Part III - BRB – over; thank you gods.
There’s little else of import to tell; certainly nothing of significant value. I expect those who believe ‘selfies’’ of you and your mates in the dunny, together, are cool will be happy . I accept it has a certain je ne sais quoi; but for the rest of us, those that made the effort, what can we take away? Jabiru and Brumby went home with empty pockets, followed by the blank stares of those who failed, totally and utterly to ‘get it’. Export markets are no where near as important as frolics in the bathroom and selfies’ of the same hi-jinx; no Siree. – Click – Selfy.
Who else was noteworthy; the Rev. Forsyth was not asked – by anyone – to say a word or two; maybe it’s just as well. I mean what could he have to say in the face of such comprehensive understanding of the situation. The toilet conference had it sorted; and, no awkward questions (on notice) from the likes of Senator bloody David blasted Fawcett was going to spoil the fun. The hide of the man; really!, asking exactly where the ministerial directive for CASA to get off it’s corpulent rump was up to is the height of poor form. Shame on you – Click – Selfy.
I did have a quiet smile when Karen Casey ambushed Barnbaby; much like the ghost at Hamlets feast; or, better still, one of the three who visited Scrooge; past, present and future. I thought and expected Barnbaby to be a ‘bigger’ man, the man his speech writer portrays, but when stacked up, face to face, against the courage and fortitude of KC in a brief moment, you see the inner man; this accountant turned ruler of Australia. Disappointing, no matter, he’ll always have Darren and that magic moment they shared in the Aero-club loo. Click - Selfy.
Tony Windsor both cracked and cheered me up; the face of doom, live, and very, very real; no semblance of a smile, grim as my boss, staring at Barnbaby obfuscating and slip-sliding. Priceless. If I lived up that way, I reckon I’d vote for him, just for that alone. There was a notable change in the Barnbaby delivery and energy level, he even stopped slurring his words and pretending to be a Truckie, not an accountant, for few minutes. I doubt Tony got invited to the man’s room photo opportunity party; too straight by half. Bravo Messrs Windsor & Duddy; bravo indeed. No Selfy required.
That’s about the end of the BRB/PAIN thoughts on the matter. In summary, Chester is a light weight, a hairdresser, a make up artist for TV ‘life experience’ shows; Barnbaby a model (one of many) for the Chester pin up of the month (Selfie add in) competition.
The Independents, Windsor, Xenophon etc. all seem to lack the arrogance, sense of entitlement and sense of self importance that these cosseted children of the Turnbull clan have. I don’t know much about politics. But I know engines and my sky and my ocean; I know horses and I know dogs; I know pilots - and their ways – but most of all – I know my fellow man. This pair have been weighed; they have been measured; and, I’d vote for my tea lady as PM before I’d walk up the hill to vote for this toilet dwelling heap of dross.
Here endeth, on Monday, the Sunday ramble. Flush.
Selah.
There’s little else of import to tell; certainly nothing of significant value. I expect those who believe ‘selfies’’ of you and your mates in the dunny, together, are cool will be happy . I accept it has a certain je ne sais quoi; but for the rest of us, those that made the effort, what can we take away? Jabiru and Brumby went home with empty pockets, followed by the blank stares of those who failed, totally and utterly to ‘get it’. Export markets are no where near as important as frolics in the bathroom and selfies’ of the same hi-jinx; no Siree. – Click – Selfy.
Who else was noteworthy; the Rev. Forsyth was not asked – by anyone – to say a word or two; maybe it’s just as well. I mean what could he have to say in the face of such comprehensive understanding of the situation. The toilet conference had it sorted; and, no awkward questions (on notice) from the likes of Senator bloody David blasted Fawcett was going to spoil the fun. The hide of the man; really!, asking exactly where the ministerial directive for CASA to get off it’s corpulent rump was up to is the height of poor form. Shame on you – Click – Selfy.
I did have a quiet smile when Karen Casey ambushed Barnbaby; much like the ghost at Hamlets feast; or, better still, one of the three who visited Scrooge; past, present and future. I thought and expected Barnbaby to be a ‘bigger’ man, the man his speech writer portrays, but when stacked up, face to face, against the courage and fortitude of KC in a brief moment, you see the inner man; this accountant turned ruler of Australia. Disappointing, no matter, he’ll always have Darren and that magic moment they shared in the Aero-club loo. Click - Selfy.
Tony Windsor both cracked and cheered me up; the face of doom, live, and very, very real; no semblance of a smile, grim as my boss, staring at Barnbaby obfuscating and slip-sliding. Priceless. If I lived up that way, I reckon I’d vote for him, just for that alone. There was a notable change in the Barnbaby delivery and energy level, he even stopped slurring his words and pretending to be a Truckie, not an accountant, for few minutes. I doubt Tony got invited to the man’s room photo opportunity party; too straight by half. Bravo Messrs Windsor & Duddy; bravo indeed. No Selfy required.
That’s about the end of the BRB/PAIN thoughts on the matter. In summary, Chester is a light weight, a hairdresser, a make up artist for TV ‘life experience’ shows; Barnbaby a model (one of many) for the Chester pin up of the month (Selfie add in) competition.
The Independents, Windsor, Xenophon etc. all seem to lack the arrogance, sense of entitlement and sense of self importance that these cosseted children of the Turnbull clan have. I don’t know much about politics. But I know engines and my sky and my ocean; I know horses and I know dogs; I know pilots - and their ways – but most of all – I know my fellow man. This pair have been weighed; they have been measured; and, I’d vote for my tea lady as PM before I’d walk up the hill to vote for this toilet dwelling heap of dross.
Here endeth, on Monday, the Sunday ramble. Flush.
Selah.