Days of mumps and Trumps
When Curmudgeon was a kid, he caught the mumps. This was not a surprise because all kids caught the mumps. Catching the mumps was a rite of passage, along with catching the measles (both German and non-racial), catching whooping cough, the flu, diphtheria and catching a clip on the ear if you were deemed to have done something wrong.
The prevalence of most of these scourges has been wiped out. Now you catch the Trumps. The Trumps started out as dormant disease quietly incubating among lower life forms in the United States, such as the National Rifle Association, but also extant in other pockets of ignorance in Australia and the Western world.
Alarmingly, this once-minor affliction is now reaching epidemic status and has health authorities worried; it is a disease of the brain which, once inside your cranium, is almost impossible to eradicate. Experts say it’s allied to climate-change denial. Contracting one of these diseases frequently leads to the other, and the unfortunate victims are condemned to a life of almost total blindness.
Curmudgeon ran a piece on the dangers of catching the Trumps last post, which has attracted wide attention. As a community service, we will now retrace crucial elements of that conversation:
Curmudgeon set the scene mildly enough, by quoting himself.
“… surely this clown can’t be a candidate for the White House,” he said he had said. “We know they’re a weird mob. but surely the Republicans wouldn’t endorse such an oaf. Well, they did and in a tactical sense they were right. And the world is now paying the price for that stupidity.”
Dave Taylor quickly chimed in with all the subtly of a mocking bird: ‘ “The Trump presidency is heading for crisis?” Didn’t the OZ press say something similar re the Morrison Government before the recent election? Be careful Michael with predictions!’
From memory, Dave, Curmudgeon, (who usually doesn’t answer to Christian names when he’s working) suggested ScoMo might just make it by re-inventing himself as a cut-price, knockabout Bob Hawke.
Peter Lander, who I know went to school with Taylor in Narrandera in the middle of last century, volunteered that it was the polls, not so much the press, which got the election forecast wrong.
Acting as a proxy Curmudgeon, Lander predicted that Trump, if he were still around, would win a second term because of his talent for knowing which lies the gullible US public wants to hear. The impending crisis did not come from voters, but from a significant number of influential Republicans who believed Donald should be locked up in jail or a mental institution.
Then in an impressive reading of Curmudgeon’s mind, Lander wrote. “No matter what bulldust photo opportunity he likes to create, he is helping a bloodthirsty, kinfolk-killing lunatic acquire nuclear weapons,”
At this stage, the intellectual duel took a strange turn.
Enter Johnny Tutt. Tutty is an old mate, an accomplished actor, a reliable financial adviser and possibly the world’s worst golfer, rivalled in this sphere only by Blackie and Curmudgeon himself.
“G’day Mick,” he wrote, ignoring the fact that I was a working Curmudgeon, “Caught up with mum on the weekend and she asked about you.”
This could be good news or it could be bad news. Mum wanted to be put on the Curmudgeon mailing list.
It’s okay mum, I’ve put you in, but I do hope you know the difference between a person’s personal inbox and the response box at the end of a blog where readers are invited to voice an opinion.
Because by now, Curmudgeon, Mick and Michael were all getting jacked off by readers hogging the inbox, ignoring the proper place for their views. Just how far from gruntled we were became apparent when this item appeared in the inbox:
“Help!! I’ve just looked in on the blog and there’s a big empty box there which says Write the first response. I repeat, it says Write the first response. I kid you not it says Write the first response. Am I dreaming, my eyesight is failing, I’m pretty sure it says Write the first response. Maybe I am dreaming, maybe it doesn’t say Write the first response, maybe it says ‘Let’s clutter up Mick’s inbox, that’ll teach him’, but to this deluded old timer it says Write the first response. Maybe it’s the glaucoma or macular degeneration or sandy blight kicking in, but I could have sworn it said Write the first response.”
The war of words now took an unlikely turn. A character named Neale Morison, whom I’ve known for years, chipped in with: “In order to stem the flow of your profoundly passive-aggressive demands for an initial reply, I attempted to provide a beginning backatcha. I was planning to say something incisive, cool and deeply and richly amusing. However, I was invited to login by a variety of criminal monopolies, not the least of which were Gargle and F***b**k. Are you a front for these mega-Mafiosi, these gigabuck gangstas? The progressive pretence merely a vainglorious veil?”
Wouldn’t have a clue; read and reread it, and just as mystified as ever. I think we must put Neale in the too-intelligent basket. And compliment him on his musical aptitude — he sings and strums a mean guitar. Although Curmudgeon was quick to point out that he had sometimes leant towards active-aggressive, never passive.
The inbox debate was becoming more and more muddied. Someone tried to turn the discussion around to presidents who died of natural causes in contrast to being assassinated. Curmudgeon reminded the readers that in the US, death by gunshot was a natural cause.
The irrepressible Peter Lander held his silence for possibly half an hour before jumping in again, this time representing only himself: “If the Donald dies in office of natural causes, that will be the first natural thing I’ve seen him do.”
Luckily, my friend Kristina chipped in with a reality check: ’I’m surrounded by Americans on this Mediterranean cruise and everyone I’ve talked to is extremely happy with what T has achieved, yes they think he has a few strange habits but he’s doing what he promised and they’re all totally sure that he will waltz into his next term. Am still looking for a dissenting voice, but am not hopeful.”
Sorry, Kris, you might be mixing with the wrong crowd. Besides, Curmudgeon has it on the very best authority that, far from showing off with his much-photographed first step into North Korea, Donald was holding talks with Killer Kim about the possibility of defecting, speaking brazenly in code with the whole world watching.
Slipping down a watery slope
Sorry we can’t identify our source for the sensational news we have just revealed above. But we believe it will come as no surprise to the acute observer.
On Independence Day, when a seemingly befuddled Trump appeared to be making a hash of things, he was in fact sending a coded message to his chubby chum in North Korea. He was informing the little dictator that he would jump ship, accept Kim’s offer of asylum. No wonder he stumbled; he was talking treachery.
When he told his devoted red-capped followers that American revolutionary forces had closed off airports 127 years before planes had been invented, he was really saying he would land in Air Force One at Kim’s favourite air field 127 days from July 4. That’s November 8, mark it in your diary. Donald’s whole Salute to America address was a cleverly coded message to Rocket Man — I’m with you, baby, here’s how I’ll do it.
How do we know this? Because Curmudgeon has had a gaggle of cryptologists on the case together with some of our best soothsayers, fortune tellers and lip-reading specialists. They’ve been exploring this tricky situation ever since Donald’s speech.
We know there will be mockers. That was ever so. The mockers and knockers have multiplied since we announced that the Earth is flat. Some people just will not acknowledge the self-evident when it looks them in the eye.
They drag out that old furphy that Magellan or Columbus, or one of those swarthy types, determined that the world was round after seeing ships on the horizon progressively disappear from the plimsoll line up, until the tip of the mast finally went to a watery grave.
Haven’t they heard of slopes? These medieval sailing boats obviously were sliding down a watery slope.
We plan to submit our findings to Queensland’s One Nation senator Malcolm Roberts, the scourge of sloppy, non-empirical science.
So long, it’s been good to know you …
One of our number has opted out. Nothing dramatic. No harsh words, just a polite “Please take me off the mailing list for your blog.” He’s a good bloke and we have no problem in wishing him well:.
Only too happy to oblige, mate; will give you more time to tune in to Ray Hadley, Alan Jones and Andrew Bolt. Drop in, if you’re in our vicinity we’ll shout you a drink and we can discuss the weather.
Highs and lows of baby-speak
In England, the Royal Family managed to impose itself on the usual July 4 hullabaloo. Strangely, it did so by keeping a low profile.
Prince Harry warned the media weeks ago that he, his wife Meghan and recently-born son Archie would be living out of the spotlight as much as possible until the boy was older.
True to Harry’s word, they had the tiny tot christened privately without fanfare, also without the Queen. The secrecy drew a deal of criticism from some royal watchers. The young royals must know by now they will come under attack whichever way they jump.
The Queen and her merry crew have long been targets for vehemence, adulation and anything in-between. We in the media have no compunction about calling them William, Harry, Camila or whatever, as if they’re our close mates who might drop in uninvited for a cuppa or a tinny.
We know how they feel. Curmudgeon’s daughter Jess and her husband Jake had their first child on Independence Day. We encourage people to call her Veronica because that is her name. We don’t mind people referring to her as beautiful, lovely, stunning — all those adjectives habitually applied to female royalty — because that’s what she is.
But a word of warning. Some media have begun calling young Archie “Baby Sussex”. Please, please, never ever call Veronica Baby New South Wales!
