Yesterday, I had the extreme misfortune of having to attend an in-house training course, “Communicating Successfully with Stakeholders”. As predicted, it was a boring, dreary affair.

Anyway, the one and only thing I was remotely interested in was when the speaker asked of us, in between his rephrasing the same point several times, “How do we communicate with someone literally from another planet?”

As soon as this question penetrated my non-functioning brain, I raised my head off the desk, prised my eyes open with my fingers, wiped the drool off my chin and pondered the question: literally from another planet?

I didn’t ponder for long, though. The speaker had moved on by then, I decided quickly that it was stupid dumb-fuck corporate speak of sorts and went back to sleep.

Today, however, it’s bugging me. Do we have aliens amongst us? Is that why we can’t seem to communicate successfully with them? No matter how much some of us try, we can’t get them; to see the light? I can only conclude that aliens, far from being an intelligent species as many nutcases believe, are actually quite stupid, MKay? Perhaps their language is in Ting Tong. That’s all I can thinKG of. Oh look! A Bolt of Aurora out the window! Quick, call the Doktor — I just saw a crusading rabbit get hit. Oh my poor Western Heart, it bleeds!

Last week, the Editor whimpered something about damned responsibility preventing him from getting one of those infamous leftard drinks known as a latte.

I was reminded of his 10.23am latte withdrawals when the book I’m currently reading, Kingdom Coming: The Rise of Christian Nationalism by Michelle Goldberg, mentioned them. Goldberg’s book is, clearly enough, about the rise of Christian nationalism, that is, right-wing evangelical and fundamentalist so-called Christianity. A snippet from the book’s website describes it as thus:

In Kingdom Coming, Goldberg demonstrates how an increasingly bellicose fundamentalism is gaining traction throughout our national life, taking us on a tour of the parallel right-wing evangelical culture that is buoyed by Republican political patronage. Deep within the red zones of a divided America, we meet military veterans pledging to seize the nation in Christ’s name, perfidious congressmen courting the confidence of neo-confederates and proponents of theocracy, and leaders of federally funded programs offering Jesus as the solution to the country’s social problems.

I was amused by a paragraph she wrote and I wanted to share. Writes Ms Goldberg:

[D]uring the Democratic primary season [in 2004], the right-wing Club for Growth ran an anti-Howard Dean ad featuring an elderly Middle American couple ranting against a type that populates much of the Northeast and Northwest. The man began, “I think Howard Dean should take his tax-hiking, government-expanding, latte-drinking, sushi-eating, Volvo-driving, New York Times-reading…” His wife continued: “…body piercing, Hollywood-loving, left-wing freak show back to Vermont where it belongs.” Imagine for a moment, if MoveOn had run an anti-Bush ad that called his following a gun-toting, Bible-thumping, McDonald’s-eating, gay-bashing, gas-guzzling right-wing freak show. There would have been no end of hand-wringing about the supercilious secular elite and their contempt for so-called ordinary Americans. Having defined Americanism as an amalgam of anti-intellectualism, provincialism, self-righteousness, and bellicosity, conservatives then attack everyone who finds these things repellent as unpatriotic, and few mainstream voices challenge them. (Incidentally, conservative evangelicals are the only religious faction I’ve encountered who sell lattes in church.)

It seems that even one of the bastions of right-wing rabble-rousing — the pseudo-political evangelical, fundamentalist “Christian” church — cannot resist the lure of a leftie latte.

It’s a well-researched, well-presented book, very alarming and a good record of the damage the right-wing “Christian” nationalists are doing to the good ol’ US of A. I finished reading it tonight while drinking a flat white with one sugar. Go get this book. Highly recommended.

When I was on holidays recently, I went out to dinner to some restaurant in the middle of Byron Bay. I have no recollection of what the restaurant was called or what I ate, because, you know, it’s Byron Bay… Far North Coast of NSW. Near Nimbin. Age of Aquarius. Hippy land. Geddit?

So, this morning on the train to work, having forgotten to bring a book to read again and having the seat to myself, I had nothing to read, not even other people’s books or newspapers or notes. I figured I might as well browse through my photo gallery on my mobile phone. It was with some surprise that I discovered a photo I’d taken of some graffiti on the wall in the dunny of the aforementioned Byron Bay restaurant (the more I stared at this photo, the more certain, ahh, events came back to me). Obviously it made such an impression (read: made me giggle like mad) that I had to take a photo of it to remind myself later on.

It said:

Here I sit,

Broken hearted.

Tried to shit

But only farted.

Tell me there’s no way you would have not laughed had you seen that in Byron Bay.

UPDATE: Apparently this is an oldie. Can I just say that it’s not old to me, because I’ve never heard it before. So, it’s a new one. OK? Good.

It is well known around these parts that I enjoy a good read. I am a bookworm. Hell, even when I don’t have a book with me, say, on the train to work, I’ll read other people’s books. Or notes, as the case may be. This morning was no exception.

So, I get on the train and sit next to a nice looking, zaftig, middle aged lady (read: safe, normal, not insane looking).

Soon enough, however, I come to regret my choice of seating. Having left my book at home again, my eyes stray over to the book being read by my seat companion. The first thing I always look for is the title and author of the book that commuters are reading.

OK, so the author of this book is Miranda Lee. Nup, never heard of her. What’s the title, dammit? Look again, lean over ever so slightly, tilt my head this way for a better view…

Oh. My. God. That book is seriously not called…

THE MILLIONAIRE’S INEXPERIENCED LOVE-SLAVE 

…is it?! No no no no no no. NO!! WRONG. WRONG. WRONG!

WRONG!

Check again. Yep, it’s definitely called that. What’s the dialogue like?

‘”Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, you are.” Something in her steady and resolute voice calmed him down.’

OK, enough, don’t want to read anymore! Quick, look out the window, it’s a beautiful morning!

After sending a text message to a friend about the title of this book, said friend texted back and asked, ‘Does it include the words manhood, throbbing and quim?’

So, at work, I use up some valuable working time to Google The Millionaire’s Inexperienced Love-Slave and find out that it’s actually a novel published by Harlequin. Well, that explains it. But it gets worse. The blurb for the novel:

One wicked night with the Sydney millionaire…

Adrian Palmer, a millionaire architect, always had a beautiful woman in his bed. When he met Sharni Johnson, a pretty young widow, she seemed perfect for his wicked brand of seduction. And wicked it was; he was blown away by the intensity of their lovemaking.

But Sharni was not a one-night-stand kind of girl. Adrian was prepared to do anything to have her–but there was one problem: he was the spitting image of Sharni’s late husband….

Oh noes! Disaster!

I can tell you, however, they do get together in the end and have a baby boy and live happily ever after. Yeah, I took another glance at the final two pages that the lady was reading. Hope I didn’t ruin the ending too much for you. 

That’s one pussy I wouldn’t want to stroke.

Well, thanks for making it hard to pick a winner, people. No one bribed me and I have been forced to select winners for third, second and first place with no help whatsoever. This is not how we on teh Left operate!!!!11!!

Here was the picture:

Here are the winners:

In third place is Ray Dixon with this apt interpretation of Costello’s expression:

“Why me?” Peter Costello takes umbridge at being forced to sit next to the corpse at the State funeral.

Ray would have made it into second place if only he had spelled “umbrage” correctly. Never mind, better luck next time, Ray.

In second place is Ross with this spot-on observation about Peter Costello’s balls:

Former Prime Minister and Member for Bennelong John Howard cops a quick, discrete feel and is happily reassured that former Treasurer Peter Costello is still missing both testicles.

Similar to Ray, Ross would have made it into first place if only he had used the correct “discreet” instead of “discrete”. Never mind, better luck next time, Ross.

Finally, in first place is Bridgit Gread, for getting all teh speeling n grammer rite:

Leads for Australian re-make of Rain Man announced.

Unfortunately, I haven’t come up with a prize or anything, Bridgit, so never mind, better luck next time.

Honourable mentions go to: Wah, Idlaviv, Ron, Magic Bellybutton, Bruce, Tim, keri from her phone, Prophet, John Surname, Dam Buster of Preston, Andy B and Mikey. Who are all, of course, everyone else who contributed a caption.

Commendations for making observations and other comments go to: Jeremy, Bridgit Gread, joe2 and The Editor.

Thank you, all. Now piss off (unless you have a belated bribe).

UPDATE: Since the third place winner, Ray Dixon, is being an ungrateful wrench, I have decided to use my powers to knock him off the perch and place the runner up into third place instead.

Wah, take your spot on the third place perch (and don’t fuckin’ complain), for your caption entry:

Peter Costello remains tight lipped as John Howard denies all knowledge of appalling fart in church.

See what happens when no one offers bribes?

If former dynamic duo John Howard and Peter Costello have buried the hatchet since their famous post-election spat, they were still doing their best to hide it yesterday.

The occasion was the state funeral for former Victorian premier Lindsay Thompson at St Paul’s Cathedral in Melbourne.

[source]

Still?

Get over it, boys. Feel free to rip each other’s eyes out.

OK, folks, caption it.

Best caption and runner-ups announced sometime Monday evening 28 July 2008. (Bribes happily accepted)

Mid-week blues? Fed up with work? Want to procrastinate even more than you already do?

Then ask yourself these questions as posed by Gene Weingarten, columnist and humourist from the Washington Post:

Have you noticed that, by and large, the online “Comments” to newspaper stories seem to have been written by raging lunatics? Most newspaper readers are not raging lunatics, but the loonies all seem to coalesce around the online comments. Why is this? All theories accepted here.

[source]

Read some of the amusing and not-so-amusing “theories” proffered on his blog. But if you have a theory of your own, post them here.

It goes without saying that we’ve seen some crazy comments around here and on other Australian blogs. Except I just said it. Is it the anonymity to be as ragingly lunatic as you like? To shit stir? Shock value? Or do they really believe in what they write, no matter what?

When I first saw the image of Obama and Michelle (full names not required, you know who I mean) in caricature on the cover of the latest The New Yorker magazine, with “the Illinois senator portrayed as a Muslim and bumping fists with his gun-toting, camo-wearing wife, Michelle, in the Oval Office before a portrait of Osama bin Laden, while the American flag smoulders in the fireplace”, I was, admittedly, a little taken aback.

Many Obama supporters are up in arms about it, there is a lot of chatter reverabating around the blogosphere and media outlets (both left wing and right wing). Of course, comparisons to the Danish Mohammed cartoons/outcry are being made.

The artist behind the cartoon, Barry Blitt, has defended his drawing, saying:  

I think the idea that the Obamas are branded as unpatriotic [let alone as terrorists] in certain sectors is preposterous. It seemed to me that depicting the concept would show it as the fear-mongering ridiculousness that it is.

The editor of The New Yorker, David Remnick, also defended the choice of artwork by saying:

What I think it does is hold up a mirror to the prejudice and dark imaginings about Barack Obama’s — both Obamas’ — past, and their politics. I can’t speak for anyone else’s interpretations, all I can say is that it combines a number of images that have been propagated, not by everyone on the right but by some, about Obama’s supposed “lack of patriotism” or his being “soft on terrorism” or the idiotic notion that somehow Michelle Obama is the second coming of the Weathermen or most violent Black Panthers. That somehow all this is going to come to the Oval Office.

Oh, and he’s also fully aware that The New Yorker has many times lampooned the Bush Administration, lest there should be any pro-Bush supporters out there, as I have seen in comments around the internet, bleating how they’ve seen worse from The New Yorker about the Bush White House.

The idea that we would publish a cover saying these things literally, I think, is just not in the vocabulary of what we do and who we are… We’ve run many many satirical political covers. Ask the Bush administration how many.

Anne Davies for the Sydney Morning Herald also points out: 

It is clearly The New Yorker’s wry-smile reflection on the endless internet rumours that refuse to die about the Democratic nominee despite his efforts to stomp them out: that Senator Obama is a secret Muslim and his wife is a less-than-patriotic black semi-militant.

The cover is so over the top it is hard to see it as anything other than satire and a commentary on the bigotry of a small section of the American electorate.

That is true. I can’t help but wonder, however, that it will backfire for Obama, because there are some elements so doggedly determined to convince themselves and others around them that Obama is, inter alia, a Muslim terrorist. I have no doubt that they will completely miss the satire in this cartoon and point at it as PROOF! that Obama is a Muslim terrorist. They’re desperate for him not to win the Presidency.

The Obama camp has denounced the cartoon, saying:

The New Yorker may think, as one of their staff explained to us, that their cover is a satirical lampoon of the caricature Senator Obama’s right-wing critics have tried to create. But most readers will see it as tasteless and offensive. And we agree.

The McCain campaign immediately sent out a press release, also calling it “tasteless and offensive”.  

One lefty blogger, Jane Hamsher, argues:

Fifteen percent of people in this country believe that Obama is a Muslim. You have to be really stupid to believe something like this, but as Roger Simon notes, it probably doesn’t encourage people to vote for him in America today.

Most people who see this cover are just going to see the image of Obama in a turban. It reinforces a critical piece of misinformation that right wing propagandists have advanced in order to poison the political climate in this country and make it that much more difficult for a person of color to be elected president. These people are really stupid in order to believe something like this, but they’re not going to get any smarter by viewing this image.

I’ve already seen a number of ridiculous comments that fail to realise the whole point of this cartoon, such as this:

Leave it to NYC to “ahem” uncover the truth about Obama. Well done. Thank you!

And another stupid comment:

BALONEY, the New Yorker cartoonist didn’t get it wrong at all. Matter of fact, they pretty much summed up what barack [sic] Hussein Obama, and his wife Michelle are all about.

Among a few things: THEY BOTH HATE AMERICA, HATE OUR FLAG, HATE OUR SYSTEM, HAVE SYMPATHIZED WITH OUR ENEMIES, WERE TETHERED 20 YEARS TO BLACK LIBERATION THEOLOGY, HAVE TOTAL AMNESIA ABOUT 9/11, WILL SURRENDER THIS COUNTRY TO ISLAMOFASCISM!

So, what do you think, readers? Was the cartoon offensive or clever satire? Even if it reinforces the negative image of Obama to some, do you think it went further than that and was racist? Made too much fuss of Obama’s ethnicity? What about Michelle being a Black Panther revolutionary? What about the comparisons made to the Danish cartoons uproar — or is it a different situation altogether?

One of our favourite bloggers, Timmeh Blair, likes to make fun of typos and spelling mistakes on various websites and blogs. Anyone who is either left-wing (whether real or imagined) or not his employer come in for some serious scrutiny.

Well, tonight, Timmeh’s employer The Daily Telegraph came in for some serious scrutiny when, against my better judgement, I decided to have a peek at their website. What I saw, I knew I had to share.

It’s no secret that journalist Peter Hartcher has no love lost for outgoing MP Alexander Downer. He has written a nice little farewell to Lexi. Dolly. Whatever you want to call him.

I, for one, am relieved to see the back of this childish, half-man half-boy twat. Hartcher recalls a shining highlight of Lexi’s career as a foreign affairs minister:

The then foreign minister was at Melbourne Airport walking towards the gate to catch his flight when he saw, walking ahead of him, Dick Woolcott.

Woolcott was a career diplomat, former secretary of the department of foreign affairs and trade. Although he had retired by the time the Howard government took power, the new government had asked him to perform some delicate diplomatic missions. John Howard made him a special envoy to bringing about a rapprochement with Malaysia’s prickly prime minister, Mahathir Mohamad, for instance.

But the invasion of Iraq changed all that. Woolcott emerged as a critic. Now seizing the moment in Melbourne Airport, did the foreign minister confront Woolcott? Did he argue the merits of the policy? Did he try to change his mind? Or did he tell him what he thought of him? None of these.

Yelling above the heads of the other travellers, Downer called out to the back of Woolcott’s head, “Loser!” he told me later. “Then I ducked down quickly in case he turned around and saw me.” In recounting the story, Downer seemed to think it a very funny thing to do.

Goodbye, Lexi. And good riddance. Thanks for nothing.

The lovely, charming Sophie Mirabella has given birth to a girl. This is what the Daily Telegraph had to say about it:

In another twist to the Belinda Neal side of the saga, Liberal backbencher and Belinda Neal combatant Sophie Mirabella has had her baby - and it is not a demon.

My emphasis. Thanks for pointing that out, DT.

Fuckwits.

Alan Jones has announced he has cancer. Watch as the media trip over themselves to give him the biggest “WE LOVE YOU AND SUPPORT YOU” arse-kisses ever.

Just like they did with Delta Goodrem (The Daily Telegraph devoting a WHOLE FRONT PAGE to Delta, with the headlines screaming “WE LOVE YOU DELTA”, several pages and photos and her life story — and she wasn’t even dead).

Just like they did with Kylie (The Herald Sun devoting THIRTEEN PAGES complete with memory lane photos and her life story — and she wasn’t even dead).

 I first became aware of Alan Jones’ “special announcement” when the SMH website posted “breaking news”, something about Jones about to hold a midday press conference. And the SMH promised they would broadcast it on their website. “No need for that,” I silently told them, sending fervent telepathic thoughts. “It’s only Alan Jones, renowned shock-jock bigot.”

While cancer is not something I wish on people, and hope they recover from it, please please please give us a break when it comes to celebrities who have cancer! Wish them well, speedy recovery and move on. Capisce?

On the other hand, if it gives us a brief respite from hearing about BELINDA NEAL BELINDA NEAL BELINDA NEAL…

So there I am, rushing through Hyde Park after work to the train station this evening, when I suddenly stop, ears alert, eyes darting back and forth and scanning the dark bushes beside me. There had been a groan. I know it. I heard it. It sounded like an animal in pain. Oh no! I hate hurting animals, being the bleeding heart, tree-hugging lefty that I am.

Gingerly, I push past through the bush, breathing heavily now because I suddenly realise that I am being really stupid because I have no idea what to expect and what if the animal jumps at me ’cause it’s hurt and frightened and there’s no time for me to pull out my phone to call for help and what if my face is shredded apart by said unknown animal and why is it so dark in this part of Hyde Park goddammit?

Peering behind the big old fig tree, I soon find out. It wasn’t an animal. It was two animals. They weren’t in pain. They were screwing each other. Doggy style. They were, in fact, humans. Two well-dressed, business looking idiots who obviously decided they could not wait any longer. Or perhaps it was a fetish and it was something that got them off. I don’t know how else to explain it. But you know… whatever floats their boat. Or gets them off, if they don’t have a boat.

The woman looks up, startled, and I see my startled reflection in her face. The man looks up, barely comprehending that there was now a third party, a ménage à trois of sorts, if you like. I think he was at the end of his own version of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. You know, the climatic volley of cannon fire and chiming bells. If you get my drift.

“Oh!Iamsosorrypleasedocarryondon’tletmeinterruptyousorrysorrysorry!” I dribble in a hurry as I stumble backwards, out of the bushes. And fled. Fled to the train station, trying my hardest not to laugh, past the Federal Court, past NSW Parliament House, past the State Library, before heading down Martin Place to catch the train.

Eventually, I get home and the first thing I do? Blog it. Dear readers, should you ever take a walk through Sydney’s Hyde Park, stop for NOTHING.

Unless, of course, your particular fetish is voyeurism. In which case, welcome to Sydney.

A little while ago, our beloved Ant Rogenous had a spray at people who claim to have a fear of clowns, and what a spray it was.

Full of rage and anger and loathing for the world at large, Ant spat out:

Any time you’re standing around at a party and the topic of phobias comes up, it’s inevitable that at least one person will profess to have, or have had when they were younger, a fear of clowns.

They’re lying.

Ant believes this fibbing affliction can be blamed on an episode from the brilliant Seinfeld:

Until 1992, when the episode The Opera went to air, coulrophobia was a relatively rare phenomenon most people hadn’t even considered. In their desperation to prove how quirky and Kramer-like they were, unimaginative Seinfeld devotees began claiming this phobia en masse as a ready-made point of individual difference.

Ant backs this theory up by using examples such as people suddenly deciding they hate “anchovies on pizzas in the late 1980s — not because they’d ever eaten anchovies and found them unpalatable, but because Michelangelo of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fame didn’t like them.”

I’ve always hated anchovies AND I’ve never seen Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so I don’t know how Ant can explain that. I still don’t know how he can explain watching Australia’s Next Top Model either, as he freely but gruffly admitted in the same post. But I digress.

He was so convinced that people who dislike or have a fear of clowns must be faking their dislike/fear, that they must be lacking in originality or a sense of humour. Something like that.

However, I now have proof that even the toughest of the tough are frightened of clowns, and it’s got bugger all to do with Seinfeld. However, I do not expect Ant Rogenous to be backing down from his theory anytime soon, stubborn ol’ goathole that he is. Still, it must be posted, this marvellous photo: