Blazing Saddles
Well-Known Member
Makes a change to have the real thing instead of Trump’s verbal.
Donald I, emperor of the world.
- Thread starter C R
- Start date
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briantrumpet
Timewaster
Lindsay Graham has died, age 71. Didn't have that on my bingo card. Meanwhile rumours are swirling around about the much older Mitch McConnell, who's been in hospital and not seen for more than two weeks.
briantrumpet
Timewaster
The people who rail against dancing on someone's grave probably need to stay away from social media for a while. Fair to say that Lindsay Graham wasn't universally loved. Died from a heart attack, it seems.
Pblakeney
Squire
Recently said not nice things about Russia. Just saying, not joining any dots.
secretsqirrel
spiteful class warrior
He had just come back from meeting Zelensky in Kyiv, alway backed support for Ukraine.
OP
OP
C R
Legendary Member
Where's the mallet to push the pieces in?
Pinno718
Legendary Member
Didn't find that but found this on Graham:
https://ifloz.substack.com/p/history-does-not-remember-what-you
Even Barack Obama, who is polite to a fault, put it in his memoir in black and white: Lindsey’s the guy who double-crosses everyone to save his own skin. When a former president writes that about you in a book, honey, that’s not a hot take. That’s a permanent record.
briantrumpet
Timewaster
Well, at least Adam Schiff is being nice, even if he is ignoring Graham's change from denouncing Jan 6 to completely backing Trump's lies about it, and...
Pblakeney
Squire
Looks like it has been withdrawn.
I knew I should have just copied and pasted.
Pblakeney
Squire
Righto. Sit the fark down, grab whatever’s left in the fridge, and strap in, because I am about to go off like a two-dollar servo pie in a microwave, and unlike the pie, every farking word of this is going to be worth it.
The Strait of Hormuz is closed. AGAIN. A-farking-GAIN. For those keeping score at home, and oh sweet suffering Christ are we keeping score, the gold-plated garden gnome in the White House signed his precious “historic” memorandum with Iran on June 17. The ink wasn’t dry. The champagne wasn’t flat. THREE DAYS later Iran slammed the strait shut again. Three days. I’ve had esky ice last longer than that farking deal. That’s not diplomacy, that’s a scratchie. You rub it, you win fark all, and the dodgy prick who sold it to you has already done a runner with your twenty bucks and your dignity.
And now the Yemenis are warming up on the sideline like a reserve-grade forward who’s just been told he’s on, and mate, he has been WAITING. The Houthis and Tehran’s whole “resistance front” are openly talking about slamming Bab el-Mandeb shut as well. For the Yanks playing along at home, that’s the OTHER farking tap. Hormuz carries about a fifth of the world’s seaborne oil. Bab el-Mandeb is the back gate through the Red Sea. Shut both and you’ve corked a quarter of the planet’s energy supply, and even the Saudi workaround, pumping crude overland to Yanbu, goes straight in the farking bin, because guess which strait Yanbu’s tankers sail through, you geography-proof farking muppets. Every ship on Earth ends up schlepping around the Cape of Good Hope, two extra weeks, millions in extra fuel, all so one man could have his little fireworks show.
Oh, and while we’re taking inventory of this flaming shitheap, Russia’s on fire. LITERALLY on fire. Ukraine has torched nearly HALF of Russia’s refining capacity, the Kremlin just banned diesel exports entirely, and Russia was supplying eleven percent of the world’s farking diesel. Two-thirds of Russia’s own regions are rationing fuel. Their servo queues are longer than a Bunnings snag line on grand final day, except nobody’s getting a sausage, the onions are on fire, and the thing hovering overhead isn’t a seagull, it’s a farking drone.
So let’s do the maths, because clearly nobody within cooee of the Oval Office can count past their own indictments. One fifth of the world’s oil bottled up behind Hormuz. The Red Sea back door about to get the shutters pulled. Eleven percent of the world’s diesel yanked off the market by a country whose refineries currently have the structural integrity of a Jenga tower in an earthquake. Now what do you farking reckon that does to the price at the pump, Einstein? Brent was sitting around 72 US dollars a barrel before this circus rolled into town. It peaked near 120 on futures and physical cargoes were changing hands at damn near 150. American petrol punched through four bucks a gallon and kept farking climbing.
And down here? Australia holds about 29 days of diesel in reserve. Twenty-nine. farking. Days. That’s our entire margin between “she’ll be right” and “the supermarket shelves are bare, the harvesters are dead in the paddock, and grandma’s ambulance is running on hopes and prayers.” Every truck, every tractor, every ambo in this country operates on the assumption that some 80-year-old fantasist on the other side of the Pacific won’t set the world’s petrol bowser on fire because a general on the telly hurt his feelings.
Too late, cobber. He already farking did.
And here’s the bit that should have every American launching their cornflakes across the kitchen like a trebuchet. HIS OWN JOINT CHIEFS WARNED HIM. Before the first bomb dropped, the top brass sat that man down, used small words, probably brought pictures, maybe a hand puppet, and told him Iran could close the strait. And he waved them off. Said Iran would capitulate. Said if they closed it, the US military would just pop it back open like a stubbie.
How’s that going, champ? Because from where I’m sitting, Iran turned back three container ships the very morning after you told the world the strait was “completely open,” and they’ve been charging ships up to two million US dollars a pop for a hall pass. Read that back slowly, America. Iran is running a farking toll booth on the world’s oil supply, and your president is the useful idiot who poured the concrete, painted the boom gate, and cut the farking ribbon.
Twenty-eight deal claims. Eight blown deadlines. TACO isn’t a nickname anymore, it’s a bloody coroner’s report.
Which brings me, at long farking last, to you. The Republican Party. Come here. Sit down. Dad needs a word.
You spineless, belly-crawling, yellow-bellied farking grubs. You jellyfish. You wobbling, gutless sacks of focus-grouped piss. There are 271 of you cowards in Congress with an R next to your name, and not ONE of you, not one solitary farking human being among you, has the stones to stand up to a doddering, dithering, dribbling 80-year-old windbag at the arse end of his miserable sex offending pedo loving decomposing life. A man who has grifted and grafted and lied his way out of every consequence since the Nixon administration. A man who has enriched himself beyond the wildest wet dreams of the working people he pretends to give a shoot about, while delivering them nothing, NOTHING, but four-dollar petrol, dead soldiers’ folded flags, and invoices addressed to their grandkids.
Your founding fathers, blokes in tights with quills and actual farking courage, handed you the tools. It’s called the Constitution. Article One. Impeachment. It’s RIGHT THERE. You don’t even need to go to Bunnings. Article Twenty-Five if you’d prefer the polite version where you all pretend it’s about his health. Barry Goldwater once walked into the Oval Office and told a president of his own party it was over. That took a spine. You lot couldn’t pool your collective vertebrae and build a farking prawn.
Instead, you hide. You mumble about “concerns” into your soup. You do the airport-corridor speed-shuffle past reporters like a bloke dodging his ex at the pub, eyes down, phone out, “sorry mate, gotta take this,” you absolute farking cowards. You watch him torch a century of alliances, torch the global oil market, torch your own voters’ hip pockets, and your grand contribution to the republic, your profile in courage, is a strongly worded farking shrug.
You know what you remind me of? Every dodgy subcontractor I ever had the misfortune of working with. All talk at the quote, invisible when the slab cracks. The house is on fire, the client is screaming, and you’re out the back having a durrie telling each other it’s “not your scope of works.” IT’S YOUR farkING HOUSE, YOU MORONS. Your name is on the deed. History is going to send you the bill and it does not do payment plans.
And the world is watching, by the way. I need this to actually penetrate, so listen carefully: we are not angry at you anymore. We are LAUGHING at you. Australia, your oldest mate, the country that has RSVP’d yes to every single one of your wars since 1918, that bled with you at Hamel and Kokoda and Long Tan and Kabul, is sitting here watching the self-proclaimed greatest democracy on Earth get led around by the nose by a man who couldn’t negotiate his way out of a paper bag with a map, a torch, and both farking ends open. You are a punchline in every parliament, every pub, and every port from here to Rotterdam. When your president speaks at the UN, world leaders now do the thing you do when the office weirdo starts explaining his cryptocurrency. Polite nodding. Dead eyes. Quiet horror.
So here is my message, from a former tradie who has seen every species of dodgy operator walk off a half-finished job: GET UP. Get up off the farking gutter. Do the actual job. The one in the oath. The one about the Constitution, not the one about kissing the ring at Mar-a-Lardo and hoping the mad king endorses your primary. Impeach him. Remove him. Restore some law, some order, and some basic bloody adult supervision to the United States of America before the only thing left to supervise is the ashtray.
Because right now the entire planet can see the thing you won’t say into a microphone: the emperor has no clothes, no plan, no peace deal, no shame, and no farking idea. And you, the Republican Party of the United States of America, are the sad bastards holding his coat and telling the fire brigade it’s under control.
Do your job. Or get out of the way for someone with a working spine and a functioning farking conscience.
We’re angry down here. We’re hurting at the pump like everyone else. And all we’ve got to ease the pain is the truth, said loudly, with the appropriate quantity of swearing.
Consider it farking said.
IFLA ~ Gman Angry
IFLA is reader-funded and ad-free. No billionaires, no advertisers, no sponsors to offend, just One Bloke, Two Sheilas, and a Shih Tzu Terrier who heard this rant read aloud and left the room. If this said what you can’t say at work, at church, or at Christmas lunch with your MAGA uncle, share it with someone who’s suffering at the bowser too. That’s what we’re here for.
Subscribe
THE AUSSIE-TO-YANKIE WORD UNRAVELLING DEVICE
A standing feature for our American readers, who keep emailing to ask what the bloody hell half these words mean. Australian and American are technically the same language, in the way a servo pie and a gas station hot dog are technically the same food: both live under a heat lamp next to the fuel, both are of legally ambiguous origin, and both lodge a formal complaint with your stomach somewhere around the state line. One of them, however, is a beloved national institution, and we will not be taking questions on which. Below is the full decoded master. Use them wisely, or at least loudly.
ambo: An ambulance, or the paramedic driving it, because Australians will not let a three-syllable word survive when two will do. The only vehicle in the country allowed to run a red light to universal applause, and one of thousands that run on diesel, of which Australia keeps roughly 29 days in reserve. Which means grandma’s ride to hospital is now downstream of the mood in the Strait of Hormuz. Sleep well.
bowser: A petrol pump. Where Australians queue up to be personally victimised by Middle East geopolitics, one tank at a time. Every ceasefire collapse in the Gulf arrives at your local bowser about a fortnight later with a ten-cent surcharge and no apology. See also: servo.
Bunnings: The cathedral-sized hardware chain that doubles as the national town square, chiefly on the strength of the charity sausage sizzle in the car park. A snag in white bread for a couple of bucks is the benchmark unit of cheapness, so to make a serious thing “look like a Bunnings sausage sizzle” is to shrink it to loose change. See also: snag.
cobber: A mate, but vintage grade. Digger slang from the First World War, the era when Australia first started RSVP’ing yes to America’s fights, a habit we have maintained for a century with the loyalty of a kelpie and roughly the same say in where the ute is going. When an Australian calls you cobber, you have history together. When we call America cobber, we are reminding you of the receipts.
cooee: A long, carrying bush call (”coo-ee!”) used to locate someone across distance, now welded into the phrase “within cooee,” meaning within earshot or anywhere near. “Not within cooee of the wheel” means nowhere close to in control, which is the kindest available summary of who is steering the United States this week.
doing a runner: Fleeing without paying: from a restaurant, a cab, a marriage, or a signed memorandum of understanding with a sovereign nation. The dine-and-dash of international diplomacy. A bloke who signs a peace deal on the 17th and cops the strait slamming shut on the 20th has not brokered peace, he has done a runner on the bill and left the entire global economy to cover the tip.
durrie: A cigarette. Sibling of “dart,” cousin of “smoke,” and the official prop of the tradie who has downed tools to watch someone else’s disaster unfold. “Out the back having a durrie” is the national posture of a subcontractor who has decided the burning house is not in his scope of works. See also: dart, smoko, the Republican Party.
esky: A portable cooler for keeping beer and bait cold, named with zero shame after “Eskimo.” The beating heart of every Australian boot, tinnie and backyard. Ice never lasts, much like ceasefires.
reserve grade: The second-string team in footy, one rung below the real thing. Where you play while you wait for a call-up, or after the coach has seen enough. A “reserve-grade effort” is one performed at eighty percent capacity by someone auditioning for relevance, which is also a complete description of the Houthis circling Bab el-Mandeb waiting for Tehran to tap them on the shoulder.
scratchie: A scratch-off lottery ticket, the couple of dollars of cardboard hope you buy at the servo and lose at the counter. Also an accurate structural diagram of the June 17 memorandum: rub it, win fark all, and the bloke who sold it has done a runner.
servo: A service station. A gas station, to you. Where you buy your tinnie, your dim sim, and the servo sushi that has been revolving under a heat lamp since the Howard government.
servo pie: A meat pie purchased from a service station, Australia’s official long-haul road trip fuel. Structurally unsound, thermodynamically mysterious, molten at the centre and arctic at the rim, and spiritually essential. Goes off like a bomb in a microwave, much like this article.
she’ll be right: The unofficial national motto and the most structurally dangerous phrase in the English language. Means “near enough is good enough, stop fussing.” Responsible for roughly half the dodgy renos in this country and, on current evidence, one 29-day national diesel reserve. She is frequently not right.
snag: A sausage. Specifically the humble barbecue sausage, served on a single slice of white bread, with grilled onion and a stripe of sauce, and never, ever a bun. The official currency of the Bunnings hardware car park on a Saturday, where the nation funds its schools and footy clubs one snag at a time.
stubbie: A squat 375ml bottle of beer, engineered to be finished before it warms up, a design constraint Australia takes more seriously than most nations take their constitutions. Not to be confused with Stubbies, the immortal work shorts, though both are national treasures and both reveal more than some observers are ready for. Anyone who claims he can “pop a blockaded strait back open like a stubbie” has never opened either.
tradie: A tradesperson: plumber, sparkie (electrician), chippie (carpenter), brickie (bricklayer). The economic backbone of the country and the reason your house stays standing.
https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch...b53-0a72-44d8-ba88-c39aea4a59de_1537x1023.png
The Strait of Hormuz is closed. AGAIN. A-farking-GAIN. For those keeping score at home, and oh sweet suffering Christ are we keeping score, the gold-plated garden gnome in the White House signed his precious “historic” memorandum with Iran on June 17. The ink wasn’t dry. The champagne wasn’t flat. THREE DAYS later Iran slammed the strait shut again. Three days. I’ve had esky ice last longer than that farking deal. That’s not diplomacy, that’s a scratchie. You rub it, you win fark all, and the dodgy prick who sold it to you has already done a runner with your twenty bucks and your dignity.
And now the Yemenis are warming up on the sideline like a reserve-grade forward who’s just been told he’s on, and mate, he has been WAITING. The Houthis and Tehran’s whole “resistance front” are openly talking about slamming Bab el-Mandeb shut as well. For the Yanks playing along at home, that’s the OTHER farking tap. Hormuz carries about a fifth of the world’s seaborne oil. Bab el-Mandeb is the back gate through the Red Sea. Shut both and you’ve corked a quarter of the planet’s energy supply, and even the Saudi workaround, pumping crude overland to Yanbu, goes straight in the farking bin, because guess which strait Yanbu’s tankers sail through, you geography-proof farking muppets. Every ship on Earth ends up schlepping around the Cape of Good Hope, two extra weeks, millions in extra fuel, all so one man could have his little fireworks show.
Oh, and while we’re taking inventory of this flaming shitheap, Russia’s on fire. LITERALLY on fire. Ukraine has torched nearly HALF of Russia’s refining capacity, the Kremlin just banned diesel exports entirely, and Russia was supplying eleven percent of the world’s farking diesel. Two-thirds of Russia’s own regions are rationing fuel. Their servo queues are longer than a Bunnings snag line on grand final day, except nobody’s getting a sausage, the onions are on fire, and the thing hovering overhead isn’t a seagull, it’s a farking drone.
So let’s do the maths, because clearly nobody within cooee of the Oval Office can count past their own indictments. One fifth of the world’s oil bottled up behind Hormuz. The Red Sea back door about to get the shutters pulled. Eleven percent of the world’s diesel yanked off the market by a country whose refineries currently have the structural integrity of a Jenga tower in an earthquake. Now what do you farking reckon that does to the price at the pump, Einstein? Brent was sitting around 72 US dollars a barrel before this circus rolled into town. It peaked near 120 on futures and physical cargoes were changing hands at damn near 150. American petrol punched through four bucks a gallon and kept farking climbing.
And down here? Australia holds about 29 days of diesel in reserve. Twenty-nine. farking. Days. That’s our entire margin between “she’ll be right” and “the supermarket shelves are bare, the harvesters are dead in the paddock, and grandma’s ambulance is running on hopes and prayers.” Every truck, every tractor, every ambo in this country operates on the assumption that some 80-year-old fantasist on the other side of the Pacific won’t set the world’s petrol bowser on fire because a general on the telly hurt his feelings.
Too late, cobber. He already farking did.
And here’s the bit that should have every American launching their cornflakes across the kitchen like a trebuchet. HIS OWN JOINT CHIEFS WARNED HIM. Before the first bomb dropped, the top brass sat that man down, used small words, probably brought pictures, maybe a hand puppet, and told him Iran could close the strait. And he waved them off. Said Iran would capitulate. Said if they closed it, the US military would just pop it back open like a stubbie.
How’s that going, champ? Because from where I’m sitting, Iran turned back three container ships the very morning after you told the world the strait was “completely open,” and they’ve been charging ships up to two million US dollars a pop for a hall pass. Read that back slowly, America. Iran is running a farking toll booth on the world’s oil supply, and your president is the useful idiot who poured the concrete, painted the boom gate, and cut the farking ribbon.
Twenty-eight deal claims. Eight blown deadlines. TACO isn’t a nickname anymore, it’s a bloody coroner’s report.
Which brings me, at long farking last, to you. The Republican Party. Come here. Sit down. Dad needs a word.
You spineless, belly-crawling, yellow-bellied farking grubs. You jellyfish. You wobbling, gutless sacks of focus-grouped piss. There are 271 of you cowards in Congress with an R next to your name, and not ONE of you, not one solitary farking human being among you, has the stones to stand up to a doddering, dithering, dribbling 80-year-old windbag at the arse end of his miserable sex offending pedo loving decomposing life. A man who has grifted and grafted and lied his way out of every consequence since the Nixon administration. A man who has enriched himself beyond the wildest wet dreams of the working people he pretends to give a shoot about, while delivering them nothing, NOTHING, but four-dollar petrol, dead soldiers’ folded flags, and invoices addressed to their grandkids.
Your founding fathers, blokes in tights with quills and actual farking courage, handed you the tools. It’s called the Constitution. Article One. Impeachment. It’s RIGHT THERE. You don’t even need to go to Bunnings. Article Twenty-Five if you’d prefer the polite version where you all pretend it’s about his health. Barry Goldwater once walked into the Oval Office and told a president of his own party it was over. That took a spine. You lot couldn’t pool your collective vertebrae and build a farking prawn.
Instead, you hide. You mumble about “concerns” into your soup. You do the airport-corridor speed-shuffle past reporters like a bloke dodging his ex at the pub, eyes down, phone out, “sorry mate, gotta take this,” you absolute farking cowards. You watch him torch a century of alliances, torch the global oil market, torch your own voters’ hip pockets, and your grand contribution to the republic, your profile in courage, is a strongly worded farking shrug.
You know what you remind me of? Every dodgy subcontractor I ever had the misfortune of working with. All talk at the quote, invisible when the slab cracks. The house is on fire, the client is screaming, and you’re out the back having a durrie telling each other it’s “not your scope of works.” IT’S YOUR farkING HOUSE, YOU MORONS. Your name is on the deed. History is going to send you the bill and it does not do payment plans.
And the world is watching, by the way. I need this to actually penetrate, so listen carefully: we are not angry at you anymore. We are LAUGHING at you. Australia, your oldest mate, the country that has RSVP’d yes to every single one of your wars since 1918, that bled with you at Hamel and Kokoda and Long Tan and Kabul, is sitting here watching the self-proclaimed greatest democracy on Earth get led around by the nose by a man who couldn’t negotiate his way out of a paper bag with a map, a torch, and both farking ends open. You are a punchline in every parliament, every pub, and every port from here to Rotterdam. When your president speaks at the UN, world leaders now do the thing you do when the office weirdo starts explaining his cryptocurrency. Polite nodding. Dead eyes. Quiet horror.
So here is my message, from a former tradie who has seen every species of dodgy operator walk off a half-finished job: GET UP. Get up off the farking gutter. Do the actual job. The one in the oath. The one about the Constitution, not the one about kissing the ring at Mar-a-Lardo and hoping the mad king endorses your primary. Impeach him. Remove him. Restore some law, some order, and some basic bloody adult supervision to the United States of America before the only thing left to supervise is the ashtray.
Because right now the entire planet can see the thing you won’t say into a microphone: the emperor has no clothes, no plan, no peace deal, no shame, and no farking idea. And you, the Republican Party of the United States of America, are the sad bastards holding his coat and telling the fire brigade it’s under control.
Do your job. Or get out of the way for someone with a working spine and a functioning farking conscience.
We’re angry down here. We’re hurting at the pump like everyone else. And all we’ve got to ease the pain is the truth, said loudly, with the appropriate quantity of swearing.
Consider it farking said.
IFLA ~ Gman Angry
IFLA is reader-funded and ad-free. No billionaires, no advertisers, no sponsors to offend, just One Bloke, Two Sheilas, and a Shih Tzu Terrier who heard this rant read aloud and left the room. If this said what you can’t say at work, at church, or at Christmas lunch with your MAGA uncle, share it with someone who’s suffering at the bowser too. That’s what we’re here for.
Subscribe
THE AUSSIE-TO-YANKIE WORD UNRAVELLING DEVICE
A standing feature for our American readers, who keep emailing to ask what the bloody hell half these words mean. Australian and American are technically the same language, in the way a servo pie and a gas station hot dog are technically the same food: both live under a heat lamp next to the fuel, both are of legally ambiguous origin, and both lodge a formal complaint with your stomach somewhere around the state line. One of them, however, is a beloved national institution, and we will not be taking questions on which. Below is the full decoded master. Use them wisely, or at least loudly.
ambo: An ambulance, or the paramedic driving it, because Australians will not let a three-syllable word survive when two will do. The only vehicle in the country allowed to run a red light to universal applause, and one of thousands that run on diesel, of which Australia keeps roughly 29 days in reserve. Which means grandma’s ride to hospital is now downstream of the mood in the Strait of Hormuz. Sleep well.
bowser: A petrol pump. Where Australians queue up to be personally victimised by Middle East geopolitics, one tank at a time. Every ceasefire collapse in the Gulf arrives at your local bowser about a fortnight later with a ten-cent surcharge and no apology. See also: servo.
Bunnings: The cathedral-sized hardware chain that doubles as the national town square, chiefly on the strength of the charity sausage sizzle in the car park. A snag in white bread for a couple of bucks is the benchmark unit of cheapness, so to make a serious thing “look like a Bunnings sausage sizzle” is to shrink it to loose change. See also: snag.
cobber: A mate, but vintage grade. Digger slang from the First World War, the era when Australia first started RSVP’ing yes to America’s fights, a habit we have maintained for a century with the loyalty of a kelpie and roughly the same say in where the ute is going. When an Australian calls you cobber, you have history together. When we call America cobber, we are reminding you of the receipts.
cooee: A long, carrying bush call (”coo-ee!”) used to locate someone across distance, now welded into the phrase “within cooee,” meaning within earshot or anywhere near. “Not within cooee of the wheel” means nowhere close to in control, which is the kindest available summary of who is steering the United States this week.
doing a runner: Fleeing without paying: from a restaurant, a cab, a marriage, or a signed memorandum of understanding with a sovereign nation. The dine-and-dash of international diplomacy. A bloke who signs a peace deal on the 17th and cops the strait slamming shut on the 20th has not brokered peace, he has done a runner on the bill and left the entire global economy to cover the tip.
durrie: A cigarette. Sibling of “dart,” cousin of “smoke,” and the official prop of the tradie who has downed tools to watch someone else’s disaster unfold. “Out the back having a durrie” is the national posture of a subcontractor who has decided the burning house is not in his scope of works. See also: dart, smoko, the Republican Party.
esky: A portable cooler for keeping beer and bait cold, named with zero shame after “Eskimo.” The beating heart of every Australian boot, tinnie and backyard. Ice never lasts, much like ceasefires.
reserve grade: The second-string team in footy, one rung below the real thing. Where you play while you wait for a call-up, or after the coach has seen enough. A “reserve-grade effort” is one performed at eighty percent capacity by someone auditioning for relevance, which is also a complete description of the Houthis circling Bab el-Mandeb waiting for Tehran to tap them on the shoulder.
scratchie: A scratch-off lottery ticket, the couple of dollars of cardboard hope you buy at the servo and lose at the counter. Also an accurate structural diagram of the June 17 memorandum: rub it, win fark all, and the bloke who sold it has done a runner.
servo: A service station. A gas station, to you. Where you buy your tinnie, your dim sim, and the servo sushi that has been revolving under a heat lamp since the Howard government.
servo pie: A meat pie purchased from a service station, Australia’s official long-haul road trip fuel. Structurally unsound, thermodynamically mysterious, molten at the centre and arctic at the rim, and spiritually essential. Goes off like a bomb in a microwave, much like this article.
she’ll be right: The unofficial national motto and the most structurally dangerous phrase in the English language. Means “near enough is good enough, stop fussing.” Responsible for roughly half the dodgy renos in this country and, on current evidence, one 29-day national diesel reserve. She is frequently not right.
snag: A sausage. Specifically the humble barbecue sausage, served on a single slice of white bread, with grilled onion and a stripe of sauce, and never, ever a bun. The official currency of the Bunnings hardware car park on a Saturday, where the nation funds its schools and footy clubs one snag at a time.
stubbie: A squat 375ml bottle of beer, engineered to be finished before it warms up, a design constraint Australia takes more seriously than most nations take their constitutions. Not to be confused with Stubbies, the immortal work shorts, though both are national treasures and both reveal more than some observers are ready for. Anyone who claims he can “pop a blockaded strait back open like a stubbie” has never opened either.
tradie: A tradesperson: plumber, sparkie (electrician), chippie (carpenter), brickie (bricklayer). The economic backbone of the country and the reason your house stays standing.
https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch...b53-0a72-44d8-ba88-c39aea4a59de_1537x1023.png
briantrumpet
Timewaster
Probably best I don't post Michael Fanone's 'reflections' on Graham: he's one of the police officers who was shot in Jan 6.
