Monthly Archives: November 2013

The Entertainment DEPT of The System

The “Idol” series, “X-Factor,” “[Insert Your Country HERE] Has Got Talent” are created in the Entertainment department of The System.  In the 21st Century Entertainment is used as an important psychological tool to manipulate society and keep its citizens balanced. The aforementioned shows provide viewers with an essential means of distraction. While absorbed in the music, the performers, the stories, the presentation, coupled with the elimination process of which viewers can directly participate, one can forget stress, anxiety, frustration, dissatisfaction, and after the series is done purchase the songs on iTunes. The latter is a vital part of the chain. A citizen that can relive the moment is transported back to that happy place of distraction, which is especially important when he or she is in an often unhappy place commonly known as work.

What type of music a person listens to is of course irrelevant to The System. (The same goes for fashion, religion, hobbies, leisure activities, the bulk of mainstream politics and so on.)  So long as the tooling of the homogenised Entertainment construct and presentation is not interfered with, the music could be anything, even Gangsta Rap. But there could never be a genuinely rebellious, drug addict, anti-establishment muso or rapper competing on the “Idol” series, not unless that person had in effect joined The System – that is, “over-come” their drug addiction and got their act together. That “back-story” could then be tooled as a triumph over adversity factor to give the contestant leverage in climbing the ladder of success and to the dissatisfied viewer watching at home, stuck in a dead-end job, an “if they can do it I can” element to help them thru any bitter resentment. Likewise, there might be a troubled student whose grades are slipping; at least they were til “I made it thru “Boot Camp” on X-Factor”. The System wants people to study hard in school, hold down a respectable job, climb the status ladder, be a responsible parent, be a nonviolent citizen who goes about their civic duty with a smile. Carefully tooled Entertainment can and does play its part in maintaining the status-quo. In effect, however much these reality talent shows spice up the project with an unruly ingredient, the presentation will be designed to integrate its viewers into The System and make them adopt its values.

To achieve maximum manipulation, modern Entertainment must appeal to metro sexual children thru to gay grandparents while maintaining a multi-cultural, religious, non-threatening persona. Sex is of course used but is never allowed to get too sordid. Defeat is presented in a non-despairing way that portrays the defeated as winners who are all the better for the experience. All this and more while demonstrating to the viewer that if you immerse yourself in this Entertainment you will be able to throw off rational control (because there is no hope of accomplishing anything outside of The System anyway) and be completely transformed by the sensations of the moment. At the very least, next day you’ll have something to talk to your work-mates about.

Most reality based Entertainment shows are about dangling a carrot and weeding out a bunch of average but “talented” people who they believe can be moulded into buying the whole box and dice “Goal,” and then…letting them “go for it.” At the end, the “winner” is largely portrayed as having achieved it all with their talent and autonomy. The army of behind the scene ants are paid lip service by the winner and the “coaches” names may appear as the credits roll. The Entertainment model points to the viewer at home and says: “This could be you.” The System knows that a sizeable amount of viewers are living lives of boredom, dealing with feelings of demoralisation and low self-esteem, have feelings of inferiority, defeatism, depression, anxiety, guilt, frustration, hostility, are dealing with spouse or child abuse, insatiable hedonism, abnormal sexual behaviour, sleep disorders, eating disorders and so on and so forth. It is important that The System imparts to such viewer that the reason their lives are so dishevelled is because (unlike The Idol Winner) you did not set a target. If you don’t set a target you don’t hit anything is the message. This is usually enough medicine to maintain the viewer’s immersion within The System. Like all medicine it will eventually wear off, but by then the new season of “Australia’s Got Talent” will be in post production and due to air.

Entertainment, as it is presented today, helps keep the heads low and the arse cracks high. Music and Film, Television and most Media are under the control of large conglomerates that are integrated into The System. The internet, once considered to be the pathway to freedom thru self-promotion, the information super-highway a road out of obscurity, is no different. It is tooled by The System. For example – and there are many – most people who search for “Entertainment” go straight to the google conglomerate. The majority do not explore beyond the first 10 to 25 listings. Any independent entertainer who has a little money can promote themselves on the internet, but what they have to offer will be swamped by the vast volume of Entertainment put out by the large conglomerates. It will have no practical effect outside of the entertainer’s fan base unless they can match the large conglomerates dollar for dollar. It’s not important to The System that an entertainer make an impression on society thru artistic expression (the opposite is preferred) unless The System requires it be orchestrated into existence. When someone like 23 year old Nadezhda Tolokonnikova upsets The System with her brand of “Entertainment” she is immediately made an example of. Had Nadezhda been singing soppy “X-Factor” songs with Pussy Riot instead of orchestrating politically repugnant commentary she would not be in a Siberian prison today. The System would not have paid attention and neither would the average planetary citizen. As it is, outside of her home state, Nadezhda’s plight has been largely absorbed by the world. The large conglomerates are seeing to that. The message is clear – if you follow Nadezhda’s example you wind up in the gulag.  Isn’t it more fun to watch “The Voice” than to listen to a punk rock song with a sober political message and then ruminate on the harsh consequences of such an act? Or course it is…and we’ll be right back after this word from our sponsor.

If Kevin Spacey’s John Doe character from “Seven” had been a self-promoted entertainer, people certainly would have noticed him: “Wanting people to listen, you can’t just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you’ll notice you’ve got their strict attention.”

Ted Kaczynski was not a self-promoted entertainer either. But in order to get his message thru the invisible force field of The System and to the public where it would make a lasting impression, he created an interesting marketing strategy. Ted Kaczynski didn’t sing (at least, not that I know of), instead he killed people. His marketing methods helped to get his written “Manifesto” published. Ted Kaczynski wasn’t motivated by fame, however. His killings were directly and solely motivated by a desire to see the halt of technology and what he deemed its devastating effect on human and ecological life. It was a one man revolution to initiate the collapse of The System; the side-effects of said System continue to flourish and plague the world to this day. It’s happening right outside of your digital device.

The overarching point here is The System will not notice you unless you do something that profoundly threatens the equilibrium of The System; or you conform 100% to the demands of The System and obey the rules…bearing in mind that the latter is not a guaranteed formula for getting noticed. Many self-promoted entertainers comply to an “industry standard” and still die in obscurity. That’s really because The System doesn’t need you to stand out. It needs you to blend in. It’s why fame is fickle.

So what does one do to “Break on thru to the other side”?

On the one hand there is the Ted Kaczynski model of living “off the grid” in comparative solitude and bringing The System down one death at a time. While it is reasonable that the direct survivors of Ted Kaczynski’s one man revolution might not care to evaluate the underlying principle behind his murderous assaults, the problem for the rest of us is who, exactly, will? Because the other extremity is total obedience to The System, and while you’re rejecting total obedience keep this in mind: In the end, the bedrock of civilisation will remain in our willingness to accept rules and to curb the pursuit of our individual interest out of deference to the needs and interests of others. No one amongst us is seriously against civilisation, are they?

But – “There must be someway out of here, said the joker to the thief.”

Not necessarily, unless “…someway out…” is raising self-awareness and protecting oneself from the constant pressures of The System to bend society towards an even greater “willingness” to homogenise personal freedoms.

“The price of freedom is constant vigilance” – The grid cannot be destroyed. We’ve come too far. Retooling the existing System into a more “user friendly” model is really the only option. But be careful. The Entertainment department is working constantly to distract you. The retooling is important work; it will be accomplished by a comparative few at a slow, rock steady pace. Choose your methods wisely. One slip and The System will give you 15 minutes of fame and then poof! You will disappear.


Force Majeure in Dallas

In 1963 my mother was 19 and living in San Francisco’s Ashbury Heights, working as some sort of secretary for The Haight Ashbury Neighborhood Council. She was always flirting with the counter-culture that existed in the Bay area, and in March of that year she was in the Chinatown district celebrating the closing of Alcatraz with some beatnik types. At least one out of that group was en route to Alabama to lend support to the SCLC volunteers who were kicking off their Birmingham campaign against segregation with a sit-in. My mother ran away with them. She described it as “…the point the rest of my life began.”

Around September 1963 she found herself in the tiny enclave of Henrietta, Texas acting as a secretary for a local rancher and civic leader Mrs. Ellen Body. Mrs. Body was a focal member of The Presidential Commission on the Status of a Women. My mother probably typed up a lot of important documents for her.

On Friday November 22 1963 my mother was in Dallas, Texas standing on Main Street with some friends around 200 yards down from Houston Street. She smiled and waved madly as The President and the First Lady drove by smiling back in the warm Texas sun. She watched and waved until the motorcade turned right into Houston Street and disappeared. She was elated; everyone was. Presently, she and her friends became aware of police sirens and shortly after that an inexplicable feeling of distress rippled down Main Street and over them. Everyone around seemed to move instinctively towards Houston Street. My mother’s group moved with them. At the corner, they looked over Dealey Plaza and it was clear something had occurred. The panic was palpable. People were moving round directionless. Some were running. A few stood transfixed looking dazed and confused. Their group moved towards Elm Street. Everyone on the sidewalk was chattering. “Something just happened, didn’t it?” More fragments of talk began to filter through the dross and register in my mother’s ears – “It just took off…” – “What did you hear?” – “I did see that…” – “They were going some place on a hurry…” – “The cops went running up there…”

My mother asked a tall man in a gabardine suit, “Sir, what’s happening?”

He looked down at her, distracted. “What?…I…I’m not sure young lady. Something over there.” He pointed along Elm Street. “The President’s vehicle sped up and the police sirens went on and…I don’t know…I…I don’t know…”

Someone in the group suggested going to a diner, but no one moved. They stood there waiting on Houston Street as if for instructions on what to do next. Lots of police began milling around. The longer they stood the more theories they overheard. Many minutes went by before they heard something about a gun shot. The police presence was becoming conspicuous. Still more time passed and then my mother noticed a woman sobbing, “They shot him…I see’d it…”

“We need a radio,” said my mother.

One of my mother’s friends worked in an office a short walk up Elm Street: “Someone there will know what’s going on.”

Passing North Record Street they noticed a group huddled around a parked car. The owner was sitting in the driver’s seat, radio blaring. They walked over and joined the group. Someone looked at my mother and said, “They fired shots at The President’s motorcade.”

Someone else added, “Three shots.”

Someone else went SHHHHHHHHH and in a heart-beat all noise was sucked out of the world until the only sound anywhere on the planet was the radio announcing: “President Kennedy has been wounded…”

My mother stayed huddled with that group around the parked car listening until the radio announced: “The President is dead” –

Many years later my mother wrote – in a similar diary as I took this recollection from – the following interesting passage: “I remember when Joel said We was all being fucked over when Reagan sent the National Guard into Berkeley. He said it again when Kent State went down. But then Watergate hit and he was in no doubt. We were all being fucked over.

“I called him a late bloomer and he got a little pissed when I told him I felt the same way in Dallas day they wasted Kennedy. I wondered then are We being fucked over. I got my answer two days after: They shot Oswald and I knew We were.”

Ergo Would Be Leftist – This Is The Country You Live In.

Greetings radicals, reformists, socialists and pseudo-communists of the Left (any spies who may be present). Apologies if your monicker is omitted, the movement is so fragmented these days it is not clear who can properly be called a Leftist. (Certainly not the “Sickos” whom have been delineated elsewhere in the archives of 96 Rosevale Place.) This article targets the would-be Leftists who dwell within the shadows of the “true believers.” The “type” will emerge more clearly as this article unfolds.

To those would-be Leftists, it is timely to remind you that on September 7th 2013 Australia voted in a democratic election and gave the nod to Tony Abbott’s Coalition Government. It gave the coalition a 90 seat majority in The House of Representatives, that’s 53.5% of votes on a two party preferred basis. It means the majority are with him. Said majority are willingly dependent upon the Government, believe that they are victims of the previous Government, believe the new Government will take care of things, everything, like health care, food, housing, boats, education, you name it. That’s their prerogative because they voted for the Government and, more or less, the Government will give them what they want. Most will vote for this conservative type of Government no matter what. They want a team that is strong and firm and ruthless, a bastard-lot of tough nuts unclouded by emotions. A group who will run things properly and not concern them with party infighting, overt incompetence, and daily updates on who is trying to trespass on thy sacred turf. They want a group like them. They want Tony and his men…and woman.

A large dollop of that 53.5% are or were yearning for the days of Prime Minister Howard. The days when things were simple, and John Winston’s word was law. An iron fist in a glove, likely bearing some kind of Wallabies logo. They have such leadership in Tony Abbott and his coalition. He walks the walks and talks the talk. They follow.

Someone who walked and talked on the Left, and most definitely was not a would-be, said: “As a man sow, shall he reap, and I know that talk is cheap but the heat of the battle is as sweet as the victory.” That was Bob Marley (god bless him), and he spoke wisely, of course, and his quote is relatable to our current political climate in Australia. At least to the point of “heat of battle.”

Would-be Leftists: You are not contributing to any post election battle in Australia. Plenty of heat though, mostly hot air emanating from your daily rants on social media. Lots of educated barking, but no grass-roots biting. When you drill right down deep into the psychology of your postings, it is the democratic system that you toothless tigers are really complaining about. You blame Murdoch, Bolt, Abbott himself, or Alan Jones, but the fact remains: We the people of Australia have a democratically elected Government. Any entity, force, bribe or allegation that may have possibly interfered with that democratic process is, if there is truth to the chatter (and I believe there is some) your fault. You would-be Lefties let it happen day after day until Tony Abbott was elected.

Where were your daily protests outside the residence of Alan Jones? Where were your lightening strikes from the Murdoch employees amongst you? Where were your 200 sitting in the middle of George Street refusing to budge until refugees were processed on shore? Where were the next 200 when the first 200 went to jail? Where were your convoy of motorists stopping in the middle of Harbour Bridge and collectively throwing their keys over the edge because Andrew Bolt is a fascist sympathiser? Where were your reinforcements bringing up the rear when the car and owners were removed? How many risked everything because they believed an Abbott led coalition was the worst thing since the bubonic plague? Where were your daily letters? Where were your hourly faxes? Where were your minute by minute emails?

Where? Most of you were on Facebook, whinging and whining about the possibility of a coalition Government. Pointlessly subscribing to the dozens and dozens of “don’t say I didn’t warn you” pages (most likely never seen by 53.5% of voters). While the “true believers” were doing something tangible in numbers too small to notice (there is well oiled but under staffed organisation on the Left), you were pining for Che Guevara to lead you.The question begs, if Che did exist, would you would-be Leftists want to be led?

I sincerely doubt it.

You are too busy living your lives to join any type of protest other than your daily computer rants. It is not “How do you get out of bed everyday” it is that you have a bed to get out of. You are way too comfortable. You also know Tony Abbott is not going to interfere with your comfort levels anymore than John Howard did. You despise that. Despite the corruption that was engulfing your intelligence daily, despite the definitive evidence of interference in your democratic process, you did nothing to expose the manipulation imposed upon We the People in the lead-up to Australias last Federal Election. You now find the temerity to complain, really about your own laziness. It is with hollow consolation that you sit in the glow of your digital devise preaching to the converted within your tiny bubbles of friends who LIKE what you say. Why wouldn’t they….

Your rants about Tony Abbott’s coalition, your comments on those who voted for him, it’s all air pie and windy pudding. Are these conservative voters mad? you wonder. Were they duped? Some were, but what you are not grasping is that the majority wanted Tony Abbott to “Stop The Boats,” among other things. The coalition won because the majority don’t want any refugees coming here “fucking things up.” Remember Poms? Remember Wogs? Remember Gooks? Remember Cronulla?

Fuck off Muslims! Sorry your country’s got problems, but don’t bring’em here. Australia, Love It or Leave it, better yet don’t fucking come in the first place….

When Tony Abbott treats a pregnant asylum seeker in the manner recently outlined in the press he can get away with such inhumanity because the majority of Australians want him to do that dirty work and “Get tough on the bastards.”

When Tony Abbott refuses to apologise to Indonesia for spying, a chorus of “Hooray” and “Fuck’em” chimes out from the majority who democratically elected him.

This is the country you live in!

Accepting that fact will at least add some needed focus to your daily anger.

The only way to make dreams come true is to wake up. And if you do wake up and make a lot of noise, 53.5% of the population will still be asleep. Some will never wake up no matter how much noise you make. Of those that do wake up, most will simply complain about your vulgar racket. Only a handful of swingers will ask, “What’s all the noise about?” – and the “true believers” are doing real work to provide them with some answers that might just change their minds.

Short of all out anarchy and revolution, no amount of whinging is going to change the democratic result. You would-be Leftists have proven time and time again you can’t stand a little sacrifice and will not put up with a trip across the desert with limited water. So the only power you have at your disposal is the democratic vote. How hard you work at that is your freedom of choice. But rest assured, your daily rants on Facebook will never ever straighten this country out.

Barry O’Farrell & Gladys Berejiklian In Htrae

Hi, my name’s Barry. Barry O’Farrell. I was born in Melbourne, but I get incredibly defensive when people bring that up. My jaw locks up even thinking about it. Usually I’ll deflect such questioning by reminding people that I was educated in Darwin. It’s a bit of a selling point for me, something about street-cred, but I don’t want to go into that right now. Why I see Melbourne as such a negative, I don’t want to go into that either. To avoid it, I usually remind people that former Premier of Queensland Peter Beattie was born in Sydney. Generally it makes people ask, “What the fuck has Peter Beattie got to do with anything?” Fair point, but it’s not something I want to go into right now.

Most of you will remember me as the Premier of New South Wales, and I was until this morning when I woke up in a parallel universe. Bizarro world! Htrae, which is earth spelled backwards (it’s not impossible to explain but I don’t want to go into it right now. Take Greg Hunt’s advise and look it up on Wikipedia).  Htrae is ruled by the Bizarro Code which among other things states “Is big crime to make anything perfect on Bizarro World!” At first, I didn’t think it would be a problem; our State Government has subscribed to that ideal since we were elected. Just look at the public transport system. But then I realised I was married to Gladys Berejiklian, our Minister for transport, and suddenly I wished I was back in Melbourne.

Gladys informed me over a breakfast of instant noodles, bread and water that we were going to see Scott Morrison who was playing guitar at a Refugee Action Coalition Rally in Lawson. “That’s The Blue Mountains,” I said.

“Correct,” said Gladys, passing me the hot sauce, “and travelling by train from Sydney to Lawson in the Blue Mountains usually takes about 90 minutes. But one week-end out of six the line is closed for important track work and buses replace trains. Today is such a day so we have to allow four hours.”

“Four hours!” I exclaimed, spraying noodles and hot sauce in all directions. “Can’t we take the car?”

Gladys shook her head. “We don’t own a car, Barry. You’re a pensioner. So am I. We can’t afford one.” She glanced at her Reject Shop wrist watch. “It’s quarter to eight. There’s a train to Central in twenty minutes. Let’s go.”

We left our crumbling $180 a week hovel of a bed sit and walked five minutes to Marrickville Station. Apparently the housing prices in Sydney are some of the highest in the world. Not only because of location location location, but because population growth is outpacing development. “Bloody incompetent State Government,” I sneered as we boarded the train to Central. Gladys smiled…and I remembered when she had teeth.  When I married her years ago we both had teeth. Never needed a dentist. When we finally did, we couldn’t afford one. We were trying to save. We both dreamed of owning our own home in East Sydney, before we learned that  only two-income households can even consider buying a house anywhere within an hour of the CBD. So we rented the  bed-sit in Marrickville because of the scarcity of real apartments. We’ve been there ever since. At least that’s what Gladys keeps telling me. I was the Premier of New South Wales until I woke up this morning, remember. “Are we really paying $180 a week for that shit hole?” I asked.

Gladys patted my arm and nodded. “We are looking around for something else, Barry, but rental vacancies are below 1% in some areas, and we are competing against 20 to 50 people to rent.” She reminded me that we still have each other and we shared a little joke about our Landlord, a diabolical bastard who’ll do anything to dodge repairs while raising our rent at the drop of his Akubra hat.

The train to Central was ten years old and ten minutes late. We had to rub up against a lot of sweaty commuters, but we got there. “We should be thankful,” said Gladys. “There are vast swathes of the metro area that are not adequately covered, thanks to our incompetent State Government.”

“Weren’t you supposed to take care of that?” I quizzed.

Gladys rolled her eyes. “This is Htrae, Barry. I’m a pensioner. But RailCorp is still some kind of hybrid business orchestrated by our greedy State Government, and despite being subject of an ICAC corruption enquiry and a series of cosmetic changes it’s still appalling.”

We threaded through Central Station to Eddy Avenue where the buses would pick us up and take us to Penrith. Then we could get on a train that would take us to Lawson. There were people everywhere, on the streets, on the platform, in traffic.  Eddy Avenue was a bloody ant colony.

Three State Transit workers were at the bus stop. Two women and one man. They were all sitting in their State Transit worker seats wearing their State Transit worker fluoro-vests. The first woman was young and looked a little glazed over like she had just woken up. The second woman was short and frumpy and had a face that would have been at home in the laundry of a maximum security prison. The man, about 50, sporting a moustache and cheap wrap-around sunglasses, was cradling his head in his left hand and appeared to be drifting in and out of slumber. A few tourists from Germany, France and America took turns in politely asking them when the next bus would be. It seemed to be an enormous effort for the State Transit workers to draw breath enough to answer the simple enquiry. I guess the double time pay they were getting for sitting on their fat asses for eight hours wasn’t enough to inspire them to any dizzying heights of basic customer service or even common decency. “Half hour,” the man mumbled, receding back into his torpor.

The bus arrived. It was driven by a florid looking Christopher Pyne who seemed in a particularly bitchy mood (I guess for some people things are the same in any world, Bizarro or otherwise).  We clambered aboard with everyone else, relieved at some semblance of progress and took up a seat behind the driver.  I looked around. Everyone had their antisocial hat on. Nobody wanted to make our acquaintance. All the passengers travelling alone seemed uncompassionate, rude and/or snobby, just like Christopher Pyne. Gladys and I fell into sync and began listening to our iPod and averting eye contact. Christopher turned on the radio. It was Lou Reed “Walk On The Wild Side.” Christopher began to sing along. He giggled at the line about “…giving head….” steered the bus out onto the abominable roads, cursing at the retarded motorists and successfully ensconcing us in the traffic congestion.

The stop and start trip to Penrith took 90 minutes. Apart from one push bike rider sliding down the road after falling off his bike and a couple of motorists overtaking him while he was sliding, it was an uneventful trip.  The only time I spoke to Gladys was to point out everyone’s obsession with wealth and glamour. “That’s the seventeenth BMW X5 I’ve counted; and I’ve lost count of the Porsches Cayenne’s and Hummers.”

“Did you see the motor cycle rider in the Versace suit, designer sunglasses and pointy shoes?” asked Gladys.

Two girls sitting opposite wearing tiny dresses and 6-inch heels looked up from their iPhones and said, “Where?”

“Yeah,” chimed Christopher Pyne through pursed lips, “where?”

Go to the Races at Randwick and see what I mean, I thought.

At Penrith we waited on the platform for another ten year old train to arrive. It came in twenty minutes. Gladys and I sat in the quiet carriage listening to the people ranting about prison life, parole,  the cost of living and lack of sufficient methadone.

“$15 just to get on the train from the clinic!” – “$15 to park for an hour outside my doctor’s office” –  “Paid $5 for a beer in Lithgow” – “Ten bucks for a Bundy and coke” – “Had to blow my dealer for me last fix” – “Shoulda got yah daughter to do it for yah, ahahahahahhaaa….” –

Gladys and I were glad we’d sat in the Quiet Carriage.

The festival at Lawson was well under way when we arrived. Gladys checked her Reject Shop watch. “Four hours exactly. Not bad for Sydney.”

“First class by Madagascar standards,” I quipped.

Everyone at the festival seemed to be highly strung. Stressed about exams, or work, their mortgage… who knows? Quite a few migrants at the festival, too. Sydney is a major entry point for migrants into Australia, and though I have nothing against migration per se (I am from Melbourne), volumes of ill-mannered migrants inhabit the city. These are people who refuse to integrate and move only amongst their own insular groups. And right here in Lawson, the typical bystander couldn’t even speak English! Conversing loudly in foreign tongues in public is not appealing. I wondered if things were like this when I was Premier. I couldn’t remember…maybe I should have taken more notice.

After all that, we didn’t get to see Scott Morrison play guitar. He’d been arrested by immigration. Shipped off to Nauru, apparently. No one was really sure. SHHHHHHH! they said through a raised index finger, “Operational procedures. It’s a secret.”

An Open Letter To The Sickos Of The Left

Sickos of the Left, take heed: If you believe childish slurs and the word “fuck” put you way, way ahead of other political protesters, you’re wrong. You’re just ignorant. You will never out sick the sickos of the Right. Please stop trying. You can not win (there is nothing to win). The conservative side of politics wrote the dirty rule book and always will use your attempts at wickedness against you, thus undermining any cause you believe you are helping.

Conservative voters are perpetually drunk from the poisonous propaganda the Right have churned out over the years. It’s to be expected. That should not be impetus to buy into this intoxicating poison and play tit-for-tat gutter ball with the enemy.

Your gutter-thugs-playing-politics-mentality is not new, but since the beginning of social media you have placed the repugnant beast under the microscope until it is now 200 nanometres from the minds eye…and that is too close for comfort. One five minute scan across your social media “political postings” that directly criticise the Abbott Government, and it’s easy to fathom how you contributed to We the people getting “the Government We deserve.” Branding the current PM a misogynistic, homophobic, or even a racist is one thing, calling The PM school yard bully names, urging his assassination, and suggesting his family be sodomised to death is another. You are not “true believers” or “fellow travellers.” Your soul, oozing with the hatred projected onto you from Murdoch, Bolt and Jones, is at the very best paddling in the same filthy puddle with the dirty ducks of the Right. If, as you claim, you know exactly what the hateful Right looks like, you should take time to peak into the looking glass and see what using the same hateful tactics to “play’em at their own game” has done to you.

When you gleefully celebrated the death of Margaret Thatcher on the web and on British streets, you weren’t helping the Left. You were just being a nuisance. Your vice riddled celebration was no more justified than the Rights relentless vilification of former Prime Minister Gillard. Likewise, your vile belittlement of Sarah Palin was the wrong response to the Right’s Hilary Clinton toilet brush. When the ALP are factually pointing out Prime Minister Abbott’s short comings and you are simultaneously slandering woman right of centre or, as the last federal election showed, the female family of a centre-right politician, you are supplying grist for the vindictive mill of the Right.

Look at this micro-sample of Tweets:

  • “What would Tony Abbott do if one of his daughter’s became a prostitute?”
  • “Tony Abbott’s daughters now snorting lines off toilets at Lib HQ”
  • “Can’t wait for a leaked sex tape of the @TonyAbbottMHR daughters #ElectionProject”
  • “We should pelt Abbott’s repulsive daughters with rotten fruit and veg at every opportunity. The Whores of @LiberalAus”
  • “Tony Abbot’s [sic] daughters look like men. Ugly. #TonyAbbott”
  • “Tony Abbott’s daughters look like trannies 2nite #ausvotes”
  • “Tony Abbott groping his daughters live on national TV”
  • “Tony Abbott’s daughters glad they can finally stop playfully stroking their dad’s chest”
  • “Tony Abbott lusts after his daughters. Margie looks like a man, no wonder perv Tony can’t keep his hands off them”

Are you a “proud Lefty” responsible for/approving of such bosh? Do you believe it will contribute to a tide of effluent so enormous it will somehow eventually crush an Abbott led Government?

It will not.

Many Australians watched the election results on September 2013 with a heavy heart, one eye on the TV and one eye on various social media. As disheartening as the results coming through the TV may have been for the Left, your reactions were beyond disturbing. A slew of deviant rage at how the majority of Australians had voted, crass sexualised commentary aimed at Tony Abbott’s wife and daughters, including threats of rape and violence. Your behaviour was like Nazis shooting puppies in a barrel or booby-trapping infrastructure as you retreat from an advancing enemy. It was and is despicable.

The sanctimonious Right will pounce on your sewer approach. To them, it’s like mana and serves only to egg on their fearless “born to lead” rants, abetted by heavy-hitting propagandists such as Jones and Bolt. They do not need your seeping swill from the blogosphere and Twitterverse, but so long as it exists the Right will use it to manufacture their strange demonology, to tighten ranks and transform any undecided voter into an army of Leftist haters. Character assassination remains the most used technique from the Right’s playbook: A deliberate reverse ad hominem manoeuvre whereby genuine political disagreements from opponents are spun to appear as personal hate-motivated slurs. Surely you have heard the media attack dogs for the Tea Party using this daily and automatically:

  • You don’t want The War On Terror? You are the enemy!
  • You want gun control? You are against the constitution and a non-patriot!
  • You think the rich don’t pay enough taxes? That’s because you’re a Socialist stooge!
  • You vote Democrat? You’re a watermelon: Green on the outside, Red in the middle.

When the same tactic is employed down-under and you respond with a “Tony Abbott should be assassinated” page, or post: “Tony Abbott should just die” the only ones really laughing are those on the Right of politics. When the ALP put forward a well constructed, critical comment on the current PM’s cabinet containing only one female, at the same time you create a “Furiously Masturbating To Tony Abbott’s Daughters” page or click LIKE on postings containing the vilest of depraved descriptions, you are not contributing to the Left. You are empowering the Right.

The lowly practice of demonising the enemy is encouraged by the intellectual vanguard of the Right. When this occurs, the hateful spin must be neutralised with clear, consistent fact, skilfully targeted for maximum effect and repeated ad nauseam. Certainly, this is happening. However, the desired impact is diluted when you start reaching for torches, pitchforks and nooses, and the paraphernalia morphs into a scrawl of baseless Facebook and Twitter postings that contribute nothing to any real or imagined objective (the ousting of a conservative Government, for example). Peppering your worthless blabber with “Fuck You” or “Big Ears” or “Moron” along with orgiastic, pain inflicting suggestions that places a Prime Minister’s family in the same hateful cross-hairs does nothing to elevate the status of your rants. It simply plays into the hands of the Right; stokes the furnace of their hateful machine; makes your actions a “counter productive” dictionary reference; places the true believers at the feet of Murdoch, Jones and Bolt; it contributes to the ugly divisiveness in 21st century Australia.

You are not helping.

So please…pretty please with sugar on top, get your head above your knees and think twice before whipping out a simplistic “fuck” or overused insult like “wing-nut” or “moron” or “idiot.” If you really believe the current PM deserves all these insults and more, it won’t be difficult to out wit him and his kind with truth based intellect, will it.

When you write, your copy wields great potential. Don’t squander it. If you are unsure, shut up.