Professor BunyipThursday, April 08, 2004
A word of apology and explanation to the many friends of the Billabong who have inquired about the Professor’s health: There is no need concern, as it is a sense of duty – inspired by this story – that has kept a dutiful Bunyip from his keyboard. If Britain’s Musselmen find a statue of a boar intolerable, how long must it be before the forces of multiculturalism turn on Sydney’s very own copy of the same handsome porker? So rather than posts, it has been sentry duty – tireless circuits of Macquarie Street, with a sharp eye peeled for the intolerant forces of tolerance that would make bacon of bronze.
Protect the Pig! That’s the Billabong’s war cry – and as with so many other selfless deeds, the pay-off has been unexpected. Since the Professor has been standing his solitary guard, there has been no time to become involved in something of a family crisis roiling Mrs. Bunyip’s side of the clan.
Limited blogging will now resume, the pace gathering as in-laws’ Mediterranean passions cool and various injured parties limp home from the causualty ward.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Old fools and bottle blondes, they never get along -- not in the real world, nor, apparently, in the protected environment of the Opinion page of the Silly Moaning Hilmer, where Alan Ramsey and Mike "Mr. Muscle Shirt" Carlton today set out to mount a spirited threesome with the reputation of Mark Latham, the object of their shared affection. Lusty? Without a doubt. But competent choreographers of the danse d' amour? Not the geriatric nor the down-page dolly boy. By the time each has reached the bottom of his column, their uncordinated approaches to cleansing Latham of the self-smeared stain that he would cut and run from Iraq have come to resemble a gang bang organised not by the efficient Canterbury Bulldogs, but the Muscular Dystrophy Association First XV.
As Ramsey howls and yowls that Latham is right to want the Diggers home from Iraq at the first opportunity, Carlton shrieks that it isn't what the man who bankrupted Liverpool Council seeks at all. The only thing that could make the exercise more amusing would be for the Silly's senior political columnist to cast a jowly grimace over his shoulder and demand that Carlton get that foot off his prostate.
Here's the phlegmy gasp at the centre of Ramsey's little cry of passion:
"The Labor leader insists the troops will come home by Christmas if he wins the coming election. Howard pretends he's horrified. What about George Bush and the alliance, he pleads. Australia "must see it through". Rats, says Latham, his resolve unshaken..."
And here's 2UE's buzz-cut butt plug arguing that while Latham would like the boys home in time to open their prezzies, he's not insisting on anything. According to Carlton, the noble Latham's actual intention is to withdraw only when honour and circumstance permit.
Clearly, Latham has sensibly qualified his remarks with lots of ifs and buts. John Howard and Lord Downer of Baghdad, though, shout that he has set an arbitrary deadline "to cut and run".
Since each man's apparaisal appears in the Silly's Opinion section, there is really no point in attempting to determine which is right -- whatever that paper prints by way of insight and analysis will be, by the reader's definition of long experience, misleading and grossly dishonest. But as an academic exercise, let's examine what Latham actually said on the Pecs 'n' Peroxide radio show. Here's the vital quote:
Carlton: ... How do you decide when they have discharged their responsibilities and to bring them back?
Latham: Well, at the point of a sovereign handover to a new Iraq government ... our intention is to ensure that once the responsibility is discharged - and that is at the time of the handover to the new sovereign government in Iraq - then Australian troops will come back under a Labor government.
Ah-ha! So the Taxi Rank Terror's cue for withdrawal is the official installation of the new Iraqi government. Since this is bound to happen, delays or not, before the end of the year, Ramsey's use of "insists" gets the nod for accurate interpretation.
And Carlton? He scores the continued admiration of the Fairfax types who believe both truth and shareholders are best served by providing a continuing pulpit to a pundit who prefers, when it suits his purposes, to misunderstand the transcript of his very own radio show. If Carlton's misinterpretation isn't deliberate, it must that there are toxins in hair gel that eventually rot the brain.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Kev Gillett has been helping Legacy organise a 600-lot auction of antique militaria, and inspecting the goods sounds a fine way to spend an idle weekend hour. On Sunday, you can bid on them -- and if your wife happens to think that money is better spent on a pair of painful shoes than a fine Nelsonian cutlass, don't bother getting into some pointless debate that pits pleasure against profligacy. Much better to leave her sleeping and slip off to Legacy House, Merrival Street, South Brisbane. Kev, who has all the details, says the offerings are available for inspection on Saturday, with the bidding to begin at 10 a.m. the next day.
UPDATE: On other matters military, the Chief Bastard speculates about the likely U.S. reaction if some Hamas animal blows up a New York bus.
Quite apart from the Pimms No. 1 Cup she is free to enjoy after a hard day's hectoring, Mrs. Bunyip, like the dog, has another reason to be grateful that the Professor was deaf to the minaret's call.
"It is forbidden to beat the woman, unless it is necessary, and she 'is in a state of rebellion' against the husband and flouts him. This is temporary discipline [ta'adib] that is permitted to him according to the Qur'an in exceptional circumstances, when other efforts of admonishing [the wife] have failed and removing her from the bed as Allah said: 'As to those women on whose part you fear disloyalty and ill-conduct, admonish them (first), (next), refuse to share their beds, (and last) beat them; but if they return to obedience, seek not against them pretexts (for annoyance): for Allah is Most High, Great (above you all).'[Qur'an 4:34] Despite this permission for the hour of necessity, the Prophet said: 'The good men from among you do not beat [their wives].'" [6]
Memri has a lot more on a husband's right to give his wife a good ta'adib-ing. (A nod to Ryne McLaren)
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Last week, a number of posts went up concerning fiord flotsam Johan Galtung, who thinks Osama is a greater intellect than John Howard, and has drifted south to spend the northern winter sucking in the bucks as a fellow at sunny Curtin University. That one of our fine tertiary institutions would choose to line this disgraceful man's pocket is sad but should come as no surprise. What is the tertiary dollar for, if not to score free trips and chunky cheques for the fellow pseuds we academics befriend at our international peace symposia? Let us give (other people's money) in order to receive -- that's the motto engraved above the lift that rockets one to the top of the ivory tower. This year, Galtung comes here. Next year, if all goes well, the favour will be repaid and off it is to Oslo for an extended conference on restorative reconcilliation, multicultural transgressive contextualism, or whatever topic it is that happens to be on offer.
The thing is, though, not all the money supporting Galtung in the jet-setting fashion to which we fellow academics would like to become accustomed comes from the bursar. Four large companies are also underwriting Galtung's lectures about the imperialist folly of imagining that little brown people, and especially their women, might benefit from eurocentric constructs like democracy, free speech, and legal protections against being murdered by the in-laws if there are any problems with the dowry.
The companies underwriting Galtung latest jaunt are Alcoa, Wesfarmers, Channel 7, and the Bankwest. Readers K.M., Howling Wolf and others very kindly googled up the contact information presented below. A quick line asking these concerns if they are aware that donations to the Haydn Williams Fellowship are supporting a goblin like Herr Galtung might produce some interesting responses, which the Professor will be happy to publish, should readers care to pass them along.
ALCOA:
http://www.alcoa.com/australia/en/general/contact_alcoa.asp
Corporate Office
Alcoa World Alumina Australia
Cnr Davy and Marmion Streets
Booragoon
Western Australia
Phone: (61 8) 9316 5111
Fax: (61 8) 9316 5228
Alcoa Victorian Operations
Alcoa World Alumina Australia
Point Henry Road
Point Henry
Victoria
Phone: (61 3) 5245 1777
Fax: (61 3) 5245 1150
-----------------------------
BANKWEST
bankwest.com.au/newsroom/About_Us/Contact_Us/
----------------------------------------
WESFARMERS
wesfarmers.com.au/contact.asp
Wesfarmers House
11th Floor
40 The Esplanade
Perth 6000
Western Australia
Telephone: (61 8) 9327 4211
Facsimile: (61 8) 9327 4216
--------------------------------------------
CHANNEL 7
sevencorporate.com.au/page.asp?partid=97
Head Office
Seven Network Limited
Level 13, 1 Pacific Highway
North Sydney NSW 2060
Ph: (02) 9967 7903
Fx: (02) 9967 7972
If you have nothing better to do on Saturday, are in town for the council elections, and keen on some righteous amusement, why not help the Greens, who have sent out an e-mail appeal for volunteers at the polling booth? Haul out the rattiest old jumper you can find in the bottom of the dog's basket, team it with the pyjama bottoms you wore the night before, leave the hair uncombed, give your name as Donald Segretti and report for duty with the genuine volunteers, who will take one look at the outfit and accept you immediately as one of their own. Then will come the electioneering and the mischief as you accost incoming citizens, press your how-to-votes upon them, and explain some articles of the faith.
Voters will in interested to learn, for example, how the party intends to endorse the use of moss, sticks and stones instead of toilet paper. Similarly, mention of the human burden on our suffering land will present opportunities for slipping in a few admiring words about the the Original Owners, and why we should emulate their civilised approach to contraception by encouraging every penis to be split from glans to scrotum, all the better for draining off the pollutant human stain. If the voter happens to have arrived with a young, firm daughter, an additional word or two about the desirability of matching older, less fertile men with rosebud-breasted nymphs is bound to make an impression on any father about to exercise his franchise.
It will be a day for celebrating democracy, spreading enlightenment and engaging in aggressive community outreach. So don't delay -- do your bit to assure the Greens the sort of vote they deserve. The party's phone number is: (02) 9519 0877. Start unpicking the elbows from those sweaters.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Gentleman, has this ever happened to you? Late at night, you are driving to some place or other and, just for a second, catch a glimpse of an absolute horn bag on the footpath. Perhaps on the verge of shadow, she is spotted for but a fleeting instant through a blur of traffic and maybe, just to add some atmosphere to the scenario, a misted driver's window. But when you get closer, you realise to your shock and private embarrassment that the goddess who prompted that sharp breath is actually nothing more than a black plastic sack atop a wheelie bin, all crowned by a discarded wine cask that just happened to catch the light and reflect it as a shimmering and seductive cornsilk yellow. You could have sworn she tossed her golden mane, that beauty, but it was just wind wiggling carboard, and don't you feel silly for exhaling that low whistle of appreciation? Truth is, that sort of thing has happened a number of times to the Professor, whose new bifocals testify to a sharpness of vision that that isn't quite so piercing as it used to be. But such incidents are also -- earthy truth be bared -- a reflection of character and passion. Like any healthy Bunyip, this one keeps a sharp eye forever cocked for good looking women (and wears on his ribs a series of bruises from Mrs. Bunyip's elbow as a result). One needn't be a shrink to suppose that bogus sirens glimpsed quickly in the dark are the result of projection as much as of macular degeneration.
Bunyip lust isn't a terribly pleasant thing to contemplate unless you happen to be its eager object, but thoughts of Frank Brennan S.J. bring the condition instantly to mind. Mentioned via a link in an earlier post, Brennan was cited in passing as an example of "godless Christianity." Ken Parish came to Brennan's defence and laid out such a comprehensive case for the priest's decency that fairness demands an explanation of that earlier aside.
First, there is no dispute that Brennan is a good man by his own standards and those of many others, including -- and this is not to his credit -- Phillip Adams, on whose Hagfish Hour he has been the subject of much fawning over the past year. Yet despite keeping such low company, Brennan appears to have his heart in the right place. Unlike the Professor's, this is closer to the brain than the belt buckle. But priest and Bunyip still have something in common: a willingness to be misled by the shapes of things we prefer to see.
While a Bunyip surrenders to his inclinations and projects rorscharch fantasies of beautiful women, Brennan looks so hard for the face of God that he fails to notice the reflection of his own values and desires is distorting the image. This is where the "godless" comes in, and perhaps some readers will take the point if they begin by considering the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes.
In Father Brennan's eyes, the story is an instruction to comfort the poor and feed the hungry. That belief is one reason why he has so often and conspicuously argued to have boatloads of illegal aliens accepted without limit. Were Jesus to hold a portfolio in the Howard government, He would wave the undocumented arrivals right on through. If we wish to emulate Christ, as Christians are supposed to do, we should do likewise, Father Brennan would argue. And since Brennan is one of the Lord's shop stewards by virtue of that reversed collar, his sermons carry more moral weight, at least with some, than those, say, of a simple Bunyip lecher.
It is the wrong message to take from the miracle story, however -- a "godless" one, in fact. Would Jesus encourage people smugglers and the misery in which they trade? Would he lean on Caesar to institute a price-maintenace scheme for the benefit of a criminal conspiracy? Would he confiscate the loaves and fishes from those who worked hard to buy them, ignore their owners' protests, and reassign them to the new arrivals? Being such an indulgent fellow, Christ probably wouldn't even lift a finger to strike dumb Keysar Trad, which we can all agree would be a great mercy.
Sauce for the goose is sort for the gander, so if Brennan draws inspiration from one bit of the New Testament to argue that a particular course of action is the only one dear unto Heaven, why shouldn't critics turn to a different Gospel and cite their own favoured passages and interpretations? Why couldn't the Professor argue that Christ would have taken stern measures, as He did when whipping the money-changers from the Temple with a serpent of old rope? Does the rich man's reported difficulty in passing through the needle's eye of Heaven count for more than His support for get-rich-quick schemes, which one could argue He endorsed when filling the disciples' nets with the bounty of a bumper catch?
See the danger in Brennan's habit of mistaking his human opinions for Divine ones? If everyone did it, we would be at each other's throats in no time -- for who needs law, reason, or a consideration for the opinions of others when your political platform is dictated directly from On High.
It isn't godliness to lay our own pet principles on the altar of debate, as Brennan does, and then get all huffy if one's fellow congregants decline to bow before them. In fact, to take opinions that are subjectively human and present them as the Received Word is as far from godly as you can get. Brennan is no doubt a lovely man, despite that tolerance for Adams, but he is worshipping his own reflection, even if he doesn't know it.
One doesn't like to boast, but as predicted, Pharmer Phil has delivered on the Professor's prophecy that Mel Gibson's "Passion" would inspire a column on the shortcomings of Christianity. The irony is that the Paddington Pastoralist could benefit from some Divine intervention, which might fix up his spelling.
On Saturday, when ripping holes in the lattice of time and space by the simple act of placing his considerable bulk upon it, the Hagfish wrote of "Gratton Street", which may exist in some alternate universe but isn't the thoroughfare adjacent to the Parkville Asylum.
Today, he hails the "great Catholic writer Gary Wills". Trouble is, it's Garry -- and it's a big surprise that Phatty got it wrong, given that Wills appears regularly in the New York Review of Books, a source that Light Phingers normally has no trouble transcribing with painstaking accuracy, except when it suits his ends to make a few changes.
The compulsive name-dropping, without which no column nor episode of Lard Night Live is complete, remains true to form, however. This time, it is Malcolm Muggeridge who gains the benefit of the Living Treasure's wisdom, with Phil recalling how he informed Muggeridge that Pier Paolo Pasolini's "The Gospel According to St Matthew" was the work of a "(a) homosexual, (b) a communist and (c) an atheist".
Well, even after just managing to hold down his lunch during "100 Days of Sodom", the Professor still has his doubts about Pasolini's atheism, which the director himself described thus: "If you know that I am an unbeliever, then you know me better than I do myself. I may be an unbeliever, but I am an unbeliever who has a nostalgia for a belief."
And there is quite a bit of scepticism, too, about the Dunny Lane Imperialist's assertion that he expanded Muggeridge's education. What happened, one suspects, is that Muggeridge's very English reserve obscured his surprise at encountering a swine casting before him what it took to be pearls. But was the essayist, this devotedly devout maverick Catholic and editor of Punch, genuinely ignorant of Pasolini's leanings, politics and beliefs? Conceivable, but not likely. If visitors have a moment, they could fill it by reading Muggeridge's 1967 essay on the Crucifixion. A man who could write in such a way of the event, its representations, and its meaning(s) probably didn't need any lessons from the producer of "The Adventures of Barry McKenzie".
If you do turn to that essay, be warned: The rare few moments when the Professor has entertained, fleetingly, the unsettling suspicion that it might be possible to fill the spiritual void left by a lapsed and lost faith all came after reading Muggeridge. The following passage about the Resurrection, which ends the essay, may explain why the writer remains so appealing -- and such a threat to anybody who would prefer to remain happily agnostic.
"... how should I, a twentieth-century nihilist, who asks nothing better than to live out his days without anv concern for a God, living or dead, be worrying his head about this cross and a man who died on it two thousand years ago? Whether it happened as described in the Gospel narrative, and endlessly repeated by Christian apologists, is another question. In any case, what does it matter?
I even prefer to suppose that some body-snatcher, accustomed to hanging about Golgotha to pick up anything that might be going, heard in his dim-witted way that the King of the Jews was up for execution. Good! he thinks: there are bound to be pickings there. So he waits till the job is done, finds out where the corpse has been laid, drags the stone away and then, making sure no one is watching, decamps with the body.
What a disappointment for him! This King of the Jews has no crown, no jewels, no orbs, no sceptre, no ring; he is just a worthless, wasted, broken, naked body. The man contemptuously abandons the body to the vultures, who in their turn Ieave the bones to whiten in the sun—those precious, precious bones!"
Monday, March 22, 2004
The Bunyipmobile was laden with mixed feelings when given its head and turned toward the open road on Friday night, since being far from home would mean missing Saturday's big Saddamatic sob-a-thon in Hyde Park, a major sacrifice because Judy Davis was scheduled to speak. Not much can be said for the other people who were there. The ones who insisted 12 months ago that a war would kill Iraqis by the million now don't even pretend to give a plastic turkey's parson's nose about how many genuine casualties would be likely if the Crusaders were suddenly to withdraw. They're not nice people on the left, not nice at the best of times, and worse when smarting from being proven wrong.
But Davis, sweet Judy, for her an exception is made, because the Professor has always had something of a hot spot for his favourite little pinko pixie. Her presence on stage would have made the rally worth attending. The Professor could have whipped up a sign -- say, "Saddam's Oil! Give It Back!" -- and insinuated his way through the crowd, timing his arrival at the apron of the dais just as Davis took the microphone.
Then, as she dared the hegemon to do his darndest and raised her arms in theatrical supplication to the Cosmic Fountainhead of Mercy and Peace, the Professor would have turned his own gaze skyward -- and enjoyed a long, lingering look right up her dress.
The prevailing theory in the Fairfax press and organs with a similar disposition to view facts and circumstances in a particular sort of way is that, when those bombs went off in Madrid, Spain got what it should have expected for supporting freedom in Iraq. It's one theory. Another, supported by the emerging details of the Spanish police investigation into the massacre, is that civilised people don't have to do very much of anything un-Islamic to incite the Prophet's disciples.
Here's one of the things that drove Jamal Zougam, a suspect now under arrest, to a murderous rage: a dog.
"In 2001, [Zougam] got into a knife fight in a Madrid restaurant called al Alhamra, a place popular with Mr. Yarkas and other members of the alleged al Qaeda cell. According to transcripts of wiretaps, a friend told Mr. Yarkas that Mr. Zougam started the fight because a man had tried to bring a dog into the restaurant. According to this version of events, Mr. Zougam stabbed the man's friend, called Said, punched him, and hit him with an iron bar, but was stabbed too. Both landed in the hospital. Said threatened to tell police that Mr. Zougram's business dealt in stolen cellphones."
The full story is in Friday's Wall Street Journal, which requires a subscription (worth every penny, just by the way). For those not inclined to sign up, a thoughtful Freeper has transcribed the article and posted it here. Read it and be scared -- not merely because, as a member of the civilised world, Australia represents so much of what your wilder-eyed Musselman holds in contempt, but because the animals who perpetrated the Spanish bombings lived, prospered, and were accepted in a spirit of unquestioning tolerance by the same generous country the recipients cold-bloodedly did their damndest to destroy (the newly elected Socialist government will finish the job).
The next time you hear some cup-rattler demanding more grants and hand-outs to help this or that determinedly unassimilated group preserve its distance from the wider Australian culture, remember Mr Zougab and how he demonstrated his gratitude to Spain.
The Professor gave up on the disadvanted some years ago, having finally accepted Jesus' admonition that "ye have the poor with you always". If no less an authority than the alleged Messiah comes to that conclusion, what point can there be in a humble Bunyip continuing to hope that the disinterested third parties who redirect our tax dollars to the intoxicated, indolent, and incompetent will ever be able to effect curative outbreaks of sobriety, industry, and intelligence?
In a perfect world, the solution would be obvious: Fire all the public servants, social workers and ministers of the new and godless Christianity and replace them with the very people to whom they have been sending everyone else's money.
The newly uplifted wouldn't actually have anything to do, since there would be no further funds to distribute, but they would have salaries and somewhere to go in the morning. Meanwhile, those laid-off social engineers could sample the poetic justice of penury -- the very condition they have encouraged in the underclass whose positions at the bottom of society's ladder they would assume.
We taxpayers would notice no difference but a positive one: Bureaus of social engineers would cost less to support while achieving just as little. And we could also expect to see crime rates diminish, since the pool of formerly downtrodden malefactors would be otherwise occupied giving each other tattoos with government-issue ballpoints and microwaving infants in their departments' lunchrooms -- a kinder, quicker, cheaper and altogether more efficent way of squandering human potential than the current method. As a final advantage, the newly designated poor, being composed of a better class of person, would be less likely to burn down railway stations.
If only Bunyips ruled the world, it would be a much better place.
Back from a pleasant weekend spent far from a keyboard, it was a relief to find that Phillip Adams' ego-powered time machine has been noticed at the House of Blair. Is the Hagfish not a marvel? He borrows Mel Brooks' plot for The Producers, modifies it slightly in a Strine translation, and then reverses the chronology in order to claim first ownership of the inspiration.
All hail the Philcher, who has obviously missed his true vocation. Anyone with the ability to slip so effortlessly through the fabric of the time/space continuum surely deserves to be the next Dr. Who.
Friday, March 19, 2004
It's true that Muslim societies' contributions to the sum of human knowledge haven't been all that prominent over recent centuries, no doubt because those cunning Jews have been advancing a plot to snaffle more than their share of Nobel prizes by the devious means of working, studying, and experimenting late into the night on little bits of this and that. Meanwhile, the oppressed sons of Hagar continue to be spurned by the judges -- even by the arbiters of literary merit, who simply refuse to recognise Arab innovation in the field of deconstruction, which inevitably involves Ahmed being sent to fetch some detonators.
But this is the Multicultural Age, and when advances are made, we should celebrate them. So a round of applause, please, to hail Muslim technology's achievement in advancing the frontiers of medical science, which now has a way to rid the word of nose cancer, at least amongst women. While there is as yet no published study on the incidence of clitoral cancer, there is good reason to surmise that Muslim methods also keep its incidence well below the norm.
(Note: Post slightly updated from an earlier and incomplete draft, which was published by mistake.)
