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WHY? WHY?
Melbourne writer and union activist Jeana Vithoulkas asks:
Why does being a Leftie in Australia have such a bad name?
Beats me, Jeana. Maybe you should ask Robert Manne, Tim Palmer, Christopher Sheil, Terry Lane, Hugh Mackay, Bob Brown, Wayne Sanderson, Phillip Adams, Margo Kingston, David Marr, Andrew West, Catherine Deveny, Bob Ellis, John Doyle, Traceeee Hutchison, Nick Dyrenfurth, Mark Latham, Tim Flannery, Alan Ramsey, Michael Leunig, Adele Horin or any number of bad Australian leftoid names. Search ‘em up on the searcher.
Poke a leftard and what do you find?
Why a leftard of course.
Silly! what else do you think you would find?
Posted by joe bagadonuts on 2008 01 14 at 03:42 PM • permalink“Why is it that in Greece and other European countries, being on the Left or supportive of the Left is not met with ridicule, disdain or horror?”
Europe hasn’t gotten it right since the French Reign of Terror. Why deviate from a record like that?
Why does being a Leftie in Australia have such a bad name?
Lefties sound too much like Europeans, be my guess.
War wasn’t actually on our doorstep.
Um, yes it was. See Port Moresby, Guadalcanal and the Coral Sea. All fought by some very un-European chaps.
It’s not a fear of being put in jail, but it’s a fear of being ridiculed.
Something Conservatives got comfortable with during the 60s and 70s.
Because lefties just so progressive.
Lefties are Boy Scouts who don’t hesitate to help a little old lady across the street. And are then surprised and hurt when they get abused and hit over the head with an umbrella by said little old lady. Little old lady is annoyed at finding herself stranded on the wrong side of the street.
Posted by walterplinge on 2008 01 14 at 04:17 PM • permalinkWell, speaking as an observer from another country, Australia’s lefties seem so friggin’ excitable and given to terminal bouts of pathos. Lefties here in the States are no less lefty and paranoid, really, but at least they make an effort (at least the mainstream ones do) to sound halfway sane and collected. That’s what makes them so dangerous. And why I think they need to be tagged like cattle so we can keep track of them.
Miss Sharp looks up and sniffs violently, as the aroma of cheap jasmine perfume wafts into her nostrils while the book is being waggled under her nose; lips curling, she takes the book with the tips of her thumb and index finger – as if she were picking up a dead mouse – and tosses it into the return bin.
Been talking with an old friend (ex-fiance, actually) who is a librarian. According to her, librarians would weep with joy if a book came in smelling of nothing worse than cheap jasmine perfume.
Posted by Rob Crawford on 2008 01 14 at 05:42 PM • permalinkYour friend’s probably right, Rob. Most of my books are very old, and the smell ranges from slightly mildewed to low-grade maple syrup (a 19th century edition of Cowper’s poems; the syrup aroma is quite a mystery to me).
As she put it to me, “Excuse me, sir, I can tell you dropped this in the toilet.”
Posted by Rob Crawford on 2008 01 14 at 06:23 PM • permalinkThis is the first time I’ve seen any mention of Wayne Sanderson since I saw him energetically climbing about putting up election material on polling day in WestEnd, Brisbane.
Imagine my surprise when I now go and check out The Daily Briefing and find the same message he had from about 6-10 months ago telling his subscribers he’d be back in two weeks as he had to deal with some back pain.
I can report to his subscribers that he looked well and truly cured in November.
Perhaps Wayne might consider changing his service to “The Yearly Briefing”.
Lazy “Copy-and-Paste Wayne” wouldn’t work in an iron lung.Posted by Senator Andrew Bartlett on 2008 01 14 at 09:22 PM • permalinkWhy does being a Leftie in Australia have such a bad name?
We couldn’t think of a worse one.
Posted by richard mcenroe on 2008 01 14 at 09:35 PM • permalink#4 See Port Moresby
Too right, My father was on the MV Macdui when it was sunk in Port Moresby by a Japanese bomber.
Posted by Captain Sensible on 2008 01 15 at 04:41 AM • permalinkAdherents to a political ideology with hands bloodier than any other in living memory? Bloodier than ALL others in living memory combined? More millions slaughtered under its directives, than even the nasty nazis* managed?
The same festering bags of snivel that provide the growth medium and cover for our current existential enemy?
The people that have allowed themselves to become indoctrinated into such a deeply held sense of self hatred that they actually, openly and overtly call for their own culture to be eliminated?
What’s not to hate about people so intellectually inbred and mindlessly moronic as to hold to such things?
*nazis. That other grotesquely anti-human socialist utopianism.
It’s that whole “can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs” thing.
Except instead of “breaking eggs” we mean “murdering millions of human beings” and “make an omelet” means “enslave the ones we didn’t murder. Yet”
Yeah yeah yeah, so ya commit a bunch of genocides, and BAM! for the rst of your life that’s all anyone ever remembers. Does anyone ever mention Hitler liked dogs and was a vegetarian? Nooooooo, it’s all the whining about mass murder, all the time. Anyone want to talk about all the tractor factories Stalin had built? Noooooo, it’s whine, whine, whine about the people he had killed so he could take their land and build tractor factories on it. And Mao - China was facing massive food shortages, and after a few years or Great Leaping Forward, those left alive almost had enough food! But nobody wants to talk about that.
Well, nobody but lefties anyway. And yet they have a bad name.
Posted by Steve Skubinna on 2008 01 16 at 04:57 AM • permalinksteve Skkubinna:
Then there’s the lefties that get to positions of power. Like our own Jimmah Cartah.
Helped the Sovs with their inability to transport grains from their farms to their cities by have the US build the world’s largest truck manufactory. That’s where the trucks used to carry the new Sov SS21 surface to surface nuke came from. No trucks made to carry grain though. So our Jimmah gave the Sovs loads and loads of grain for free.
That grain wasn’t used to feed Sov citizens either. It was stockpiled in the same facilities as the grain they raised themselves, sprayed with the same substances and allowed to ferment the same weaponized biological commonly referred to as “yellow rain”.
Then, to help the poor commies in China, our Jimmah gave them one of the few super computers existing in the world at the time. It was to help them do research. It was installed on the third floor of the Peking University. That same floor that is closed to all but military personnel. That same floor that housed the commie China military missile command communications and control facility.
Lefties identify with all external enemy all the time. The baseline requirement of their ideology is the total destruction of their host culture and society.
Lefism, is an addition to treason.
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Oh, swell. Now we’re done with cricket talk? Not quite yet, bucko!
Having failed to find a respite from the cricket wars, even in the distinctly non-anglo ambiance of Paco’s Cantina, the Paco Kid ambles down the plank boardwalk to Belle Larue’s House of Joy. Finding a “hostess” of voluptuous frame, sleek black hair, and sparkling blue eyes, sitting on the red velour Victorian sofa in the parlor - reading a newspaper and idly snapping the garter belt holding up her fishnet stockings – he attempts to strike up a conversation.
Paco Kid: So, honey, you look kinda lonesome. Buy you a drink?
Hostess: Just a minute, sweetie. Have you read this article by that scoundrel Roebuck? What nerve! Who the hell appointed him classroom monitor? Why, he ain’t fit to fasten Ponting’s shoelaces. This whole Indian business is a bad rap, if you ask me.
Paco Kid (Sighs ruefully): ‘Scuse me, ma’am, but I just dropped in to ask the way to the library.
Hostess: It’s just down the block, next to the general merchandise store. Oh, hon! If you’re goin’ that way, can you do me a favor and return this book to the library? ( she withdraws a small paperback from the recesses of her ample bosom - “The Official Companion to the Cricket World Cup”).
Paco Kid ( Takes book – warm to the touch and smelling strongly of jasmine scent – and pockets it). Glad to, ma’am, glad to.
*******
Opens door to the public library. Seated on a high stool behind a counter, ramrod straight, is a thin, angular woman, with iron gray hair pulled back in a bun, and a white shawl draped over her narrow shoulders; the effect is rather like a snow-laden pine tree. She is identified by a modest nameplate as “Priscilla Sharp – Librarian”. Miss Sharp is writing slowly, but steadily, on a sheet of stationer’s letter paper. The Paco Kid approaches with the self-conscious stealth that one adopts in libraries (as well as in funeral parlors and hospital rooms).
Paco Kid (nearly whispering): Pardon me, ma’am. I’m returning this book for a friend.
Miss Sharp looks up and sniffs violently, as the aroma of cheap jasmine perfume wafts into her nostrils while the book is being waggled under her nose; lips curling, she takes the book with the tips of her thumb and index finger – as if she were picking up a dead mouse – and tosses it into the return bin.
Paco Kid: Ah, I was interested in finding out if you have any big city newspapers or magazines? I see that you’re busy writing a letter, there, so if you’ll just point the way . . .
Miss Sharp: Oh, it’s no bother. I’m just writing a letter to the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald, complimenting the efforts of the noble Mr. Roebuck in taking to task that abettor of hooliganism, Mr. Ponting. There! (she signed the letter with an elegant flourish). Now, let’s see, big city publications . . . We’ve got “The Playfair Cricket Annual” . . . “World Cricket Monthly” . . . “The Cricketer International” . . .
Having no desire to listen to the entire roll call of what was beginning to sound like 100% of the planet’s cricket publications, the Paco Kid doffs his Stetson, bids good evening to Miss Sharp, and heads over to the livery stable to collect his horse, “Capital Gains”, with the goal of riding off into the Cabeza Prieta desert and hiding out until all the cricket chirping dies down. Roy, the venerable old livery stable owner, sits on an upturned pail. A corn-cob pipe juts from underneath his white, bottle-brush mustache, and he’s absorbed in a magazine.
Paco Kid (with some trepidation): What you readin’, there, Roy?
Roy: Hmm? Oh, hi ya, Kid. I was just thumbin’ through the racin’ form.
Paco Kid: That’s wonderful, Roy, just plain wonderful! Here’s your fee for tendin’ Gapital Gains for me, and a five-dollar bonus! Gee-up, boy, heeeeee-YA!