Where have you gone, Wilson Tuckey? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.....

Oh wait..... there you are, buddy!

I have to say that I was disappointed with his first two posts. Sure, with his second there were tantalising hints that he thinks Marius Kloppers should bugger off back where he came from with his liberal ideas ..... but where was the fire, Wilson? What was with all the reasonably coherent posting?

Imagine my joy, then, at his third post. This beastie reads a little more like a comment on Andrew Bolt's blog. This is more like the Wilson Tuckey we all know and...... know! This is the Wilson bravely showing the Coalition the way through the wilderness, in stark contempt for the opinion of others, coherency, actual parliamentary influence and growing senility. But why are you all wasting time listening to me? Take it away, Wilson....

Greg Combet interview with Kerry O`brien on Gillards broken election promise to not  introduce a Carbon Tax reminded me of Paul Keatings LAW broken election promise. Tony Abbott should now introduce some LAW to the Parliament banning such a tax making it clear he will attend any Divisions involved.

This initiative will test Gillard and the Independants both in the debate and the vote. In particular to match their rhetoric with actual evidence as to the ECONOMIC¹  and ENVIROMENTAL BENEFITS of such a measure.

Lastly, however, reader ..... I must ask you to imagine my visceral sense of horror when I realised what many of you are no doubt realising after reading the above. Wilson Tuckey is ..... me. Given a few years of disillusionment and the onset of early senility .... is it really such a stretch to go from here, here or here to .......here?:

Whilst a Gillard promise has a 24hr USE BY DATE she might just be prepared to provide a guarunteed (sic) figure as to the reduction in CO2 emissions per 1% of tax imposed excluding of course those emissions that are exported to other countries.

Having seen what lies ahead, dear reader..... I'm really not sure I can go on.....

Update: title corrected.

¹Possibly Abbott could stand in parliament with a sign reading 'Where is da money, Ms Gillard?'

In which I propose a competition.

Who among us remembers our search for the saddest man on the internet? Why do I bring this up? Well, firstly because I find myself idly wondering whatever happened to dancing Mario man ..... ah, good times ..... and partly because I wish to propose another race through the dregs of humanity.

Where else should we begin such a race than on the blog of the great man himself? I propose two categories for this endeavor:

1. The funniest act of crazy-baiting/affirmation. The leader in this category is currently 'he who shall not be named', and for an example I would advise moseying on over to that blog that doesn't exist.
2. The more challenging category. The prize here shall go to whoever manages to get published the  craziest piece of opinion in broad agreement with the blog's author. The winner here should ideally write something more glaringly insane than 'serious' posters..... but we must be probably prepared to waive such a condition on account of its setting the bar way too high .... You must, however, get at least one 'serious' or 'real' poster to agree with you.

Any takers?

For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 3.

We find ourselves in a Canberra pub, where a trio of be-suited men sit in consternation. All three are wearing hats indoors. One is sporting a cream akubra, and the other two wearing red caps with "I ♥ ALP" written on the front of them.

Katter: So here it is, gentlemen. Exactly what we've been holding out for. A pledge from Mr Abbott to firebomb Filipino banana crops into oblivion. 

Oakeshott: *cough* ..... Yeah, ah .... sexy. Naughty.

Katter: And it doesn't stop there, either, gentlemen. Abbott's prepared to meet our demands on fishing and to give us all the ethanol we can drink. 

Windsor (scratching his head): Yeah, about that Bob....

Katter (holding his hand up in a manner conotating 'just wait'):  Lastly, though, me-lads.....the Piece de Resist-once...... who do you think will be setting the value of the Aussie dollar this time next year? I''l tell you who, lads: "Bob Katter!".

There follows a long pause as Bob allows the gravity of those last two words to settle in. Oakeshott and Windsor answer Katter's manic stare with a pair of vapid ones. Finally they are unable to meet his eyes at all, and each develop an intense interest in their drinks. Bob appears oblivious to this.

We now notice, as Katter pats him consolingly on the shoulder, a fourth figure at the table. How we failed to notice Kevin Rudd's¹ existence up until this point appears mystifying to us, but fail we did.

Katter: I'm sorry, Kev.

Rudd (exhaling): That's O.K., I guess.

Katter: If it were you, buddy, I'd-a gone the other way. No question.

Rudd nods in the kind of endearingly pathetic way only Owen Wilson really can.

Katter: Now, gentlemen, we've got an adoring nation to talk to.

Windsor: Yeah.... we're right behind you, Bob.... we'll just finish these beers and meet you outside.


¹Owen Wilson.

In which Chris causes me to make a fool of myself.

To be found here.

According to the source that never lies, it's "backwards from Bourke", Chris. I feel like such a dufus.....

For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 2.

DREAM SEQUENCE

It is election night, if a little hazier around the edges of our vision. Bob is by a TV set in a small beach house in between a banana plantation and the ocean. He is wearing only a pair of Bananas in Pyjamas boxer shorts, gum boots and his trade-mark hat. He is holding a remote in one hand, a beer in the other. Kerry O'Brien¹ is presently announcing ".... thrusting Bob Katter into a position of kingmaker". 

Bob switches the TV off, nodding. "Bob Katter!" he says, with conviction, before reclining back in his chair and throwing his head back to take a hefty swig of his beer.

A knife darts in front of  his now-exposed throat. Panning out, we see a small Filipino man in a wet-suit, his face concealed. "We burn banans now, Kat Kat, you big gayfaglol!" he says.


Bob's face contorts into a snarl as he responds. "You picked the wrong beach this time, Kimosabe..."


As if in answer, there is a low, deep, blood-curdling howl in the distance.


Outside, we see a small surfaced submarine flying the Filipino flag and rocking around in newly disturbed sea. We make out a panicked voice slightly distorted by radio static. "Large object come in fast, general Makabulos!". The wave immediately behind the sub appears to form a giant pair of fruit bat wings.....


Focus back on Bob Katter, who is laughing maniacally. Enraged, our wet-suited Makabulos forces the knife into Katter's throat....

Bob snaps awake. He is sitting on the toilet holding the latest copy of Mt Isa Bush Pig. There is a knocking at the door as a feminine (but very Ocker) voice enquires "Mr Katter?". "Strewth, hang on a tick, Gillard, Bob's on the job...." he replies. The voice becomes more insistent "Mr Katter!". "I told you, Bobs on the....."

Bob snaps awake again. He is in Canberra, in the office of Prime Minister Julia Gillard².

We focus on Gillard's face. "Could we focus on the ..... job, here, Bob?"

Katter: Musta dozed off, there.... you were saying something about bananas?

Gillard: Well, I wasn't....... but while we're on the topic why don't we shoot down to point 16. Bob, I just don't think that you've thought that one through.

Katter: Which part?

Gillard: Well.... for starters, even if they couldn't count on some degree of international support and us.... none.... the Philippines has quite a substantial standing army. And ..... well, they're just bananas, Bob.

Katter: Just bananas? Look. You've killed off manufacturing in this country, you've killed off agriculture. You're trying to kill mining and porn... all we've got left are bananas!

Gillard: .... we're going to have to say no to the 'Bob Katter bridge to nowhere³' and orchestrating a joint Australia-US naval bombardment on ...... "Fruit-bat-zilla", too, Bob. We might be able to move on farm subsidies, though.

We can just make out a sharp, muffled "communist" emanating from a cabinet directly behind Gillard. Gillard motions Wayne Swan to the cabinet with an economical motion of her head. Upon opening the cabinet a large-eared figure leaps out in a vision of startled kung-fu fury. Swan leaps back in fright. Waking up to himself, Tony Abbott⁴ straightens first his posture, then his tie.


Abbott (coughing): Ah, hello Bob.

Gillard: Tony, this isn't exactly what I'd call professional.

To be continued.............

¹George Clooney?

²Tilda Swinton

³I got her in, Chris! I got her in!!!!

⁴Ben Stiller.

For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 1.

Opening shot: we follow the top of a large, cream coloured akubra hat as it slowly and deliberately makes its way towards a set of ornate double doors. Upon reaching the doors the hat pauses. It's¹ slow, rocking movement seems strangely evocative of its encasing a head chewing tobacco. Or hay.... or, I don't know, whatever country folks like to chew on these days.... possibly their own tongues or something.

Without warning a pair of grizzled, wiry old arms fly into the doors like two North Queensland crocodiles taking prey and, with a deft synchronous flick of each wrist impel the doors to fly open.

While we can almost feel the oppressively humid North Queensland heat now pouring in from outside, more oppressive still is the ominous ranks of reporters, cameras and microphones that greet our hat on the now-exposed² doorstep. There is a brief moments pause as though, caught in their own private conversations, these ranks of slick, southern filth have been caught by surprise at the unexpected emergence of their prey. It doesn't last.

A veritable chattering cacophony, (surely enough to kill a lesser hat) now assaults our senses as surely as it assaults the hat. "Mr Katter, blah, blah, blah Latte-sipping-elitist loaded question!?"

As the camera swivels around and pans out we make out first the purposeful, grizzled face beneath the hat, which begins nodding up and down, laughing. Our figure's right arm is motioning the crowd be quiet, which obeys as surely as has many a wayward steer before it.

Katter: One at a toime.... please!

Faceless reporter: Mr Katter, why did you not meet with Garnaut and Stern today?

Katter's face³ stares impassively back but his chewing slows, offering us the only clue that this question may have caught him off-guard. His eyes dart briefly towards his watch, then back at the offending reporter. His face contorts first into a wince, then a scowl as his arm makes to swat the question away as surely as it has swatted many a North Queensland fly before it.

Katter: Ah, they're lightweights. Stupid. Wrong. I mean, you know, they don't even seem to realise the unassailable scientific fact about a major problem coming out of our oceans.

Reporter: ........ acidity?

Katter: Fruit-bat-ZILLA! I mean, you all come here from down South.... You people have been slitting our throats for years, when all the time we've been living under the shadow of that monster. And he'll come for you, too, after he's done with us, but none of you even listen or care! And then you go and rape and kill our livestock, destroy all our industry and force homosexuality on us.

Reporters: .................?

Katter: Look, I've answered your questions, I'm gonna go have a beer now.

________________________________________________________________________________

SCENE 2.

Bob is reclining at his desk drinking a beer, his muddy, booted feet sharing his desk-top with a WWII vintage Enfield rifle. He reaches slowly down to his desk draw and opens it to reveal a single object. It is a banana with a note tied to it with thick, coarse string and the unmistakable stamp of the Phillipines on it.  Zoom in on the note, which says:

How you lik them banans? Ha Ha Ha Gayfaglol!

Focus now on Katter's face, whose eyes cagily dart around the room then lock upon the ashtray at on a far-off bench. The cigar in it is still fresh.

He snatches up his rifle and darts around the room opening cupboards and upturning objects, face contorted with rage and pointing the rifle accusingly into each empty space he finds. His eyes now dart towards the bathroom door. Forcing his way in, we now see two tell-tale signs: the toilet seat is down, and the window is open. Outside we see a diminutive figure in a grey pyjama suit just disappearing into the distant banana trees as Katter takes more pot shots at it than we would have thought the rifle capable of without reloading.

Gayfaglol!!!!! we hear it cry defiantly in the distance.

Focus on Katter's enraged face, end scene.

¹Apostrophe crime!

²Do you like that hyphen, Dave.... do you like it, buddy?

³ A heavily made-up Bill Murray? Jacko? Owen Wilson, even (Royal-Tenenbaums type role, sort of)?