The truly magnificent John Birmingham has decided to adopt the spirit of gonzo with a subscriber-only play-list. He’s also generously letting recipients post choice bits with the appropriate attributions. So, this is one that definitely caught my attention, and here’s the link: https://gumroad.com/l/aliensideboob

You read this hours before the coronation of an unstable, man-sized shard of penis brittle as the rape-clown-in-chief of the free world. Look around you. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of Red Bull and cannibal meth. This surely was a week to ponder what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Washington to be born.

Perhaps it’ll be just like the final episode of Buffy, Season 3, when the Mayor turned into a giant demon snake and tried to eat all the guests. That would be cool, because our very own Senator Malcolm Roberts will be there to represent Pauline Hanson and the seventy-seven lackwits who drooled directly into the ballot box on his behalf. I would totally get up at three in the morning to watch Senator Roberts eaten by an enormous coil of writhing bowel wearing Donald Trump’s face and a burning haystack in place of a hairpiece. Sadly, just because something should happen doesn’t mean it will.

I tell my doctor that every time he rings to pester me about my overdue prostate exam.

Roberts and Hanson trolled everyone like champions earlier in the week, fanning themselves with their golden tickets to the crowning of Baron Fuckface von Clownstick as King o’ the World. One Nation’s Borg Queen twittered like a schoolgirl about being gifted her invite, while Roberts gave the impression he was grinning like your Uncle Bob with a permawoody from mail-order horse viagra.

“Pauline and I received an invitation, but not the Prime Minister,” tweeted the Lesser Malcolm. “OUCH”.

Cool story, bro.

So much cooler than some desperate fuckdiggler ringing the Aussie embassy again and again begging them to hook him up. Turned out the whole thing was such a fanwank plea-bargain that even the Republican congressman who eventually gave up the tickets felt the need to explainify his role in adding to the number of feral swamp donkeys in the national capitol tomorrow.

“Wait? What? Steve Irwin’s not coming?” he said.

Why do they do this? Why drop your pants, massage your buttocks with premium cold-pressed olive oil and stand glistening in the bright sun waiting for the giant Dildo of Consequences to ramify the outcomes of your poor choices? And ramify them HARD.

It’s a valid question, innit, guv? One the Greater Malcolm might consider as the prime ministerial bottom burns red and ever-so-gently quivers in anticipation of the fearful consequences that must come its way when his debt collectors start going after retirees.

Yes. That’s right. Having started the year with a jumbo-sized bowl of piping hot flop sweat, the bunglecunt messiah this week went back for sloppy seconds on the #notmydebt clusterfuckola, describing his government’s aggressive pursuit of billions of dollars it wasn’t owed as “responsible and appropriate.”

Remember that as you reflect on the poor choices made by the Lesser Malcolm, who was at least punching up. Or trying to.

The imperial bellends who actually reign over you did much worse things this week than pathetically bigging up their sixth degree of separation from Baron von Clownstick. They moved to widen the search for people who didn’t owe them any money from the mentally handicapped and unemployed to the nation’s millions of pensioners. Why? Because those greedy old fuckers have been living the honkey rich life on the premium tins of dog food and store brand colostomy bags at Aldi while our poor and hungry fucking trough monsters in Canberra have had to travel business class to each other’s wedding and polo orgies.

Business class!

Do you know how embarrassing that is when Lord Rupert screams past you in his personal jet?

Again, why would anyone who gets elected for a living do this? It can’t just be because kicking over some doddering wrinklies’ walking frames and mugging them for their carefully hoarded stash of dog food money is easier than going after scary-looking welfare moochers with their Celtic tatts and angry twitter feeds.

There has to be something deep at work. Something more primal.

And there is. Stupidity.

But not just old fashioned everyday stupidity. Not just common folly and garden variety derp.

No, this is a sort of amplified neo-stupidity. It’s a shameless stupidity that revels in its own asshat-on-backwards majesty. It’s networked and self-reinforcing. It’s stupidity as an accelerating feedback loop. The kind of stupid that argues for guns in schools to protect against grizzly bear attacks. The kind of stupid that insists, po-faced and pantsless, as Resources Minister Matt Canavan did on Tuesday, that we can reduce our carbon emissions from coal fired power stations by building more coal fired power stations. The kind of stupid that took such a fearful fucking beatdown from the last two weeks of #notmydebtpocalypse that it decides hitting itself in the head with a hammer wasn’t good enough. It should really frappe its own nads and knob cheese in a giant blender too. Because what could possibly go wrong feeding a couple of million pensioners into the trenches of Centrelink’s gigantinormous robot war?

That’s the kinda stupid I’m talkin’ about.

And tomorrow it wears a crown.