Mangled Thoughts

How prescient of T.S Eliot to sum up the Right and their pals in Australia, and he wrote it in 1934!

Preserve me from the enemy who has something to gain:
and from the friend who has something to lose.

Remembering the words of Nehemiah the Prophet:
‘The trowel in hand, and the gun rather loose in the holster’.

Those who sit in a house of which the use is forgotten: are
like snakes that lie on mouldering stairs, content in the sunlight.

And the others run about like dogs, full of enterprise, sniffing and
barking: they say, ‘This house is a nest of serpents, let us destroy it,

And have done with these abominations, the turpitudes of the
Christians.’ And these are not justified, not the others.

And they write innumerable books; being too vain and
distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and
dodging his emptiness.

If humility and purity be not in the heart, they are not in the
home: and if they are not in the home, they are not in the city.

The man who has builded during the day would return to his hearth at nightfall: to be blessed with the gift of silence and doze before he sleeps.

But we are encompassed with snakes and dogs: therefore
some must labour, and others must hold the spears.

Extracts from Choruses From The Rock, Pt.V.

How apt. What a bard.

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.

Here is the original story by F.Scott Fitzgerald. Readers can readily agree why he never published it: as a story it peters out . So, Fitzy wrote The Great Gatsby, and buried the other in a cellar. I managed to get my mits on it. Spodsman is John Kerry. Here goes:

It is the `blistering 2000s’, as the penman Hudboy Spodsman coined it. Critics appropriated the phrase, to celebrate as well as describe Spodsman’s life, times and ouvre, the darling of the leftoid intellectualistic establishment.

Spodsman died in November 2004. I remember that day well. My friend, Hudsy, was driving his Grumbler sportscar at a blistering pace, escaping the Washington riots, to his hide away ranch in downtown Colorado.He crashed. At 30 k.p.h, he hit a wall of homosexuals, `Save the Dickie Bird Brigade’, the `We Will Love One Another Movement’, and the `I’m collectivized front’ led by a Bishop who happened to be a member of all those consciousness raising fronts.

Groupies who had just torn down the U.N. building with the assistance of mortars, shoulder mounted rocket launchers and concrete-buster explosive packs. Their handi-work complete, they had regrouped and were marching onto Capitol Hill to do on a grander scale what they had done to a building which, none the less, deserved it.

The grumbler, the groupies, oh the carnage. It was as if a can of tomato soup with baked beans had been leaked all over the road in one great jumbled potage, the lid ripped off with a blunt instrument. They became his funeral pier. The petrol tank exploded, skunk fuel spewed out in streams of fire, immolating Hudsy and the gang. How ironic, how touching, how fitting they should have died together in one great shreiking heap, they were his fans .

In retropsect, it was a sad day. Sales of his 35 works fell from 1,295 and 1/18 a year to a lousy 2 and 1/97. This was no way to treat the true heir to Derrida and Focault. At that rate, the publishers stopped the titles, they were lost forever. It was a great tragedy for me, Hudsy and his books had helped me become the Senator I am today, fat, happy and rich.

All that remained to the great Spodsman was a phrase, the blistering 2000’s.

Well, readers, you can tell , as I say, why Scotty gave that one the flick and buried it, or so he believed he had, forever, and wrote the Great Gatsby instead.

Ya, Fitzboy had studied Nostradamus too, burnt the midnight candle deciphering and de-fogging Nostrodamus’s smack inspired pearlers.

With the Oz elections out the way, what a relief -another week of it and I would have hit the bottles -yah, not one bottle.

It is time, however, to come to the rescue of our friends across a coulple of paddocks, the Americans.

When Conrad sat down to write Heart of Darkness, he set out out to kill two birds witha single stone, the mongrel Belgains and what a complete savage mess they’d made of the Congo and, John Kerry and the Democrats. I am staggered, absolutely, by what the researches have thrown up.Nostradamus is the mustard and the barbecue sausage resting on the buttered roll - yes, Trinity, Cambridge, please make your offer of a Cahir at the doings a dual professorship, I’ll accept with alacrity - ready to expound next week, can hop aboard a jumbo tonight and be there soon after plane has landed - the studied crash, if you like.

Kurtz, gone native, rather savage, trying to cover up his descent into animal ways by pretending to have been sent beyond the boundaries of the New have Yacht Club into deepest jungle imgaind only in fairystories. There, he met something even the C.I.A doesn’t have a frigging clue about.There is, curiously, yet a bit of the Kerry inflected into young Marlowe who, otherwise, made the biggest career mistake he made in his entire life.

For someone who had aimed at commanding a fleet of the finest men’o'war from a 200 gun Falgship, sticking the hand up to take over the captaining of a flat bottomed leaky paddled wheeled steamer, and poop poop up some muddy boghole in Delaware is the wrong way to go about things. Thus did young Marlowe throw away his chance forever of hunting down the running Frog Fleet and blowing it sky high and take a few holds worth of loot. Besides which, slumming it on said wooden flat bottomed crate is a nasty way of going about getting a bit of rum and bum - but that’s one bit of Kerry inside the character of young Marlowe.

So, what does young Marlowe find at the end of his sojourn on a leaky seive? Bugger all really, except for one scrofulous, farting, inchoate, bone-idle, bloated, dry-docked old codger, Kurtz/Kerry. No wonder the script throws in, `The Horror, the Horror,’ the fag has to dissemble he has met something deep, something profound at the end of a horrible ordeal of leaving the gentle confines of the New Haven Yacht Club is grim stuff.

So, of course young Marlowe has to do in the old sack of bones: bringing Kurtz back out alive would expose the fiction boil on the foot ias some kind of genuis, hero and alround average moose shooting joe blow.Thus, young Marlowe mutters, yes of course, Kerry was clubbable to the young woman in white and, yes of course, bang goes the nuptials on the altar of human sacrifice but soliliquises, `That was close, if the old fart could move, it would be all over for America’. Marlowe then rushed off to make sure Kurtz is well buried and yes he is.

Thus Nostrodamus’ report on U.S. politics and elections was carefully worked into, to use the draft title of the book,
Karzan, Jungleman.