What Did My Lover Say

21 Jun

For a while now I’ve had this silly idea of hosting an inflammatory radio chat show, purely for some kind of balance. Talk radio attracts a very particular type of loon, and there’s still some untapped potential to give morons valuable air time. There’s also the fact that conservatives, much like geography teachers, people who wear yellow ties with navy shirts and your mum, have this genetic inability to tell jokes. Observe:

Somebody noticed that an upside-down 7 looks a lot like an L, and that takes a certain amount of intelligence, but for a comedic ad it’s got all the wit of a slowly deflating whoopie cushion. Rudd’s head is a bit funny looking sure, but Abbott’s got a head like a Gargamel novelty teapot that’s come to life, mastered speech from Blankety Blanks reruns and then shoved itself onto the body of a middle-aged P.E teacher.

The important question is- would Abbott get us any closer to the apocalypse? Sure, he’d be tougher on refugees, do next-to-nothing on climate change, slash budgets for scientific research and the arts, forbid gay marriage and take candy from babies but those things are inevitable. The sooner people stop believing that our political system has a place for even the slightest hint of benevolence the better.

Tonight’s Q&A was mostly a Liberal Vs. Labor shitfight as it usually is, with a bonus Greens Senator to do cutesy quasi-sardonic putdown and generally be embarrassing. Turnbull (available in your playbook as ‘The Magnificent Bastard’) described the Greens’ consistent failure to do much of anything as a direct result of their absolutism, their inability to compromise. A fair point perhaps, politics is all about deals, but where does it end?

You want to get something done, so you agree to a concession that’s far less than what you wanted, but it’s something. You can always come back to it, improve the legislation, make it more like what you originally wanted. So another bill comes along, you conceded last time they say, we want you to do it again. So you do, because you’re getting things done. Then soon they keep coming, and you wake up one day to discover that you’re Peter Garrett and your life is a joke.

The aforementioned radio loons always, always, know better. If I were running things, life would be easier.I would get it right. The unquestioned rule of a mad dictator has it appeal, but if you could rig everything to be manageable, if the world wasn’t so fucking big, could I actually do any better?

I have this problem where I try to write 30 minutes of material about hiking through the forest looking for weed and making dick jokes and it ends up an exploration of constitutional authority. I’m sorry about this, but it just sort of happens.

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