Mangled Thoughts

a last one before laying down the rubber on the bitumen. RWDBs devour classics right from the day they can utter`, Mummy!’ The apostrophe in the imperative mood conveying, `Hey, throw this frigging driverl out, Peter Pan, Dick and Dora and bloody Spot, ( and such like uglies, and get me a read, like MacBeth and Hemingway !’

Now, what do leftoid adults read and give as wedding presents, forget children? This sort of vomit:

Shel Silverstein’s famous fable, The Giving Tree.

The Giving Tree is about a lifelong friendship between a man and an apple tree. As a young boy and then as an adolescent, the man plays with the tree, but when he grows up and moves on in life, he abandons it and only drops by to visit intermittently in the ensuing decades. After each visit, and with his leafy friend?s consent, the man amputates a piece of the tree to help him earn an income, build a house, and construct a boat.

Each time, the tree is said to be happy to have had the opportunity to see its old friend and to give to him once again, just like old times. At the end of the book, the man is old, near death, decrepit, and the tree is a stump, with nothing left to give the man but a place to sit and rest.

Chris Westley expands on the juvenile predilections of leftoids:

That Insufferable “Giving Tree”
by Chris Westley
Given the idiotic assignation of human feelings to the tree in a story that depicts an odd man-tree friendship, it is hard to see the appeal of this book. Those drawn to it, it seems to me, tend to have a left-of-center orientation…

Leftoids, as demonstrated by Bracks, Pike, Kerry, speak at people in the dumbed down ergot of a Dick and Dora reader. The above shows, they are hardened crims.

Well, readers, that’s it until a Monday fortnight. I’ll pick up on the item on Socialism then. Then , I will also fix up the email on the email button , something I’ve neglected to do. In anycase, the estimable gentlemen Mr. Louis Hissink and Illibcc are here to goad you: and I enjoyed reading the Russian literature Louis, v. much. It’s too late to round with the RWDB bloggers, but gad, they’re good.

Until the Monday fortnight,
Raaaaaaaaaaahhhhh,
D.

Meant to do this earlier in the week, alert readers to a calamity.

Early this afternoon, one will pack the fly rod, the elephant express load rifle, the duck blaster, waders, scotch, cigars, as yet unread Spectators, a couple of volumes from my adviser, Bertie Wooster - taking Jeeve’s advice has always served well I assure you, into the charabanc and, with pedal to the metal, fleeing the site of the Kremlin, Melbourne, arrive at a hospitable destination for a fortnight’s worth of killing fauna, sitting out, in this fine spring weather, a garden socking away G. and T. and, generally, being as indolent as I can possibly be. Yah, “life” , as the hordes of delinquent youfs turned out of zoos each year would say, “ will suck for a couple of weeks”.

Yes, I feel like a snake in the grass, betraying our friends in the U.S. as their Civil War Day looms like headlights in a pea souper of a fog. One will not be able to bring to bear the heartening babble of Nostradamus. It is a calamity. Old Nostrils didn’t help Howard kick Lathamite butt and how, he masterminded the flight path of golden winged Victory. One will throw in a quickie, however, for Americans in this their hour of peril : Latham is bad, a national socialist who, if he’d won offce, would make Bracks seem like a modest bar-fly - yes, not bar support. A Kerry win, however, that would be like a mongrel dog which has drunk a bottle of meth and pukes over the lounge room rug, a very large rug. Mongrel dogs can be shot, perhaps Kerry should be, in view of his many crimes, but for some odd reason, that is not permitted - you can tell, Bracks and his fellow commie thugs still live.

So: Typhoon by Joseph Conrad.

The drift is: young man and his ship about to sail into a stiff southerly breeze, a ship beater of a breeze, a beeze to stir that odd cocktail of courage, thrall and a rumbling deep within of terror undiluted. If crew and ship were a martini, they come shaken not stirred.

Conrad wrote Typhoon for his son, who was soon to depart for the trenches of WWI, a father comforting his son about to endure a stiff breeze. And all he is saying to his son is, whatever he faces, it is whether he stands up to it, how he stands up to it, and how he will merge at the end of it all, counts. Kippling would have appreciated it, his son was killed in action along with most of his battalion on a rough day out in the breeze, and did the distressing job of writing a history of his son’s regt.

One afternoon, recorded in his secret diary, I managed to attach to my paws to and run off with it very fast - bluebottles are just too damned fit these days -gad was I puffed, the insides not only hurt, they heaved, felt sicker than a turps drinking dog, is the following:

Fed at the trough. Had only dropped into the club for a tipple and a smoke when M. walked in. Always enjoy his company so stayed. Asked about T. I’ve just begun. Said, it’s a good’un. What’s it about M asked. I s.: about young man facing danger head on. Anything else, M asked. I repd.: Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s also cocking a snook at a mummy’s boy, John Kerry, old Nostrils wrote about, you remember the Nostril’s m.s. I showed you, about the fairy and traitor who wants to be President of the United States which, according to old Nostrils will do much to scourge the earth of nasty thugs.

M.: I do my dear friend, vividly, that Kerry, if he were alive today why he’d only be a rent boy to queers.

I: That’s the one M.,yes. So the short and the long of it is, in T. I’ve concealed a bit of the warning in the book.

M.: How so?

I: The contrasts, one gallant sailor against a boy pretending to be a man. The one is out on a wild ocean, the other galumphs about in a dinghy in the enclosure of a Yacht club, Rhode Island I believe, pretending to be sailing a launch deep into enemy territory, in the course of which cruise eliminating half of ,according to Nostrils’ m..s.- the pertinent bit about Kerry’s fantasies, an Army called the N.V.A. , to penetrate an enemy H.Q. , swipe top secret plans and make it all the way back alive, and all the while commanding the U.S. army in a country called Vietnam.

Face it M., how can sane adults even contemplate putting a bed wetting story teller in charge of , what is to come, one of the finest armies in the world? Incomprehensible, I say.

M: If he were here today, ran for No.10, won by some bad stroke of luck, I’m pretty sure Parliament would just shoot him as soon as he entered chamber. Why, I was chatting with L. the other day, he was groaning about that bloody B. According to L., every man of them , right to the last obscure backbencher are agreed, he must go. SO, they’ve put in an order into Stangles and Rope for a portable gallows, finely decorated, which can be used in the new Parliament. B. might save himself some embarrassment right now and shoot himself. I mean to say, who wants to be noted in the history book for the unique disitnction of having been the only Prime Minister, indeed even just an m.p., to have been hung inside the House, I ask you, a chap would have to be stark raving mad or a moron, a stark raving mad moron.

I.: Quite so, M.

M.: Does N. predict this Kerryboy will win and be hung, drawn and quartered inside the Oval Office.

I: No, Nostrils declares, the U.S. voters will lynch him polling day.

M. Good enough for me Jo, good enough for me, can’t let twits like that command an army, they , the army, wouldn’t stand a chance, the bastard would knock them off before they even met any enemy they’re supposed to set about destroying. I tell you, the lads at the Regt. wouldn’t suffer that. Why, young Freddie was saying only the other day, if the P.M. makes J. Minister of Warfare, he will march his platoon straight away on Downing Street and `make sure the ugly doesn’t live long enough to issue a single jot of a single order’.

I sympathise, even checked with C.in C. , old Busby, if any man who can be trusted to do his duty unswervingly it’s old Busby, and I quote: `Should that eventuality arise, there is no legal obstacle, young Freddie might even be up for a D.S.O. , gad, rare thing, even could contemplate Sir Freddie, though would stop short of recommending a V.C., would be a smidgeon short of that.’

Luncheon out the way, we shoved off to our several parts.

There you have it , as dark as things seem, Nostradamus is definite on it, Kerry will be booted black and blue from one end of the U.S. to the other. So black and blue, Kerry might fly to Alaska and sit on some pack ice, just to ease the pain a bit. Yah, alright, so he’ll get a bit of frost bite and hypothermia and probably not return, being lost in a wilderness and all that, but he’s a moose after all, he’s told us so about his moose sniffing days, and moose enjoy, thrilled by it, living in freezing cold climes, lost in some god forsaken nightmare of a forest stuck in between some unscaleable mountain range in the middle of nowhere many have not heard off and can’t locate on a map, I’m sure I can’t, and I wouldn’t care to check a map should Kerry take a side trip to cool a scorched backside. Flip, one is not inclined to leave the warm fireside to rescue a moose lost where it belongs anyway, and just damned silly, you don’t treat wild animals used to living in frozen wastelands as house pets, consider the carpet for one thing . No problems if it ran rampant through the house of course, just lift a rifle off the rack and shoot it before it does too much damage but, it is best the moose be left to roam in the wild. Perhaps he’d meet up with Bob Brown and, come the rutting season, they mate and produce something hideous, Kerry would be a lucky, happy man, no one sane would be, but John and Bob, why , they’d just be two peas in a very large and frozen pod, with hideaous little spastics cavorting around their fetlocks - can’t get better than that eh. Someone whisper to Bob , “quick Bob, grab an airline seat for Alaska, Kerry has eyes for you and feeling a little randy”, and Bob would be off like a shot.

And all in that book, Typhoon, which many have mistakenly believed was only a tale about courage, character, and nerve before a stiff southerly breeze.

Meant to do this earlier in the week, alert readers to a calamity.

Early this afternoon, one will pack the fly rod, the elephant express load rifle, the duck blaster, waders, scotch, cigars, as yet unread Spectators, a couple of volumes from my adviser, Bertie Wooster - taking Jeeve’s advice has always served well I assure you, into the charabanc and, with pedal to the metal, fleeing the site of the Kremlin, Melbourne, arrive at a hospitable destination for a fortnight’s worth of killing fauna, sitting out, in this fine spring weather, a garden socking away G. and T. and, generally, being as indolent as I can possibly be. Yah, “life” , as the hordes of delinquent youfs turned out of zoos each year would say, “ will suck for a couple of weeks”.

Yes, I feel like a snake in the grass, betraying our friends in the U.S. as their Civil War Day looms like headlights in a pea souper of a fog. One will not be able to bring to bear the heartening babble of Nostradamus. It is a calamity. Old Nostrils didn’t help Howard kick Lathamite butt and how, he masterminded the flight path of golden winged Victory. One will throw in a quickie, however, for Americans in this their hour of peril : Latham is bad, a national socialist who, if he’d won offce, would make Bracks seem like a modest bar-fly - yes, not bar support. A Kerry win, however, that would be like a mongrel dog which has drunk a bottle of meth and pukes over the lounge room rug, a very large rug. Mongrel dogs can be shot, perhaps Kerry should be, in view of his many crimes, but for some odd reason, that is not permitted - you can tell, Bracks and his fellow commie thugs still live.

So: Typhoon by Joseph Conrad.

The drift is: young man and his ship about to sail into a stiff southerly breeze, a ship beater of a breeze, a beeze to stir that odd cocktail of courage, thrall and a rumbling deep within of terror undiluted. If crew and ship were a martini, they come shaken not stirred.

Conrad wrote Typhoon for his son, who was soon to depart for the trenches of WWI, a father comforting his son about to endure a stiff breeze. And all he is saying to his son is, whatever he faces, it is whether he stands up to it, how he stands up to it, and how he will merge at the end of it all, counts. Kippling would have appreciated it, his son was killed in action along with most of his battalion on a rough day out in the breeze, and did the distressing job of writing a history of his son’s regt.

One afternoon, recorded in his secret diary, I managed to attach to my paws to and run off with it very fast - bluebottles are just too damned fit these days -gad was I puffed, the insides not only hurt, they heaved, felt sicker than a turps drinking dog, is the following:

Fed at the trough. Had only dropped into the club for a tipple and a smoke when M. walked in. Always enjoy his company so stayed. Asked about T. I’ve just begun. Said, it’s a good’un. What’s it about M asked. I s.: about young man facing danger head on. Anything else, M asked. I repd.: Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s also cocking a snook at a mummy’s boy, John Kerry, old Nostrils wrote about, you remember the Nostril’s m.s. I showed you, about the fairy and traitor who wants to be President of the United States which, according to old Nostrils will do much to scourge the earth of nasty thugs.

M.: I do my dear friend, vividly, that Kerry, if he were alive today why he’d only be a rent boy to queers.

I: That’s the one M.,yes. So the short and the long of it is, in T. I’ve concealed a bit of the warning in the book.

M.: How so?

I: The contrasts, one gallant sailor against a boy pretending to be a man. The one is out on a wild ocean, the other galumphs about in a dinghy in the enclosure of a Yacht club, Rhode Island I believe, pretending to be sailing a launch deep into enemy territory, in the course of which cruise eliminating half of ,according to Nostrils’ m..s.- the pertinent bit about Kerry’s fantasies, an Army called the N.V.A. , to penetrate an enemy H.Q. , swipe top secret plans and make it all the way back alive, and all the while commanding the U.S. army in a country called Vietnam.

Face it M., how can sane adults even contemplate putting a bed wetting story teller in charge of , what is to come, one of the finest armies in the world? Incomprehensible, I say.

M: If he were here today, ran for No.10, won by some bad stroke of luck, I’m pretty sure Parliament would just shoot him as soon as he entered chamber. Why, I was chatting with L. the other day, he was groaning about that bloody B. According to L., every man of them , right to the last obscure backbencher are agreed, he must go. SO, they’ve put in an order into Stangles and Rope for a portable gallows, finely decorated, which can be used in the new Parliament. B. might save himself some embarrassment right now and shoot himself. I mean to say, who wants to be noted in the history book for the unique disitnction of having been the only Prime Minister, indeed even just an m.p., to have been hung inside the House, I ask you, a chap would have to be stark raving mad or a moron, a stark raving mad moron.

I.: Quite so, M.

M.: Does N. predict this Kerryboy will win and be hung, drawn and quartered inside the Oval Office.

I: No, Nostrils declares, the U.S. voters will lynch him polling day.

M. Good enough for me Jo, good enough for me, can’t let twits like that command an army, they , the army, wouldn’t stand a chance, the bastard would knock them off before they even met any enemy they’re supposed to set about destroying. I tell you, the lads at the Regt. wouldn’t suffer that. Why, young Freddie was saying only the other day, if the P.M. makes J. Minister of Warfare, he will march his platoon straight away on Downing Street and `make sure the ugly doesn’t live long enough to issue a single jot of a single order’.

I sympathise, even checked with C.in C. , old Busby, if any man who can be trusted to do his duty unswervingly it’s old Busby, and I quote: `Should that eventuality arise, there is no legal obstacle, young Freddie might even be up for a D.S.O. , gad, rare thing, even could contemplate Sir Freddie, though would stop short of recommending a V.C., would be a smidgeon short of that.’

Luncheon out the way, we shoved off to our several parts.

There you have it , as dark as things seem, Nostradamus is definite on it, Kerry will be booted black and blue from one end of the U.S. to the other. So black and blue, Kerry might fly to Alaska and sit on some pack ice, just to ease the pain a bit. Yah, alright, so he’ll get a bit of frost bite and hypothermia and probably not return, being lost in a wilderness and all that, but he’s a moose after all, he’s told us so about his moose sniffing days, and moose enjoy, thrilled by it, living in freezing cold climes, lost in some god forsaken nightmare of a forest stuck in between some unscaleable mountain range in the middle of nowhere many have not heard off and can’t locate on a map, I’m sure I can’t, and I wouldn’t care to check a map should Kerry take a side trip to cool a scorched backside. Flip, one is not inclined to leave the warm fireside to rescue a moose lost where it belongs anyway, and just damned silly, you don’t treat wild animals used to living in frozen wastelands as house pets, consider the carpet for one thing . No problems if it ran rampant through the house of course, just lift a rifle off the rack and shoot it before it does too much damage but, it is best the moose be left to roam in the wild. Perhaps he’d meet up with Bob Brown and, come the rutting season, they mate and produce something hideous, Kerry would be a lucky, happy man, no one sane would be, but John and Bob, why , they’d just be two peas in a very large and frozen pod, with hideaous little spastics cavorting around their fetlocks - can’t get better than that eh. Someone whisper to Bob , “quick Bob, grab an airline seat for Alaska, Kerry has eyes for you and feeling a little randy”, and Bob would be off like a shot.

And all in that book, Typhoon, which many have mistakenly believed was only a tale about courage, character, and nerve before a stiff southerly breeze.

How Paul, Daily Diatribe, managed to escape the Soviet Republic of Victoria, has to be kept secret, no good spilling the beans of a good escape plan:

Yes, I?m back from the barbarian steppes down south, the People?s Soviet Socialist State of Brackstograd, and almost unscathed.

Yobbo and Daily Slander regale with reports on more totalitarian luncy, by the West. Australian Govt. this time - cold comfort for those wintering in the S.S.R. of Victoria, that West Ozzies are also discovering the charms of life inside a statewide gulag. N.S. Welshmen , for some perverse reason, seem content being incarcerated by Commissar Carr: yah, there are exceptions, even in Oz.

Life would be much simpler if members of the sundry parliaments, including local councils, were not so much bar flies as bar supports. Totally sozzled to the eyeballs, they lie crumpled in little heaps , reaching out a hand to clutch another of the doings, and saving the proprietor a fortune by not having to install supports for bars and insert tables and chairs legs, breaking their drinking only for the obligatory head count whenever the Speaker decides, for appearances sake , `to ring the bells?. Not boozing , not smoking at least twenty fine cigars a day, and noting guzzling a bed-time nip of a couple of bottles of fine champagne each night shows: irritable, insufferable due to the wowsers’ teatotal misery trip, they only succeed at being interfering morons, and there are no greater interfering morons napping on a treasury bench in Oz than the Spring St. commie spivs.

It is a fight now, in Vicotria, against what the Bracks commie spivs are doing: establishing an ugly police state complete with the co-opting of citizens as informers. It might be that it has taken the blasphemy `laws’ and Feral HEROC and its presiding chief thug, Sisel, to illuminate things more brightly than the sun does on a cloudless spring day. For the blasphemy court is only one of a myriad of police state measures the Bracks led ALP Govt. has rammed through Parliament, and they, as related last week, are planning to ram more through it.

The ALP, until they won control of the Upper House in the 2003 election, complained, the Coalition, in control, were obstructionists. Keating complained bitterly of the same. Not true and, hypocritically, in the Federal Senate, it is the ALP who showed out obstructionists - and that wheeze is over with the Coalition holding a majority of Senate seats. it might be noted, the Greens lost heavily, not picking up seats for a heady 11 seat rump, and the Greens are on the way out. Said it before, say it again, the Greens Hour of Power has been contingent totally upon the major parties willing to suck them. Bob Brown is now in the wilderness, like Mary’s little piece of Sunday luncheon, he and his felloow pol potians are dead lambikins.

Up until 2003, Bracks and his bunch of totalitarian thugs, including the commie thug the Reverendess Bronwyn Pike, ( Pike by name, Piker by character) had complained of Coalition obstructionism. The ALP whined, the Coaltion were obstructionists to the Cain - Kirner govts. and their commie, lying, treasuer and advisers and pack of useful back benched idiots. Not so at all. The Coaltion didn’t stop their disastrous budgets, and their tax and spend into economic depression habits. What the Coalition did do was not obstruct but stoppolice state bills in the Upper House. Now they have control of the upper House, the Bracks Govt. has been very busy ramming their long list of police state measuresd, and, if they are allowed to remain in office to 2006 by a Governor General, have many, many more such measures ready to ram through Parliament.

It is amusing, some,not all, totalitarians have been wowsers. The Bracks govt. is stuffed with wowsers. They should be required to not soak up the booze but follow a strict regimen of imbibing a generous amount of heroin each day.It wouldn’t make much difference IQ wise, they are moronic juvenile delinquents anyway. Whatever the price of premium grade heroin is, it would be a small impost on long suffering real taxpayers, and a rewarding one; the commie spivs would soon be lying in the gutters which is where they have come from and where they belong.

There’s a cause right up the dark alleys of greenies, they can `protect the native wildlife’ of the ALP by releasing them back into the gutters. Apart from that, a new `law’ should be enacted to this effect: mandatory qualification for any budding m.p.: they must be bar supports. If electors return a wowser, they are sent back to the polling booths, and if they insist on returning wowsers, they are struck off the electors’ rolls, having shown themselves boosters of totalitarians. I recommend this Bill of amendment to Candidates’ Qualifications to all Parliaments of Oz and to every Ozzie who cherishes his liberty, though little is left of it .

I won’t go into that , too horrid to contemplate, but something to do with U-bends.

Court backs mum’s right to stay
By Allecia Vermillion in Brussels
20oct04

THE European Union’s high court has ruled that a Chinese mother and her Northern Ireland-born daughter have the right to live in Britain, where the woman fled to escape China’s one-child restrictions.

Ms Chen told the court she purposefully selected Northern Ireland because it would be easy for her baby to get an EU passport.

Citing European Union rules allowing EU citizens to move among other member nations, Ms Chen then moved her daughter to Britain and claimed right of residence. Mother and daughter live in Cardiff, Wales, and do not rely on financial assistance from the British Government.

Ms Chen left China to escape the country’s “one-child policy”, which imposes fines and restrictions on parents who have more than one child without government permission.

Yes, the Chinese communist govt’s. decree is cruel. And whether the Govt. of Britain might offer the woman residence on compassionate grounds is another consideration. The trouble is, the E.U. is over-riding the British Parliament and courts. It has opened up a can of worms, should the Govt. continue to suborn the jurisdiction of Parliament and Courts to Europe Stasiland rule, that detail: Ms Chen told the court she purposefully selected Northern Ireland because… The force of that is self - evident. I’d say, Britain, as if an army of Islamo-fascists isn’t trouble enough, has its immigration trouble compounded if the Govt. continues to lick the Euro arse.

She also claims she will engage in `resistance’ in Britain. Yah, against what, pray tell, `oppressive Britain’., for she’ll hardly disturb the Peking Geriatric Club.

Currency Lad has furnished another reason, adding to the incomprehensibly large number of reasons, why picking up a rocket and blowing up the U.N. hovel, with the criminal inmates inside, cannot be a criminal offence and why it is a bloody good idea.

UN Compensates Mass Murderer
In an indictment following the Rwandan genocide, United Nations worker Callixte Mbarushimana was accused of taking part in the killing of 32 people, including colleagues. A UN panel has now awarded him 13 months’ back pay on grounds of unfair dismissal.

N.B. Can’t omit Fat Aunty Bolshevik Collective either, as Uncle over at ABC Watch relates how the bolsheviks manouvre to dissemble their love of Islamo-fascists and purvey it as civilised progress;

Thanks to John Martinkus, kidnaped in Baghdad while freelancing for SBS television, Auntie has a new word for terrorists in Iraq. They are now “nationalists” or “nationalist insurgents”. The expressions were used both on ABC news and Radio National Breakfast today, so we can assume ABC policy stands behind them.

And reminds, Pompousass Compass, swings in behind excoriation of christian, except for commies and terrorists pretending to be christians.