Fri 24th Feb 2017
He's baaaack. No. Not Milo. You'll probably have to wait another week or so for that glittering turd to float back up to the surface of the hot tub. No my friends, I meant Tony Abbott, the original jug-eared fudge-mullet, who finally broke surface in the roiling septic jacuzzi in which we play at politics these days. And to celebrate, a harsh Old Testament God—disguised in the raiment of the Fair Work Commission—rained fire and blood down upon the poorest and the least among us with a whacking great pay cut. Oh, what a time to be alive.
Unless you’re Milo Yiannopoulos of course or, you know, poor and rostered on to work Sundays. Milo, who loved to pimp himself out as “the most dangerous supervillain on the Internet,” was a favourite porch monkey of the New Right, including the Daily Telegraph’s thin-skinned trollumnist, Tim Blair. The Terror’s P.J. O’Rourke-shaped inflatable boyfriend (for when you can’t afford the real thing) launched into print—yes glorious, analogue, impossible-to-delete hard copy—defending Yiannopoulos the ‘entertaining libertarian’ on the very same day that the nouveau douche provocateur entertained us all with his creepytarian enthusiasm for the statutory rape of underage boys.
Oh, if only some Russian dash-cam had captured Blair’s poorly-timed rub-fucking of Milo’s leg at the very moment Milo dropped pants to take a slashing piss in the face of the last taboo even the edgiest conservative still feels totes awks about. (Sadly, all the Russian dash cams were still hooked up in the Trump suite at the Moscow Hilton where the real slash/piss action went down).
It’s telling that Yiannopoulos self-identified as an internet super-villain. It showed a remarkable awareness of his role as a cartoon character who never really made the jump from internet famous to actually famous. The closest he got to real world significance was being chased off Berkeley by the campus Left a couple of weeks ago, and now he’s been chased off his own home turf by his Buchenwald sugar-daddies at Breitbart. You could almost feel sorry for him, until you remember the actual terror and very real misery his tens of thousands of closet Nazi fanboys brought to anybody he singled out for punishment online.
Still, there’ll be plenty of terror and misery to go around, if only for Studs Trumbull initially, because Toned Abs is back!
Like a Brylcreamed Huntsman spider you thought you’d drowned in bug spray suddenly coming at you from a dark corner, the Abdominator dashed out of the shadows ‘to unveil a sweeping conservative manifesto for the next federal election’. Like his last spell as PM it was all but satire-proof by reason of congenital hypercrazia. Sounding eerily as though he was riffing from Jonathan Coulton’s Skullcrusher Mountain—“If you could find some way to be/A little bit less afraid of me/You'd see the voices that control me from inside my head /Say I shouldn't kill you yet”—the PM-in-waiting-waiting-waiting indulged himself.
He wondered aloud why the government did not just promise to cut the Renewable Energy target—“While up above the waves my doomsday squad ignites the atmosphere”—and maybe hack down some immigrants while they’re at it to, er, make housing more affordable—“Even my henchmen think I’m crazy”.
He even stole Coulton’s Skullcrusher promise to make a “half-pony half-monkey monster to please you” by abolishing the Human Rights Commission and the Senate as we currently understand that term, unless it sat the fuck down, shut the fuck up and did the fuckdiddly-do-right as it was told.
“Politics can’t be just a contest of toxic egos or someone’s vanity project,” warned the stubborn wank stain that you just can’t get rid of.
No, not when there’s important business to be getting on with like burning the atmosphere and converting the lower orders into a high protein breakfast spread for Gina Reinhart. Thankfully for hungry billionaires everywhere, that process was made much easier this week when the hilariously named Fair Work Commission concluded that what poor people really need is less money. Cutting the overtime pay of a waiter or shop assistant by three and a half grand a year won’t seem like much to a billionaire who could lose that sort of small change in the butter-soft cushions of the puppy leather couch on their super yacht, but at least it will make it harder for those po’ folk to feed themselves, which makes them easier to catch come feeding time.