Alien Side Boob

John Birmingham

Schaden-boner.

Fri 27th Jan 2017

 

My vanilla tastes in erotica and self-pleasure would normally preclude a session of high intensity arm-cardio while contemplating the Reverend Fred Nile caught with his pants down, but I’m always open to new experiences. Especially after learning this week that the fossilised homophobe was denied entry to the United States for the coronation of Emperor von Clownwstick because he was, in the opinion of American security and intelligence officials, “a threat to international security”.

Hard not to bust out a schaden-boner at the mental image of Nile shuddering in his walking frame with the deep body tremors of a frustrated proximity orgasm because he was this close to watching the maximum comb-over ascend to supreme executive power… only to be denied by the immigration doorbitch at the last moment.

The good reverend, of course, was not the only victim of the New American Confuselement. The vicious old clams who run China are struggling to work out the new rules of the Great Game against a mysterious blobfish that refuses to concede there even are any rules. The luckless nation of Mexico has woken up to find a gang of neo-Nazi chucklefucks have moved   in next door and the new neighbours have set up an all-night methlab run by failed goat rodeo-clowns and rabid buttmonkeys. What’s more, the Chimpenfuhrer himself is banging at the window demanding Mexico pay for all the razor wire and piranha moats the meth lab needs to protect itself from pushy taco vendors.

As always, however, the biggest loser was Malcolm Turnbull. Having insisted from the moment of Trump’s election that all of the Chimpenfuhrer’s threats to shitcan the TPP trade deal were merely non-core threats, the Prime Minister was left holding the sad, chewed-up stub of a first-class ticket on the fail train when Trump did exactly what he had said he would do as one of his first acts of office.

Turnbull is nothing, however, if not the reigning champion of denying he’s been fucked. Demonstrating that it really, truly, honestly was him doing all the fucking here, he launched into a frantic session of microwaved bagel sex. First he insisted the TPP didn’t need America because it had Japan and could bring in China. Then, when Japan said not just no, but fuck no, and China simply stared in horror at the absurd gweilo’s soggy bagel, he blamed Bill Shorten for everything.

It will probably be Shorten’s fault when Trump delivers on his promise to ban refugees from everywhere but Monaco, and the deal we cut in the dying hours of the Obama Administration to dump the survivors of our Pacific gulags at a truck stop outside of Beaver Lick, Kentucky dies screaming.

Oh, wait.

It’s already dead. I thought that sound was the bagel screaming. Or maybe the cries of more innocent Centrelink victims being fed into the shredders by Christian Porter and Alan Tudge.

You gotta assume they’re doing most of the heavy lifting themselves now that Centrelink staff have signed up with the Rebellion and begun telling the truth about about the government’s giant email scam. This burning fartnado gets worse every week, and yet Turnbull’s only response is to grab another bagel and gently warm it until it’s juuuuust right.

The latest serving of piping hot clusterfuckturducken includes revelations that Centrelink compliance officers have been ordered not to correct known errors which result in bullshit debt notices, and that only a handful of the debt notices out of the hundreds that were actually reviewed turned out to be legit.

This is a genuine fucking scandal.

And yet, for some reason, our soft-handed plutocrat is allowed to go on dreamily sticking his yoghurt cannon into random baked goods as though everything was normal.

Allow me to assure you, this is not normal.

Governments should not feel free to brazenly fuck people up like this, and yet increasingly they do. I think the calculation at play is the same as it’s ever been. The policy is irrelevant. Be it an American border wall, an Australian concentration camp or a welfare pogrom, the policy outcome is irrelevant. What matters is mobilising an increasingly atomised polity by appeals to myth.

And by myth, I don’t mean pure, organic unicorn shit. Political myths are most powerful when they sink their roots into the real world. That’s why, when signing the Executive Orders that will begin closing the borders of the US, Trump surrounded himself with the family members of people who’d been killed by undocumented or illegal immigrants. As a policy measure, the Wall is a fantasy. But as a fantasy, it’s potent. It tells a simple, childlike tale about who are enemies, who are friends and what must be done to protect what’s most precious.

In the coarser language of realpolitik, it cuts to the question at the heart of all struggles for power: who does the fucking and who gets fucked? It distracts us from the truth, that, with only a few, privileged exceptions, we are all the bagel now.