Top the morning to ya all. How long have you been waiting to hear the #MeToo movement was bullsh*t? Too long, I suspect. Well Macquarie Bank’s Wall Street office has got a ruling from an American court that claims of sexual harassment by Khristina McLaughlin against Macquarie were those of a vindictive and extortionate employee. It was held that McLaughlin misrepresented her consensual affair with Robert Ansell, her boss by lying about it to extract a payout and launching a “misleading and salacious” lawsuit for publicity. There ya go, bullsh*t was all the band could play.
Folks, the ABC have consulted Andrew Bonnell, Associate Professor in History about Senator Fraser Anning saying the “final solution” to the problem of migration by Muslims was a national vote. Howdy doody, what a finger lickin, rootin tootin, helluva idea, Prof Bonnell says Senator Fraser Anning must be kind of inhabiting an extreme right-wing mental universe, struth, strike me lucky. What’s it mean, bro? Oh I think it means Senator Fraser Anning must be always trying to ‘make a quid’ or ‘knock off a Sheila’. Ya reckon, what about the ABC then? Oh their livin in an extreme left-wing mental institution.
Howdy folks, Senator Fraser Anning is in the shit, doo dah, doo dah all day long. He said the final solution to the Asian and Muslim immigration issue was a national plebiscite of the voting citizens, a perfectly reasonable proposal. However, he fell into a linguistic trap. Since WWII, public figures are not permitted to use such words as “final solution” and other NAZI words and phrases. Who says this, well a bunch of left-wing looneys from German left and of course, the cry babies here in Australia like, Penny Wong aka Penny Dreadful, Tony Burke aka Loopy Lou and Bill Shorten aka Daddy Long Lies. Also Senator Anning said more than half of the working age Muslims don’t work, when he should have said less than half of the working age Muslims don’t work, who really gives a continental? They don’t work, Capiche. So pack up ya bags and sashay down the yellow brick road to a hoedown with the looney left if you’re a fair dinkum true blue Aussie.
Well folks, there ya go! I always thought Sam Dastyari was too good to be true; not a true blue Aussie. Now it turns out he’s a recovered drug addict. Well if ya a gold standard celebrity, as Sam the Dunny Man is, then ya need a few miracles in ya life: like walkin on water, turnin water into wine, surviving Jimmy Dancer, havin a blue cattle dog or at least, a black dog chasin ya. Hoorah for Sam, Hoorah for Sam, he’s a horse’s arse! Good on ya Sam, your the one, foreman material!
Frederick Walker Commandant of the Native Police by Paul Dillon | Format: Hardcover | Publisher: Connor Court Publishing | Category: Biography—Australian History.
This is the first and only complete biography of Frederick Walker, 1820 to 1866. Mr Walker’s life was one of isolation, hardship and rejection. As Commandant of the Native Police, he was the man who stood at the front line of Australian history with his true and trusty sable force and forged the northern pastoral frontier so settlers could depasture their livestock and prosper without let or hindrance from unfriendly natives who sought to mutilate and kill them and their stock. He was much abused in his day by the squatters for his careful and clement handling of Aborigines, ami des noirs. He is still much abused and neglected today by the modern followers of the black armband brigade. In the annals of the History War, he stands accused of many high crimes and misdemeanours against humanity and the aboriginal natives of Australia; all are gross slanders and monstrous calumnies. This treatise on his life and times is a complete defence to these infamous allegations, backed up with pages of original source material.
After to being driven from his command of the Native Police by petty minded squatters and disloyal officers, he took up the worthy profession of a run-hunter and opened up much grazing land in southern and central Queensland, in particular, Plant Downs. He was readily enlisted in the search for Burke and Wills, the forever lamentable tragedy of Australian heroism lost to the unforgiving outback. Frederick Walker’s final act was in the service of the State of Queensland in surveying a telegraph line from Townsville to Burketown for the purposes of an overseas telegraphic link to India. He now lies in a bush grave where he fell on the road to Floraville, Leichhardt River, Queensland. Walker was a bushman par excellence, an Aboriginal Whisperer beyond comparison and an explorer without equal.
AUTHOR: Paul Dillon lives in Townsville and holds a Bachelor of Arts (Asian Studies) degree from the Australian National University, a diploma of Law from the Supreme Court of New South Wales and was called to the Bar of New South Wales on 23 May 1986. He has practised as a Barrister at Law in the Criminal Division of the superior courts of Queensland at Townsville for twenty years as counsel for the accused. He retired from the Law in 2005.
The book may be purchased online from Connor Court Publishing, Brisbane.
Folks, Waleed Aly is at it again. Sudanese gangs he says, they don’t exist. He’s speakin the truth they say? Remember folks, Col. Jessup: You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. We use words like honour, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I would rather you just said “thank you” and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post.
Folks, I’d never heard of Christie Whelan Browne until the other day; now let’s start with her name, which sounds impressive and really should be written Whelan-Browne. Now there are several things to note about this nomenclature. She has kept her maiden name and joined it with her husband’s, so, to start with she’s got a double barrelled name which is always suss. Furthermore, this shows she’s a mad feminist, can’t acknowledge male hegemony. Then there is the name Browne spelt with an e. Now this is a marker, which in Ireland meant you were a Protestant. In other words, dumb Catholics spelt their name, Brown. Coupled with all of this, she is an actress who alleges that actor Craig McLachlan indecently assaulted her during a 2014 production of cult musical The Rocky Horror Show. The particulars are: he was kissing my bum. Dearie me! dearie me! What shall I do? Well she went to the newspapers not the police. Now she says people are rude to her and has been wrongly accused of being a gold-digger Jezebel. Ho-hum the beat goes on.
Then if anything grows, while you pose
I’ll oil you up and rub you down (down, down, down)
And thats just one small fraction, of the main attraction
You need a friendly hand, oh I need action
Katy Gallagher, a Labor dead beat, was thrown out of the Senate for breaching section 44 of Constitution. Now she’s back, without so much as a by your leave, spreading buttercups and daisies as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth; not a care in the world not an ounce of remorse for duping the Australian public. This country is overrun with pommy retreads.
Crocodiles have been seen swimming and sunning themselves at two popular Far North Queensland water holes. Take it from me folks, ya can always tell a crocodile lover because they wear their underdaks up their bum crack and live in a cold climate. Everyone knows a dead croc is a good one; shoot em high, shoot em low, shoot em up anytime. Those dam crocs we seek em here, we seek em der, we seek em ebbrywhere. Those dam crocs are good for nuttin, nuttin, not a ting at all. Lets get rid of them and celebrate a day at the beach croc free.
But the biggest kick I ever got was doing a thing called the Crocodile Chop. While the other kids were rocking round the clock, we were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Chop.
There is not a madder bunch of kamikaze dropkicks than cyclists who think they are God’s gift to the urban snarl and crawl. The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, and the driver homeward plods his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me while these scrawny lycra looneys duck and weave amongst us in the ineffable drag to reach our door but plodding legislators give all to unregistered riders and cycles whilst we poor bastards have our arses taxed off by police and polly alike. In yer old tin hat Karl Stefanovic, you’re a nose pick!