the church reconcile that kind of negligence against its divine and unchanging tenets? We owe it to them to prevent them making that kind of mistake, and legislation is their only Earthly saviour.

Finally, now that the law has acknowledged the evil of promoting GLBT equality, everybody who supports said equality should recant their sinful ways by placing an absolute boycott on all dealings with Catholics, as it’s the only way to save them from inadvertent persecution. It is our responsibility to save them from endangering their immortal souls by unwittingly accepting our tainted lucre. Worse still is that they should unwittingly fund our illegal activism by paying for our goods and services. I humbly beseech any business owners who are illegally persecuting the Catholic church by supporting GLBT equality to come clean. Place a sign in your window to dissuade Catholics from entering. I suggest the sort of friendly language they relate to. Something like “Catholics who shop here will burn in hell for all eternity” should get the message across in a subtle fashion.

Personally, I am in awe of the wisdom of our state parliamentary committee system, which obviously surpasses archaic institutions like the High Court in its understanding of civil rights. I have always known the gay community to be oppressive, but up until December 27, 2010 I thought it was for making me listen to Kylie at house parties. I know better now. I pledge to do my part to rid the world of gay persecution of helpless Catholics. Do your part. They need you.

Catherine Deveny should shut up.

It’s impossible to frame a singular atheist viewpoint due to the inconvenience of atheists generally arriving at their world view through independent thought. While undoubtedly (and unfortunately) some children have been indoctrinated into atheism by their parents, these form a minuscule number in comparison to those who have made the conscious decision to reject religion and develop their own ethics through dint of experience and introspection. Those of us who have made the journey have all assayed our own personal mountains by our own unique paths. This is why we don’t form clubs. We don’t seek constant reaffirmation of our philosophy from our peers.

Such being what such is, I do not presume to speak for others. I can only proffer my considered opinion, which in this instance is that Catherine Deveny and her ilk are a liability to the cause of free thought, and are symptomatic of the weakness of our position when arguing against the base superstition and irrationality of religion.

Let’s be honest about what religion is. It is a mental illness. People come to religiosity through one of two paths; either they are indoctrinated through upbringing, or something has broken in their lives – leading them to seek an alternate and less painful reality. In either case we are talking about a vulnerable and confused individual, worthy of compassion and empathy. To attack a religious person is no different to attacking an ADHD or bi-polar disorder sufferer. To take it further, it’s like venting at a diabetic for the crime of having diabetes, or an epileptic for having epilepsy.

Deveny is utterly unable to separate cause and effect. She kicks against the pricks like a farm animal, making no distinction between the institution and the institutionalised. Her lack of discernment not only undermines the cause of rationality, it empowers the enemies of reason by enabling them to hold all of us to her low standard. Most importantly, her outbursts alienate the people most in need of genuine dialogue.

I am sick to death of my conversations with the religious being contaminated by the self-aggrandising nonsense of a loud mouthed bigot. Deveny does me no favours, and I wish she’d shut the fuck up.