You’ve had long enough to work it out sportsfans.
Almost a year in fact.
12 months that seem like an eternity, a 366 day revolution of the Earth around the big hot rock that that’s felt like slow-drip water torture as day after day, week after week, month after month our once-common senses been deviously denuded and distorted by the rectal rubbish delivered from the right-hands of a rabble of Rupert-driven redundancy refugees who once were written word warriors, but now simply seek asylum up any antediluvian’s 18C-sized American arsehole’s anus.
The once-proud tellers of the truth in a thousand crisp words have had their ambition punched out of them by the endless round of cost-cuts and job losses in Luke turned to Vader dark Murdoch millenium falcon, and writers who once held ethics as more vital than gruel are now prepared to lie like f*ck and the lie some more, to sell their journalistic soul as the price of admission to the intellectual void into which pea-hearted PC-keyboard bashers bolt when the boss is cutting jobs for the 1783rd time and they can’t sleep at night without being haunted by nightmares about standing in a dole queue watching while the bank foreclose on the kitsch salmon-walled 8- bedroom beach shack in Noosa.
“But I don’t want to sell out sweetheart”
“Be sensible darling – what would the neighbors think if Neville from the Nab suddenly rocked up with his big truck and put the beach shack on the back and drove away? They’d think we’d been brainwashed by loony-left-wing eastern-block Commie head cases or something wouldn’t they dear?”
“No my one time Walkley-winning high-wage to which we’ve become accustomed earner, forget any thought of retaining your principles at the expense of relinquishing the beach house. It’s simply not happening, so read my lips dear Doubting – you ARE joining Mr Murdoch’s neo-neanderthal faux-pro free speech crusade to reinstall the Rabbit to his rightful place as leader of the Liberal Party; and you ARE going to lead ill-informed gullible Oz online subscribers the new world order where color don’t matter unless it ain’t white, and free speech is all the go as long as your lubra lips don’t move, and that’s that and I don’t want to hear another word of doubt or dissent from you. So pick up the obfuscator and start bullsh*tting right this minute or it’ll be Christmas at Coochiemudlo with those horrid Butterfly’s in 2016 for us”.
Of course as soon as the blushing bride barked the order to jump Doubting saluted and screamed ‘How High Struth?’ and thus we’ve been forced to cop damn near 52 weeks of the bastard dribbling in our ears about the divine splendor of free speech, and hear him telling us in tones of mock outrage the tragic tale of a 20-something-year-old Ralph-Lauren loving professional student who, after copping an 18C taser to the head after freely expressing his firmly held ignorant racist’s views holding that the height of racial discrimination is him being prevented to use a computer in a safe-space set aside for indigenous Australians, has been forced to give up his planned career as a $70 000 a year salaried teacher in Inala and become a millionaire in a single year of six-minute billable blocks lawyer instead.
It’s breaking my heart this sad tale of repressed-speech woe composed and conducted by Doubting from the steam-soaked heat of the National Affairs desk, located adjacent to the sun room and sauna. and just to the right of the Olympic-size indoor swimming pool in his splendid Brookfield manor.But bugger me dead if Doublethink’s alive, things sure took a turn for the worse when some wanker whacked a complaint in against WakiLeaks a while ago, and for what? Simply because Rampaging Rupert’s racist court jester drew a cartoon that caricatured all dumb coon dads as barefoot black drunks?
Well they are stupid spumante sodden savages aren’t they Sportfans?
All poor WakiLeaks is doing is simply calling a goddamn spade a hand-drawn sambo, and telling it like it is about these smelly solvent-sniffing, child-abusing three-seconds out of the jungle aborigines. For the love of Matty Flinders, what the hell has WakiLeaks done other than to sketch these walkabout-loving long-grass lovers as the absolutely and utterly incorrigible savages they are and have been ever since the day that Cooky sailed up to Kurnell and ordered his young joy-boy to stick a flag in the sand and pronounce that the whole continent had been sold?
Nothing, that’s what, other than to try and help the hapless train commuters hiding behind his column understand that the entire abolish 18C campaign is simply designed to make sure that hard-working, minimum wage slave earning Aussie commuters are free to say whatever comes into their racist heads 24 hours a day, seven days a week without the requirement to pay oppressive union-boss imposed penalty rates that serve no purpose other than to put shackles around business productivity and profits, and eat like Bogong Moths into poor old benevolent Uncle Rupert’s bottom line.
We need free speech fellow Australians, as desperately as a two-up spinner needs coins and a kip. Think about the anthem for goodness sake – how will we ever be young and free while a big-stick wielding bolshie left-winger like Gillian Triggs from the Eastern Suburbs billion-dollar seven-bedrooms and a guest bungalow belt continues to hold the power to conciliate racial abuse complaints? How will we ever be able to say just what we are thinking and call a Jew a bloody Kike or a Damascan a low-life Leb?
Who the hell does this Triggs imagine she is anyway? Seriously, if some dingo-keeping clan-bear of a chocolate-brown chromer gets upset or offended just because WakiLeaks asks them to smile so that decent white folk can see them in the dark, well that’s simply the nomadic no-good nigger’s problem, not that of the fine and upstanding pale Australian tax-paying punter whose hard work these lazy black wastrels rely on for their board and lodging under the desert stars.
Ungrateful darkies are what this group of career criminals and professional pan-handling vagrants are, and the sooner right-minded people can speak freely and just say it and the other awful things that they have in their minds about the lesser races the better off we’ll all be, mark my words.
Of course some nulla nulla chuckers won’t appreciate hearing the cold hard truth about their debauched existence, but those monkeys can just go jump on the nearest emu and ride it back to where they came from. This island is bigger than any ungrateful indentured slave laborer, far far bigger, and if these horrid natives can’t assimilate into our way of life and culture in a satisfactory period of time then there is no place among the droughts and flooding plains for the likes of them, and the New Zealand isles full of people just like they is only a short-haul plane journey away.
The need for this drastic form of action merely illustrates that this great nation of Terra Everything for Europeans and Nil Nada Nullus for Niggers is facing its greatest challenge since Jimmy Cook from Yorkshire County dropped his last spliff in the cold waters of Botany Bay just offshore from the Caltex Refinery just as the DT’s were hitting. Poor Cooky, he was last spotted shivering and as cold as Calgary at Christmas time as he stood on the deck of the soon to exit stage left Endeavor sans ganja and craving a hit from the bong more than a dentist craves cavities.
Make no mistake about it Australia, our right to free speech is under the greatest attack by do-gooder’s seen since the Don faced Larwood bowling bodyline back in the thrifty 30’s, and if we don’t shove Section 18C back into the Bora Ring post haste, and smartly bulldoze the wicked set of words back into the black hole of the Dreamtime, well we might as well just gather up our troubles, chuck them in the old kit bag and start heading back along the old-fashioned winding track in the direction of Gundagai, braving the road upon which we once traveled into the interior looking for an inland sea all those generations ago, back when the blacks were simply bad rather than totally bloody ratsh*t like they are today.
Make no mistake pick-six Cup punters, this is a life and death struggle for freedom, a fight to the death against the free-speech deniers that should we lose will see civilisation come crashing down around us and consign our home-bred culture to the soot-soaked coal bins of history.
Nah sportfans, I was just pulling your leg: the above long-winded assertion is dead wrong, absolutely bloody incorrect in fact.
Dead-set baggy green lovers, if you believe that Rupert’s sent his finest biro-chuckers into non-stop battle for nigh on a year with nothing more than an altruistic aim to harness the hot air expelled by free-speaking white supremacists so it can be used to fill a hot air balloon bearing a Wakileak image of a barefoot gin which we’ll fill with indigenous folk who we’ll float up and out of the social and economic misery-filled prison that our forebears erected around them, then then you’re as mad as Doubting is for convincing himself that Rupert’s revenge-inspired onslaught against our sole laws protecting Australians from racial abuse is in fact the righteous path to the kingdom of freedom and heaven, which are of course one and the same.
Of course if you fall for Doubting and the gang’s con job it also means that you’re deluded, almost certainly dopamine deprived, and a fair dinkum raving bloody idiot. You also probably live next door to Melissa ‘She’s a Mystery Girl’ Dinnison, and boarded together with the alleged Wakileaks cartoon complainant at the Upper Muckadilla Siding Finishing School For Free Speech Hating Young Ladies.
She sure is an enigma the Divine Ms Dinnison, for although we know her name, no bugger knows who exactly the bird is, and not even that desperate and dour chaser Doubting can track her down. The cynic in me suspects that may be because there seems to be no proof of identification process required to lodge a complaint with the Human Rights Commission, which means that any humorist could make up a name and lodge a claim under it using dodged up contact details.
I have not a second’s hesitation in suggesting that Doubting’s spotted this gaping hole in the proof of being a real person steps required of a complainant, and while I very much doubt that he himself would lodge a controversial claim under a dodgy name just to highlight the inherent flaws of the whole process, I would be as equally unsurprised were I to learn that he knew someone who might and/or did, because the real Mystery Girl sure is hard to find in this sparsely populated land of plenty.
Fair dinkum compainant or phantom though, the truth is that this whole News Corp manufactured crisis borne from Murdoch’s feverish imagination isn’t about the 40 year old law at all sportfans.
Yes Ripley, believe it or not Section 18C is actually 4 decades old, and no-one has ever had a problem with it before the boorish Andrew Bolt made the ill-considered decision to tell the descendants of indigenous Australians in no uncertain terms that they were white bullsh*t-artists who had no right at all to acknowledge their ancestors blood flowing through their veins – not if they want a Pass Card anyway – and the fool subsequently got smashed by the law for being such a stupid racist c*ckhead, along the way copping a six-figure fine for Rupert to pay for his trouble.
In my usual inimitable manner I’ll put it to you in plain English punters – this whole 18C thing is just like Fine Cotton all over again – its a ring-in, a snow-job, a sly-fingered shyster’s coconut shell swindle, a dishonest and dastardly deceit, and an Afghan Camel Driver’s Cockrag of a campaign designed for two reasons and two reasons only, neither of them having even the slightest thing to do with to Section 18C of the Racial Discrimination Act, or for that matter any other law, except of course the democratic election requirement enshrined in the constitution that prevents Rupert from simply taking over the whole show just because he want to.
18C ain’t about Rupert Murdoch and his rabid dog-with-a-bone come in sucker spind doctors posing as reporters campaigning to regain your right to free speech, for you never actually lost it in the first place, and are free to tell me I’m a f*ckwit any day of the week (some unkind souls do it daily) as long as your opinion of me is reasonable and genuinely held.
No, this whole monotonous assault upon our senses and our sensibility isn’t about 18 C, that’s simply the smokescreen. What it’s really about is Rupert Murdoch’s belief that Magnificent Mal wronged him by not changing the media laws that Rupert wanted changed last year, and the media mogul’s resultant burning desire to square up by knocking his long time avowed enemy arse over tit off his Prime Ministerial perch, and then chucking his political carcass into the Carnarvon Gorge just for good measure and a healthy dose of fun.
The main game however is the one that will be played next, after the tables have been turned on the Brutus-like unbelievers who drove a dagger through rear lobe of the Monk’s holy rosary riddled brain, and the Turnbull backing-brumby mob are lying dead on the blood-stained marble floor.
The name of this particular game is Bunny Booster, and the aim of he game is to give the Rabbit back the keys to the Lodge, in the process installing him one again as the ruler of the whole Wide Brown Land.
It’s such a devilishly simple yet unfathomably surreptitious scheme that it’s reminds me of a rare black pearl (pardon the pun Ellery) – you can only see it when you cut away all the speckled grimy sand and sticky seaweed, prise open its outer shell, and stare into its’ core.
That’s what the Rupert grand plan being led by Doubting is about all right: not unfettered freedom of speech with no strings attached so hang the consequences, but rather the unwanted Resurrection and Return to Rule of the raving-mad rabbit. And it’s brought to you live, exclusive and replete with bank vaults full of feigned love proffered by the school as a bribe/incentive aimed at convincing you to take your eye of the ball and allow the free-speech defending to the death fourth column full of rampant capitalists and dodgy deceivers to strengthen their hold on the senate and maybe just maybe win an electorate seat or two as part of mix.
18C, 18C said the blind man.
But he didn’t see at all; he only heard