I've just taken a shower and washed my hair, but I perhaps I need not have bothered. I'm thinking of getting a perfumed handkerchief to wave in front of my face like those dandified fops of the eighteenth century; and if I'm going to do that, then I might as well go the whole hog and shove my feet into a pair of buckled clod-hoppers, and stick a powdered bouffant beehive wig on my head (thus invalidating the hair washing in which I have just engaged).
The reason I am after a perfumed piece of cloth is there is a pervading nostril-buster of a stink infesting my home. The other day, Mr Bingells saw a mouse, so he duly set out some bait. The rotten rodent has taken the bait, realised its error, and thought with a dastardly mocking laugh: Ha-ha! You might have poisoned me, but I will have the last laugh by expiring in a place you will not find me!
Okay, Mouse. Kudos to you for your fiendish foiling, but please finish with the putrefaction process already!
Regular followers of the blog will know I'm a keen trivia player, and a gun player at that (provided there are no sport questions). Anyway, my kids' school held a fund-raising trivia night the other night. Naturally, my family formed a team. However, a few days ago, my oldest told me he was jumping ship to join his Modern History class and their teacher. To look at my son, one would believe he is the product of the love of Mr Bingells and me: he is the spitting image of his father, and has a great mind for mathematical calculations (like his father), and can spell pretty much any word thrown at him (like his mother, although my son didn't know how to spell 'lozenge' when he texted me the other week about his sore throat). But this treacherous act of defection, one that tore asunder a winning combination, made me wonder could he perhaps have been the result of an unholy coupling between Judas Iscariot and Yoko Ono. So I said, 'Okay, Miss might teach Modern History, but your mother REMEMBERS it!'
So we attended the school, en famille, and my oldest hailed his teammates. Mr Bingells introduced himself to the teacher, and told her, 'Your team should be called The Top Floor Elevators, because you're going DOWN!' On a side note, Mr Bingells might consider writing some sledges for the Australian cricket team.
As well as Mr Bingells, our fourteen-year-old, and me, our team included a mate of Mr Bingells, a friend of mine (and her son who is a friend to our fourteen-year-old), and another mate of our youngest son (same age). It is necessary to have the younger generation represented at these events, mainly for the modern pop culture questions. This proved a good strategy because my kid's mate is a Harry Potter geek who was able to name not just the number of books published in the series, but he could list all the books in chronological order, thus earning us a hearty eight points. I am not ashamed to say I got a question about the Kardashians wrong; it was to list the Kardashian/Jenner siblings from oldest to youngest, and I felt like writing: 'Who fucking cares? They shouldn't be breeding, anyway.'
I did make a few mental notes for the next game in which I partake along the lines of: If it's a question about artists streamed on Spotify, Ed Sheeran is a good bet for the answer.
The rounds - with the exception of General Knowledge - were actually a tad difficult. However, in the final round, the Music one, we were able to redeem and fatten up our points tally. Snippets of songs were played. I was able to guess most of them. The kids running the night played the sound bytes again. One of the numbers was Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson. I don't doubt I've mentioned it in the past, but my fourteen-year-old is a dancer. For giggles, he stood up and did an impromptu dance, much to the delight of the crowd. The kid hosting the show suggested he get up on the stage of the school hall. In a movie, the 'dancer' would demur modestly, having little self-confidence. This is not a movie. My kid gleefully mounted the stage as though to it was an inherent entitlement, and danced some more. Not to be outdone, the team of teachers joined him, but they did a different dance (naturally, I will say that my kid's dance was the best). It was the highlight of the evening. What a fun night out we had, and I'm not sure what the final figures were, but I'm guessing over $1,000.00 was raised for the rescue helicopter.
Oh, and the other highlight for me was my team beating my seventeen-year-old's team. Heh-heh. Okay, I will admit our win over that team was due to the extra points awarded to my younger son for dancing on the stage, and my older son's team had the victory on points.
I think the winning team was the one comprised of teaching staff. However, had there been less questions about Kardashians and Spotify-streaming, I'm sure the winning team would have comprised the Bingells clan, and their friends.
Thursday 29 November 2018
Wednesday 21 November 2018
Grumpy Grammarian
Words and phrases that should be eradicated like smallpox:
1. 'I could care less.' People who say this: you're getting it wrong. You're trying to convey an air of nonchalance, sang-froid, and imperturbableness, but what you're doing is telling us that you actually DO care. Whether you care a little or a lot is immaterial, but the fact is you DO CARE. Say: 'I couldn't care less'. Repeat it. Say it slowly. Think about it. Get it?
2. 'Un-Australian'. This is a bog-standard complaint trotted out by people to complain about things they don't like. If this is the only way you can formulate an argument for whatever it is you find so distasteful, either get a dictionary or shut up.
3. 'Irregardless'. Now listen up, you perpetrators of this heinous crime against English. The prefix 'ir-' is used to negate, or denote an antonym. The suffix '-less' is used to negate, or indicate a lack of something. By putting both these negatives on a word ('regard'), you are only carrying out the old Two-Negatives-Together formula and making a Positive (or did you not listen in Maths or Science, either?). The word you are looking for is 'regardless', and you are likely confusing and conflating it with 'irrespective', and just creating a big clusterfuck of a word that makes no sense.
4. 'Fillum'. You've probably looked at that word, and wondered was it something you'd find on the periodic table of elements. No. It's a common mispronunciation of the word 'film', as in, 'Hey, want to see that new Spielberg fillum?' (No, because I'm not really into Spielberg, and I don't know what a fillum is. I've heard of a 'filum', but never a 'fillum'.) People, the word 'film' only contains one syllable. You don't tell a rowdy class to 'callum down', or apply a soothing ballum to an aching muscle, do you?
5. 'Of' used as an auxiliary verb. The auxiliary verbs are 'has', 'had', and 'have', and form moods in the tenses employed in writing. They accompany past participles such as 'rung' and 'seen'. 'Of' is a preposition, so can the people who say or write phrases like 'would of' and 'should of' please cease and desist immediately. I tend to become emotional when I write about this, because 'of' used as an auxiliary verb is one of my pet hates, not only in grammar, but in life itself. It makes me feel very combative.
That will complete my list for today. I have many more, but I also have washing to be brought in, and dinner to be prepared.
Many thanks for reading.
1. 'I could care less.' People who say this: you're getting it wrong. You're trying to convey an air of nonchalance, sang-froid, and imperturbableness, but what you're doing is telling us that you actually DO care. Whether you care a little or a lot is immaterial, but the fact is you DO CARE. Say: 'I couldn't care less'. Repeat it. Say it slowly. Think about it. Get it?
2. 'Un-Australian'. This is a bog-standard complaint trotted out by people to complain about things they don't like. If this is the only way you can formulate an argument for whatever it is you find so distasteful, either get a dictionary or shut up.
3. 'Irregardless'. Now listen up, you perpetrators of this heinous crime against English. The prefix 'ir-' is used to negate, or denote an antonym. The suffix '-less' is used to negate, or indicate a lack of something. By putting both these negatives on a word ('regard'), you are only carrying out the old Two-Negatives-Together formula and making a Positive (or did you not listen in Maths or Science, either?). The word you are looking for is 'regardless', and you are likely confusing and conflating it with 'irrespective', and just creating a big clusterfuck of a word that makes no sense.
4. 'Fillum'. You've probably looked at that word, and wondered was it something you'd find on the periodic table of elements. No. It's a common mispronunciation of the word 'film', as in, 'Hey, want to see that new Spielberg fillum?' (No, because I'm not really into Spielberg, and I don't know what a fillum is. I've heard of a 'filum', but never a 'fillum'.) People, the word 'film' only contains one syllable. You don't tell a rowdy class to 'callum down', or apply a soothing ballum to an aching muscle, do you?
5. 'Of' used as an auxiliary verb. The auxiliary verbs are 'has', 'had', and 'have', and form moods in the tenses employed in writing. They accompany past participles such as 'rung' and 'seen'. 'Of' is a preposition, so can the people who say or write phrases like 'would of' and 'should of' please cease and desist immediately. I tend to become emotional when I write about this, because 'of' used as an auxiliary verb is one of my pet hates, not only in grammar, but in life itself. It makes me feel very combative.
That will complete my list for today. I have many more, but I also have washing to be brought in, and dinner to be prepared.
Many thanks for reading.
Wednesday 14 November 2018
Knowing Your Onions
Every now and then there is a news event that just shakes you to your very foundations, and you'll always remember where you were when you heard this news. I will always remember standing outside my local fish-and-chip shop when a kid in my class told me John Lennon had been murdered. I remember picking up my oldest child, then a few months old, from his cot for his morning breast feed, and turning on the radio and hearing a sobbing, frightened caller wondering what was going to happen now, prompting me to turn on television and watch in the most abject horror the footage of the World Trade Centre being divebombed by an aeroplane, combusting into a hellish inferno, and subsequently crumbling in a dusty, stony heap.
Then there is the news which clogged my newsfeed today: Bunnings hardware stores have issued a direction that the onions go on the bread first when assembling the sausage sangers at the outdoor sausage sizzle. There was outrage - well, according to the MSM there was outrage, but it is likely to be as confected as the pink fairy floss spun at the town show. But in any event, there are people who appear to be genuinely pissed off about it. In God's name: why? WHY do people care about such insignificant things? Yes, I know it's the little niggly things that often drive you insane, but getting worried about the onions going on the bread first is a bit petty. Besides, it's to minimise the chance of onion falling to the ground and creating a slip hazard, which would see Bunnings sued should some hapless dunderhead tread on it and go for a skid, kind of like some cartoon character on a banana peel. You don't have to worry if the onion goes on the bread first, people. Look, I know I get very concerned if people put in milk before boiling water when preparing a cup of instant coffee, but that's different: there is a special corner in Hell reserved for people who do this. If you prepare my coffee in this manner, on the very rare occasions I deign to drink instant coffee (I drink the proper stuff!), I will pour it into the pot plant the moment your back is turned (and hope like crazy the plant is not an artificial one).
But yeah, everyone was carrying on like someone had shit on a portrait of their mothers over this heinous act of - *clutches imaginary pearls and places hand against forehead in an 'oh, woe is me' gesture* - putting the onion on the bread before placing the sausage. I saw a vox pop conducted by Channel 9, and started to count down from ten. I hadn't even reached five when someone uttered the phrase guaranteed to get me on the roof of the clock tower with a gun: 'It's un-Australian'. Oh, fuck me sideways with a toaster, I HATE that phrase! 'Un-Australian'. What the hell does that even mean, for fuck's sake? Does everybody have to adhere to some methodology or ideology that was prevalent in the 1950s in order to prove their allegiance to this country? (On a side note: I am going to start working on a post dealing with words or phrases that need to be put in the garbage bin).
In a country where approximately seventy women have been murdered in episodes of domestic violence already this year, do we really need to concern ourselves with the assemblage of a fucking greasy sausage sandwich? GET OVER IT, EVERYBODY! It's not going to rupture the time/space continuum.
In my first paragraph, I mentioned the phenomenon of people remembering the exact moments they received crucial news stories of the day. Well, I will always remember a November morning in 1991 when I got up to get ready for work. I was living in a flat in Bondi, NSW. I probably wasn't looking forward to going into the office. My flatmate was buttering her toast and said, 'Freddie Mercury's died of AIDS.' I was so, so saddened. Many years later, I've spawned a kid who is also a music tragic, and who happens to be totally nuts about Freddie Mercury and Queen. After my first day at the Scone Literary Festival last Saturday, we went to the local cinema and watched Bohemian Rhapsody. It's your standard biopic insomuch as formula goes, but Oh-My-God the performances were beyond sublime! The recreation of Queen's performance at the Live Aid concert was just mind-boggling. The Live Aid concert was such an incredible technical feat for the time, and whilst musicians had partaken in charity performances previously (like George Harrison's Bangladesh fundraiser), this was majorly ground breaking in terms of technical production and scale of audience. And I would submit it was the seminal moment in pop culture for my generation.
I adored the movie, and was at one point close to ugly-crying. Freddie Mercury, you are so very missed; a talented man taken by a cruel, unforgiving disease.
So, my advice to everyone is to see the movie, and stop worrying about onions being on the bread before the sausage in the old sausage sanger.
Then there is the news which clogged my newsfeed today: Bunnings hardware stores have issued a direction that the onions go on the bread first when assembling the sausage sangers at the outdoor sausage sizzle. There was outrage - well, according to the MSM there was outrage, but it is likely to be as confected as the pink fairy floss spun at the town show. But in any event, there are people who appear to be genuinely pissed off about it. In God's name: why? WHY do people care about such insignificant things? Yes, I know it's the little niggly things that often drive you insane, but getting worried about the onions going on the bread first is a bit petty. Besides, it's to minimise the chance of onion falling to the ground and creating a slip hazard, which would see Bunnings sued should some hapless dunderhead tread on it and go for a skid, kind of like some cartoon character on a banana peel. You don't have to worry if the onion goes on the bread first, people. Look, I know I get very concerned if people put in milk before boiling water when preparing a cup of instant coffee, but that's different: there is a special corner in Hell reserved for people who do this. If you prepare my coffee in this manner, on the very rare occasions I deign to drink instant coffee (I drink the proper stuff!), I will pour it into the pot plant the moment your back is turned (and hope like crazy the plant is not an artificial one).
But yeah, everyone was carrying on like someone had shit on a portrait of their mothers over this heinous act of - *clutches imaginary pearls and places hand against forehead in an 'oh, woe is me' gesture* - putting the onion on the bread before placing the sausage. I saw a vox pop conducted by Channel 9, and started to count down from ten. I hadn't even reached five when someone uttered the phrase guaranteed to get me on the roof of the clock tower with a gun: 'It's un-Australian'. Oh, fuck me sideways with a toaster, I HATE that phrase! 'Un-Australian'. What the hell does that even mean, for fuck's sake? Does everybody have to adhere to some methodology or ideology that was prevalent in the 1950s in order to prove their allegiance to this country? (On a side note: I am going to start working on a post dealing with words or phrases that need to be put in the garbage bin).
In a country where approximately seventy women have been murdered in episodes of domestic violence already this year, do we really need to concern ourselves with the assemblage of a fucking greasy sausage sandwich? GET OVER IT, EVERYBODY! It's not going to rupture the time/space continuum.
In my first paragraph, I mentioned the phenomenon of people remembering the exact moments they received crucial news stories of the day. Well, I will always remember a November morning in 1991 when I got up to get ready for work. I was living in a flat in Bondi, NSW. I probably wasn't looking forward to going into the office. My flatmate was buttering her toast and said, 'Freddie Mercury's died of AIDS.' I was so, so saddened. Many years later, I've spawned a kid who is also a music tragic, and who happens to be totally nuts about Freddie Mercury and Queen. After my first day at the Scone Literary Festival last Saturday, we went to the local cinema and watched Bohemian Rhapsody. It's your standard biopic insomuch as formula goes, but Oh-My-God the performances were beyond sublime! The recreation of Queen's performance at the Live Aid concert was just mind-boggling. The Live Aid concert was such an incredible technical feat for the time, and whilst musicians had partaken in charity performances previously (like George Harrison's Bangladesh fundraiser), this was majorly ground breaking in terms of technical production and scale of audience. And I would submit it was the seminal moment in pop culture for my generation.
I adored the movie, and was at one point close to ugly-crying. Freddie Mercury, you are so very missed; a talented man taken by a cruel, unforgiving disease.
So, my advice to everyone is to see the movie, and stop worrying about onions being on the bread before the sausage in the old sausage sanger.
Sunday 11 November 2018
The Post In Which I Don't Whinge Too Much
This little post will be a slight deviation from my usual tone in my posts in that I won't be whingeing very much. Oh, I will probably tuck a little whinge in, but the thing is this: I had a fantastic weekend.
The weekend just past was the Scone Literary Festival, and being just down the road a'piece from what is known as the Horse Capital of Australia, I earned myself a little invitation to sit on a panel. This panel focused on Children and Young Adult. I'm a satirist, but have published a Young Adult novel titled Abernethy. It's about a lonely fourteen-year-old boy who befriends a talking beagle, being the titular character. It was released a few years ago, and something that sticks in my mind from my bookstore appearances is the people who, upon reading the back-cover blurb, would ask, 'Is this a true story?' I would fight back the urge to caustically reply, 'Yes. It's a true story about a talking dog. Now how about you try washing the pesticides off the fruit prior to eating it?' Instead I would be polite and say it was all fiction, and would they like to buy a copy.
I was on the panel with a illustrator, and a very prolific children's book author. Her name's Susanne Gervay. I was actually humbled to be in such illustrious company, and was also a bit worried because I had nothing prepared. I had to scratch out a few notes and even told the audience I was flying by the seat of my pants here. The facilitator was a teacher at a local school, and she stated Abernethy is in their school library, and is frequently borrowed. I was absolutely chuffed. When it was my turn, I was introduced as 'the author with the lovely red hair.' That's very flattering, even though they did forget to say 'talented' in front of the word 'author'! Heh-heh. Nobody raised their hands during question time, and this alarmed me. I said, 'No questions? Well, I've either appalled you all, or answered everything you want to know already!' However, a few audience members came up to me after the session and told me they'd really enjoyed my talk. What is even better, they asked how to purchase a copy of Abernethy. So I advised them, as I am going to advise you now, Reader: it is rather difficult to obtain a paperback copy of the book, but it is available as e-book. Click on this link, read the first chapter, and download: http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
I sat in the audience on the sex scene writing session. One of the authors mentioned her teenaged daughter was incredibly embarrassed that mum had set a scene in a combi van, because they drive such a vehicle. During audience question time, I put up my hand and was handed the microphone. I pointed out that you can write a gruesome cannibalistic murder scene, and nobody worries. However, write a sex scene and everybody assumes you're writing about yourself. My advice for this is to point out to the inquisitor/accuser that none of the Beach Boys could surf. (You could also point out to the puerile questioner that even if it is you, so bloody what?)
I couldn't stick around for the session I reeeallllly wanted to see, being a discussion between David Marr, Phillip Adams, and Dr Barry Jones, because I wanted to ensure my kids hadn't killed each other (Mr Bingells had to go away for the weekend). They had not, but I was tempted to kill my youngest upon the discovery he had ridden a scooter into the house and knocked over the glass vase in which I displayed pretty marbles.
But the fun didn't stop there. This was a two-day event, so I travelled to Scone again on Sunday morning, for a talk given by journalist Tracy Spicer. She is a very funny and engaging speaker, and she spoke about the sexism that poisons the industry like a malignant tumour (simile is mine), and the MeToo movement, and sexism in broader society. I got to ask a question, which was did she envisage a time when we might have a prime minister who didn't engage in grotesque buffoonery vis-a-vis his comments about mates who would happily sort out Pamela Anderson (in reference to Pamela's approach to our government regarding Julian Assange). Morrison, if you're reading this, try and think before you tweet. That comment did you no credit, and I was really pissed off on Pamela Anderson's behalf. This is a serious issue, and you post a guffaw-toned tweet alluding to her Bay Watch and Playgirl persona. I didn't sign up to have an infantile, disrespectful jackass for a prime minister. You're running the country, not a bunch of meatheads in a locker room.
But if I have a weekend wherein I get to speak to David Marr, Tracy Spicer, and Dr Barry Jones (I shook his hand, and am now deliberating whether or not to wash my hand again, kind of like when Marcia Brady met Desi Arnaz Jnr), then that's like an early Christmas present for me. Also, it looks like I've got a couple of pending sales, and I also got to have an argument about art with somebody (my point being an artist can paint what he or she damn well chooses; why should a distasteful subject matter be off limits?).
Ciao for now.
The weekend just past was the Scone Literary Festival, and being just down the road a'piece from what is known as the Horse Capital of Australia, I earned myself a little invitation to sit on a panel. This panel focused on Children and Young Adult. I'm a satirist, but have published a Young Adult novel titled Abernethy. It's about a lonely fourteen-year-old boy who befriends a talking beagle, being the titular character. It was released a few years ago, and something that sticks in my mind from my bookstore appearances is the people who, upon reading the back-cover blurb, would ask, 'Is this a true story?' I would fight back the urge to caustically reply, 'Yes. It's a true story about a talking dog. Now how about you try washing the pesticides off the fruit prior to eating it?' Instead I would be polite and say it was all fiction, and would they like to buy a copy.
I was on the panel with a illustrator, and a very prolific children's book author. Her name's Susanne Gervay. I was actually humbled to be in such illustrious company, and was also a bit worried because I had nothing prepared. I had to scratch out a few notes and even told the audience I was flying by the seat of my pants here. The facilitator was a teacher at a local school, and she stated Abernethy is in their school library, and is frequently borrowed. I was absolutely chuffed. When it was my turn, I was introduced as 'the author with the lovely red hair.' That's very flattering, even though they did forget to say 'talented' in front of the word 'author'! Heh-heh. Nobody raised their hands during question time, and this alarmed me. I said, 'No questions? Well, I've either appalled you all, or answered everything you want to know already!' However, a few audience members came up to me after the session and told me they'd really enjoyed my talk. What is even better, they asked how to purchase a copy of Abernethy. So I advised them, as I am going to advise you now, Reader: it is rather difficult to obtain a paperback copy of the book, but it is available as e-book. Click on this link, read the first chapter, and download: http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
I sat in the audience on the sex scene writing session. One of the authors mentioned her teenaged daughter was incredibly embarrassed that mum had set a scene in a combi van, because they drive such a vehicle. During audience question time, I put up my hand and was handed the microphone. I pointed out that you can write a gruesome cannibalistic murder scene, and nobody worries. However, write a sex scene and everybody assumes you're writing about yourself. My advice for this is to point out to the inquisitor/accuser that none of the Beach Boys could surf. (You could also point out to the puerile questioner that even if it is you, so bloody what?)
I couldn't stick around for the session I reeeallllly wanted to see, being a discussion between David Marr, Phillip Adams, and Dr Barry Jones, because I wanted to ensure my kids hadn't killed each other (Mr Bingells had to go away for the weekend). They had not, but I was tempted to kill my youngest upon the discovery he had ridden a scooter into the house and knocked over the glass vase in which I displayed pretty marbles.
But the fun didn't stop there. This was a two-day event, so I travelled to Scone again on Sunday morning, for a talk given by journalist Tracy Spicer. She is a very funny and engaging speaker, and she spoke about the sexism that poisons the industry like a malignant tumour (simile is mine), and the MeToo movement, and sexism in broader society. I got to ask a question, which was did she envisage a time when we might have a prime minister who didn't engage in grotesque buffoonery vis-a-vis his comments about mates who would happily sort out Pamela Anderson (in reference to Pamela's approach to our government regarding Julian Assange). Morrison, if you're reading this, try and think before you tweet. That comment did you no credit, and I was really pissed off on Pamela Anderson's behalf. This is a serious issue, and you post a guffaw-toned tweet alluding to her Bay Watch and Playgirl persona. I didn't sign up to have an infantile, disrespectful jackass for a prime minister. You're running the country, not a bunch of meatheads in a locker room.
But if I have a weekend wherein I get to speak to David Marr, Tracy Spicer, and Dr Barry Jones (I shook his hand, and am now deliberating whether or not to wash my hand again, kind of like when Marcia Brady met Desi Arnaz Jnr), then that's like an early Christmas present for me. Also, it looks like I've got a couple of pending sales, and I also got to have an argument about art with somebody (my point being an artist can paint what he or she damn well chooses; why should a distasteful subject matter be off limits?).
Ciao for now.
Thursday 8 November 2018
Dumbest Thing I've Read Today
The ubiquitous 'they' say honesty is the best policy, but the reality is people occasionally have to lie. Most of us have told the odd little white lie like: 'That was a wonderful meal you cooked', whilst surreptitiously tipping bits into the dog's bowl (and later helping your host clean up dog vomit). Sometimes people have told lies in an attempt to boost their credibility in the eyes of their peers, like the colleague who told me her sister was in the Australia Post ad (she wasn't), or the kid who said the Bay City Rollers were her brothers (they weren't).
But some people take it to not only a whole level, they take it further to a new sphere, waaaaaaaay beyond the stratosphere. I'm looking at YOU, Sarah Sanders aka Madam Press Secretary, in particular, Madam Press Secretary of the White House. Some of you might have seen a press conference today wherein that bloke who looks like he's been bukakke'd by a packet of Twisties, and who by some caustic twist is currently leading the United States. He was bitching, and beefing, and blathering, and calling a reporter (Jim Acosta) things like a 'terrible person' (Pot, meet Kettle). Acosta continued questioning, and a young female White House aide approached him, and grabbed at his microphone. Acosta hung onto the microphone. No biggie in as far as personal contact goes. I've seen the footage, and it appears he didn't touch her at all. The White House is acting like he felt her up, and then punched her out. Acosta has since had credentials to the White House revoked.
But this is what Sarah Sanders had to say, in a series of tweets:
President Trump believes in a free press and expects and welcomes tough questions of him and his Administration. We will, however, never tolerate a reporter placing his hands on a young woman just trying to do her job as a White House intern... Uh, what? Sarah, did you actually read that total cow crap before you hit 'tweet'? Lady, your boss has openly bragged, in his fugue of self-delusion and entitlement, of 'grabbing (women) by the pussy', so can you not see the hypocrisy, the speciousness, and pure spaced-out fantasy of a statement like that? Especially since the so-called altercation in question was really...nothing.
Sarah, just get in the bloody bin, and take your stupid boss with you. You're all a pack of fools, and it's really disconcerting and embarrassing to watch that buffoon carrying on like a petulant sook in a press conference, and then having the reporter barred from the White House.
Sigh...
But some people take it to not only a whole level, they take it further to a new sphere, waaaaaaaay beyond the stratosphere. I'm looking at YOU, Sarah Sanders aka Madam Press Secretary, in particular, Madam Press Secretary of the White House. Some of you might have seen a press conference today wherein that bloke who looks like he's been bukakke'd by a packet of Twisties, and who by some caustic twist is currently leading the United States. He was bitching, and beefing, and blathering, and calling a reporter (Jim Acosta) things like a 'terrible person' (Pot, meet Kettle). Acosta continued questioning, and a young female White House aide approached him, and grabbed at his microphone. Acosta hung onto the microphone. No biggie in as far as personal contact goes. I've seen the footage, and it appears he didn't touch her at all. The White House is acting like he felt her up, and then punched her out. Acosta has since had credentials to the White House revoked.
But this is what Sarah Sanders had to say, in a series of tweets:
President Trump believes in a free press and expects and welcomes tough questions of him and his Administration. We will, however, never tolerate a reporter placing his hands on a young woman just trying to do her job as a White House intern... Uh, what? Sarah, did you actually read that total cow crap before you hit 'tweet'? Lady, your boss has openly bragged, in his fugue of self-delusion and entitlement, of 'grabbing (women) by the pussy', so can you not see the hypocrisy, the speciousness, and pure spaced-out fantasy of a statement like that? Especially since the so-called altercation in question was really...nothing.
Sarah, just get in the bloody bin, and take your stupid boss with you. You're all a pack of fools, and it's really disconcerting and embarrassing to watch that buffoon carrying on like a petulant sook in a press conference, and then having the reporter barred from the White House.
Sigh...
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