THE SUBS 'N' DUDS | Number 4 |
REPORT | 24 May 1996 |
| Editor: Harold Hark | Melbourne, Australia |
There they were with their sloping foreheads and phlegmatic outrage, the inbred, genetic garbage of Gympie. Responding to a call to arms, they were happy to take a few hours off from the usual pursuits of wife beating, incest and animal slaughter to shake their beer guts and flabby arses in defiance of the wishes of that species so threatening to their existence: the human race. Tragically, the trolls of Gympie are not alone. They represent an international population of prehistoric throwbacks for whom everything that moves is a potential enemy. Their convoluted conspiracy theories--not without the odd salient point--are concocted from a medieval brew of fear and ignorance concerning solutions: It made sense to keep firearms a hundred years ago, it doesn't today. Bullets are not going to solve the dilemmas facing the world. But individual responsibility in a collective framework--that is, each one of us making the attempt to comprehend the problems and then acting collectively to solve them, just might. Meanwhile, the Federal and State governments have an explosive situation on their hands, leading perhaps to violent civil disorder. No appeasement is possible, because the Gympies consider governments to be the enemy. Until Port Arthur, they were a segment of the Silent Majority who lived harmless, isolated lives, far from the machinations of evolution. Now they are united in a potentially suicidal, misanthropic lust to give their lives meaning. They not only own guns, they own arsenals, and they want war. Like the Survivalists, Minutemen and fundamentalist Militias in the United States, they are looking forward to that final 'heroic' shootout against what they perceive to be the greatest of evils: peace on earth, good will towards all. WHERE'S ME TABLETS! Ian made big news at the Piltdown Nutters Hall the other night. Dressed in his trademark hardware store polyesters and pointing his finger like a seven year old playing guns, he explained to the horror movie extras of Gympie, Queensland that shillings and pounds were no longer valid currency. Henceforth all donations to Armageddon were to be made in blood. So eager were the assembled that they set up a blood bank on the spot. By evening's end over a hundred sacks of the viscous goo had been collected from the, by then, supine and apparently dead good ol' boys and their gals. Film crews were initially alarmed, but Ian assured them that while there appeared to be a room full of corpses--these were, after all, the Zombies of Gympie--the blood was really sloe gin and revivification was just a matter of his firing a few rounds in the name of freedom. Is the Federal Coalition in Trouble Already? With his backbenchers ready to riot over just about everything --except the current incarnation of 'Fightback', on target to turn Australia into a Third World Country--John Howard may be coming to the swift conclusion that the ragtag mishmash of thumpwits in the National Party are going to bring him undone. Mightn't we see a double dissolution (over Telstra) followed by the Larval Party running under its own steam? Jeff and McCarthy Sitting in a Tree... "I don't think you've ever seen our party in government here pursue a leading light in the Labor Party just because he or she is a leading light of the Labor Party. They're a very vengeful party. We're seeing that now with the Senate inquiry, which has got to be the greatest act of McCarthyism you and I have seen in our lifetimes in this country." (JGK, forgetting Sir Joh.) How odd that Jeffrey should treat the Senate Inquiry as a McCarthy-like attack on all that is good in his government. Is this any way to treat an old soulmate? (Well...soul...heh-heh.) But then, maybe Jeff is unaware--as he is about so many things--that he and Joseph R. McCarthy are truly alike. Mean-spirited and hectoring, they have both revelled in assassinating the characters of all opposed to their narrow, downright pathological view of the world. Joseph's legacy of the vindictive smear was unsurpassed until Jeff rounded on John Brumby in Parliament a few years ago, suggesting the opposition leader slept with boys. A high-point for Jeff and the sniggering bullies behind him, but a dreadfully low-point for Victoria. Really, the Premier should stop treating badly those who have directly and indirectly nurtured his authoritarianism. For in the privacy of his conscienceless, peaceful dreams, Jeffrey loves Joseph McCarthy. While raving to faceless Larvals about Sid Spindler's enforced childhood as a Hitler Youth, the Premier also cried foul over the persecution of poor John Elliott, whose trial for fraud just happens to be in process. Contempt of Court? Perhaps in a democracy, but not in Victoria. After all, who expects the Attorney General to file contempt charges against her Glorious Leader? Like every other minion in the Gang of 59, Jan Wade will keep her lips pinched until the whole thing just goes away. • To a visiting American businessman who mentioned he'd heard on the flight over that Jeff had called an election. "Oh, the election. It's a bore, but the people need their democracy so we have one. The real excitement is the Grand Prix." • Kew Cottages fire: "I don't have sprinklers in my house, do you?" Sir Bully and Lady Bubbles in: Sir Bully and Lady Bubbles love their breakfasts together. While munching Dice Krispies and bilk, along with boast and vegespite, they love to talk about never discussing His or her shares in His or her name in any number of companies owned or brokered for by close friends whom they hardly know. "And," confirms Lady Bubbles, "it certainly isn't us whose names are on that precious little savings book which finds its way to the bank every month for those yummy updates. Really, can't you just picture that pleasant bank teller handing it back to someone we've never seen who slips it into her hand bag with a wink and a nod and a 'Haven't the faintest idea, dear, just on an errand for someone's kids,'" who may or may not be named therein or known to be directors of any of those companies no one can quite put a finger on. "Ha-ha-ha," laughs Sir Bully. |
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