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ARCHIVES: 06 February - 14 February 2003 HEY, WHERE'S MY FRIDGE MAGNET?6 February 2003 It's Thursday and I'm still waiting on Chicken Hawk John's Famous Fear Pack (with Free Fridge magnet) to help me through the dark days ahead. But golly gee (see? I'm becoming a real Australian-American, just like John 'n' George want me to), I'm sure getting antsy waiting for it. What if the terrorist attack he's striven so hard to bring about occurs before it comes? How will me and the wife and kids know what to do without it? Worse, what if the terrorist attack comes when he's out of the country? How will we cope without our dear leader offering his condolences on commercial radio as we melt or erupt or otherwise disintegrate? Oh well, I guess there's always the Governor-General to help us through our final moments. If we can just hold on, he's sure to turn up sooner or later. Then again, if nothing happens, we'll have a free latex glove for family rectal examinations. No one can say the Liberal Party doesn't look after the mob its people. JOHN HOWARD: FROM SONDERKOMMANDOFÜHRER TO SATRAP 10 February 2003 Ah, John Howard. I suppose seeing his clumsy body lurching about on Television, or those malevolent eyes staring out of his rodent-shaped skull in the newspapers, or hearing his mewling, still breaking adolescent voice on commercial radio, is better than having your toenails pulled out in some steely-green room fitted for such purposes by ASIO. Yet, our Prime Minister's me-too subservience to that front man for sheer evil, the lump-lump running America, is so utterly sickening that toenail removal sounds only slightly worse. Howard is the kind of milchik* who in World War II might have risen from a position as a minor clerk at the town hall to commanding a special squad of the featureless to round up Jews for transportation to Nazi concentration camps. A job he and his cronies would have relished for their payment in extra rations, but especially for those pats on the back from their contemptuous superiors. John would have been proud of his "contribution" to the war effort, and Janette would have been proud of him for bringing home the ersatz coffee and confiscated trinkets. In this life, he has transmigrated from a sociopathic, Frankensteinian assistant to a satrap. The dictionary defines a satrap as a subordinate ruler, often a despotic one. (You find them in the workplace all the time.) Let's define it further as a being of inferior or limited intelligence who suddenly finds him or herself in power owing to the attrition of quasi-intelligent leaders. Sounds like a definition of the Illiberal Party. After Little Lord Downer, creaking, has-been John W. Howard was the only one still standing. And now, eight years later, he's George W. Bush's fave satrap. What a guy. * milchik: Yiddish word meaning, among other things: pale, sickly-looking; a colorless ineffectual personality. VILLAGE IDIOT PULLS JACKET OF CUNNING OAF 12 February 2003 John W. Howard, the cunning oaf who defied the natural evolution of mankind to become Prime Minister of Australia, must have felt a tad uncomfortable when George W. Bush, himself a throwback to the early development of frontal lobes, declared that Australia was a member of his "coalition of the willing". Didn't Georgie know that Aussies really believe Johnny when he says he can pull his troops out of the Gulf any time he wants to? (You could see John inwardly recoiling, momentarily overcome by the dyspeptic old codger who roosts at the non-core of his being, the desiccated old fart who just wants to sleep all the time. Certainly that's how Our John always sounds. Except when he's doing the bullying and hectoring. Then he wakes up!) But that's life when you're owned by a bully. They like to play with you, make you grovel and whimper to test your allegiance. We've seen it in school and in hundreds of Hollywood movies. See, George really detests John. All bullies detest the crawling scum who show their bellies, initially to be looked up to by folks with more brains than them, but finally just so they won't get hurt by the bully himself. John Howard is no different. George may have the intellectual capacity of a walnut, but he knows a creepy-crawly when he sees one. HEY, WHERE'S MY LATEX GLOVE? 13 February 2003 And weren't we supposed to get some duct tape too? Or was that the Umeruhcans. So the Fridge Magnet of Fear Pack finally arrived. But why is the letter from Puny Nephew wastefully printed on two sheets of paper? Haven't the Illiberals heard of printing on both sides? Guess not. They're so out of it, they still get excited by war. Anyway, where's that manilla envelope for a return to sender... HUMILIATING HOWARD WITH A FRUITY RASPBERRY 14 February 2003 How about the following for a simple act of revolutionary theatre, a nationwide campaign to humiliate John W. Howard. Humiliating the self-righteous, arrogant and contemptuous is known historically to have profound results. Their veneer of unearned respectability is blown instantly. Based on a tried and true Italian custom (as shown in the segment "The Professor" from Vittorio De Sica's 1954 film, "The Gold of Naples") here's how: Upon coming face to face with the little weasel, slowly chant his full name, John Winston Howard, and follow it with two extended, heartfelt raspberries. The raspberry (or razzberry, or Bronx Cheer) is made by putting your tongue between your lips and blowing out forcefully. One person or several people or a hundred or more doing this repeatedly every time Howard appears at a commercial radio station or on the steps of Parliament or anywhere else will have the belittling effect no reasoned words can hope to achieve. IN FACT, THIS SIMPLE TACTIC SHOULD BE APPLIED TO EVERYONE IN THE GOVERNMENT. Pass the word. |
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Published in Melbourne, Australia by the Political Prisoners of the Future.