Folks, the amount of ill wind that is directed at Barnaby Joyce at the moment, is hard to fathom. I thought, perhaps people had confused Barnaby with another person; voila: the pin dropped and there it is to behold. Barnaby Joyce is neither the son of William Joyce, Lord Haw-Haw nor the reincarnation of Lord Haw-Haw. So can we move on please. Try and pick on someone your own size.
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,
Up stairs an’ doon stairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin’ at the window, crying at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed, for the shirt-lifters are about?”
One thing Barnaby Joyce and Vikki Campion have that all these other nasty oopsies don’t have, is dear little baby Sebastian. When ya a desiccated, wizened piece of LBT who’s spent a life cockin ya arse at anything that moves in a gay mardi gras, it would be niece to come home and settle down with a wee bairn. Envy, dear reader; envy.
Is Barnaby Joyce a hypocrite? Hypocrisy is the contrivance of a false appearance of virtue or goodness, while concealing real character or inclinations, especially with respect to religious and moral beliefs. Hypokrites was a technical term for a stage actor. What is Barnaby Joyce’s principal occupation: a politician? Since the highest function of a politician is to play-act, act out, or dissemble, then has any gain or merit come from the name calling and ridiculing of Mr Joyce. His real perfidy, it is said, is that he opposed same sex marriage. Hardly a major failing, if viewed from a 2000 years historical perspective where homosexuality has never been accorded legitimate recognition. However, in the new world of anything goes, good’s bad today, black’s white today and day’s night today then anything goes. So gettin 150,000 bucks for an all singing, all dancing performance by Sebastian Joyce and all the other Joyces sounds cheap to me but Mamamia (Fake News Incorporated) and its band of performing suffragettes and jackasses thinks its a sin-anything goes.
What a yodel. She taught me to yodel, yodel-oh-ee-dee, diddly-odel-oh-ee-dee. She’ll do me, she’ll do you, she’s got that kind of lovin’, Lord; I love to hear her when she calls me sweet daddy. There ya go, Lisa Wilkinson, some dumb asrsed broad whose only claim to fame is beatin up on equally dumb arsed men.
Mamamia, Fake News Incorporated, is in on the act again, Punch and Judy, aka Barnaby and Vikki. Up until now, Barnaby has had to sit on the cutty stool and a take tongue lashing from feminists, homosexuals, left wing looneys, Labor party dead beats, crazies, men haters, the BLT bigrade, and sundry other f***ers. When all along, all he did was to haul her into bed and covered up her head just to keep her from the foggy foggy dew. But somehow, he got that wrong and when he replied: Me, Sir. Not I Sir, I was up country with the Minister; he has gotten into even more shit. The question I have is, whose turn is it now to sit on the cutty stool, surely not Mamamia, they’re only doing their job!