A Bum Article

When I was about fourteen or so, my mother said to me something like, 'Love, why don't you do something with your writing when you finish school; maybe be a journalist or something?' In the manner of fourteen-year-old girls who are being offered advice by their mothers: I shrugged and mumbled, and stared at the television. If there is a Heaven, and you're watching over me, Mum, I did become a novelist and blogger, but not a journalist.  If you could see the sludge at the bottom of the swamp that passes for journalistic pieces these days, Mum; you'd be proud I did NOT pursue that career.  Of course, back then, people who wrote for the newspapers actually had to have a skerrick of writing ability and perhaps some integrity to back up their convictions. Not so much these days.

Today I read something that just encapsulates what is wrong with journalism, and the Society of the Perpetually Outraged these days. The language in the article wasn't actually terrible, per se, but the tone and the theme, as well as the ideas presented, totally fellate pustulating camel penises. I will share a link to the odious article herewith:

https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/fashion/problem-with-magistrates-lecture-over-womans-inappropriate-court-outfit/news-story/77b6c6e0d3f72569ebcefccfc6969fbd?utm_content=SocialFlow&utm_campaign=EditorialSF&utm_medium=Facebook&utm_source=News.com.au

This truly is one of the most stupid things I have read in a long time. In a nutshell, a female defendant rocked up to Sutherland Local Court yesterday, to defend charges of drink driving. The defendant wore a pair of frayed denim shorts that were brief enough to be mistaken for underpants. The defendant's butt cheeks were hanging out. If your bum is trying to eat your shorts, then you probably should limit the venues to which those shorts are worn; maybe the beach, or the swimming pool, or your own backyard when doing some gardening. Places where the shorts should not be worn are places that command a degree of respect, such as church services, job interviews, and what was that other one? Oh, yes: COURT APPEARANCES!!!!! If you're appearing in a court room, you must show respect, and it's that simple. I have been advised against wearing a sleeveless shirt and had it suggested I wear a light jacket to cover the shoulders. In case you're wondering, I wasn't the defendant; I'm a former paralegal. I cannot believe this person's solicitor didn't offer the appropriate advice. There is, of course, the chance the woman appeared for herself, giving credence to the old adage that the lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.

Yeah, the disrespectful attire got up my nose somewhat, but nowhere near the degree the article did. It went up my nose and down my throat, like the condoms those stupid kids were snorting in that online challenge a while back. The journalist said the magistrate's actions in castigating the defendant's attire amounted to 'slut-shaming, plain and simple.'  Madam Journalist, the only thing 'simple' around here is YOU (oh, and the nutjob of a defendant who, at thirty-seven years of age, didn't have the sense to dress appropriately for a court appearance).

The article conflated the magistrate's decrying of the defendant's outfit with the criticism received by Serena Williams for her choice of sportswear on the tennis court. Lady, this isn't even comparing apples to oranges. It's like comparing a stale Sao biscuit to swimming laps at the pool; there is NO correlation whatsoever. I really hope you warmed up your muscles prior to those stretches you took.

News.com.au really should consider testing the quality of the water in the office water cooler, if this is what is being passed as an article with any merit at all. Truly, I would have been embarrassed to have written such misinformed bilge. If the writer did any research beyond switching on a computer, she might realise that just about every pamphlet or article advises people who are anticipating a court appearance to dress in respectful attire, and anybody with more than one brain cell to rattle around in his or her cranium knows that a tight t-shirt, bum-excavating shorts, and sports shoes minus socks is really not respectful at all.

I try not to let things get to me, but reading that article made me roll my eyes so hard, I swear I blacked out!

Whatever Happened to Art for Art's Sake?

Today I will be blogging about two separate incidents, but they both share common themes. The first is acceptance and tolerance of the LBGTQ community, and the second is outright stupidity. The subjects of both points will be given a spray from me, a spray on par with an incontinent house cat.  Anyway, come this way, reader...

1. My first spray goes out to whomsoever decides on the nominations for the GLAAD Media Awards. Your first thought, upon reading that sentence, is likely puzzlement given that I have always been outspoken and forthright in my support of the LBGTQ community, and therefore by association, I should be supportive of GLAAD. Well, I am supportive of the organisation GLAAD, in principle. What I am NOT supportive of, and am very combative about, is the decision to withdraw the film Bohemian Rhapsody from the list of nominees for best original film. By way of background information, the GLAAD Media Awards are given to works of art that have sensitively and sensibly promoted the issues surrounding members of the LBTGQ community. It goes without saying that Bohemian Rhapsody was nominated for the portrayal of the struggles faced by Freddie Mercury with his sexuality and HIV diagnosis. I have said over and over this is one of the most marvellous biopics I've ever seen. Anyway, some dunderheaded numpties have decided to remove the movie from the list of candidates on the basis of allegations made against the original director, Bryan Singer. Singer was fired from the movie, and another director completed the film, although Singer is the credited director. Now, to whomsoever made this decision on behalf of the committee for the GLAAD Media Awards, and I cannot think of a nice way to put it: you are an unadulterated pile of dumb-arse. What happened to awarding a work of art on the merit of the ART? Surely to goodness Bohemian Rhapsody met the criteria to be eligible, but because of the actions of ONE person involved, you're going to punish the crew and cast who worked together to create the art? I have this image of you lot judging a portrait competition, and the first painting actually looks like a human being, but was painted by a person serving a prison sentence for armed robbery. The second looks like the artist painted it by sticking the brush up his butthole, but the artist in question volunteers at the local nursing home. Being clowns who just don't get it, you decide to award the prize to what is clearly a sub-standard work on the basis the other work of art has been created by a person of not good character. See how stupid you're being? This goes against the principle of judging a work of art on its own merits.  Way to lose your credibility! Get in the bin, all of you.

2. The second spray goes out to the inebriated slatternly slob who abused my friends at the pub yesterday.  Before I collected my seventeen-year-old from work, I called by a local watering hole to catch up with some friends, and watch a band. Without saying too much, the slattern has some issues with my friends. They're her issues, and they're real to her; but I think she should have a word with herself, and wake up to herself. Anyhoo, back to the point, and the LBGTQ theme.  One of my friends is in a same-sex relationship; I hadn't met her partner before, but we were introduced yesterday. They told me the slattern abused them when they arrived, and informed them they could not enter the premises on the basis of their sexuality (if you're reading this, you intoxicated slag, you might want to familiarise yourself with the Anti-Discrimination Act).  I was very angry when informed of this. However, we just drank our drinks under the shelter in the beer garden, and watched the band. I enjoyed the band; but let's face it, I will enjoy any band that performs a T-Rex number (the number in question was Get It On). By the by, the slatternly slob lurched over to our table - or maybe she was trying to demonstrate the trajectory of a pinball? - and commenced in on another round of abuse, a round I was present to witness. My younger friend's partner was not there to witness this, because she had gone inside to the bar. In the less-than-dulcet tones of a constipated cockatoo, this creature squawked and shrieked at us all. Her diatribe included accusations that we hated her ('well, duh' on my part at the moment), and that we were meant to be friends (which we can be, but get some help, lady!), and more insults. We repeatedly told her to just go away. From the stage, the lead singer of the band addressed our table with pleas to 'settle down, girls.' Then she noticed my friend's partner was not present for her performance, so she shrilled, 'Where's your little cunt gone, then?' Oh, my heart swoons at the delicate femininity of this dainty and ethereal being that addressed us! (Nah, not really). Again, I told her to go away. She looked at me and said, 'Are you telling me to go away?' I confirmed that I was. The rest of our coterie told her to go away. Someone, possibly staff, came over and guided her away, thus voiding the likelihood of a catfight. I wouldn't want a catfight. I so don't need this shit. Anyway, that homophobic fishwife should join the point-missing cretins referred to in 1 above in the bin.

Oh well, it is hot. I must away. I have a book to read, work to edit, and a lesson to prepare.

'What Bingells Did' - sounds prosaic but it's still better than 'What Katy Did'.

I'm thinking of titling this post 'What Bingells Did', in a homage to the old Susan Coolidge novel so many of us probably read in our tender years. You know the one? What Katy Did. There was a sequel What Katy Did Next, wherein the titular heroine and her sister Clover were sent to boarding school and formed a society for the putting down of flirting. I'm not sure what kind of fifteen- and sixteen-year-old girls they were; forming a club against flirting with boys. I read it and wondered did they want to form some kind of Old Maids In The Making club, or Girls With Sticks Up Their Arses That Nobody Wants To Hang Out With, Anyway club. I haven't formed any club or society this week, I just thought I'd write about what I did. I've been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer, which explains my absence from the computer this week. Anyway, here goes:

Saturday: Worked.

Sunday: When to the gym. Did washing. Caught up with relatives who were passing through.

Monday: Worked in the morning, and in the afternoon caught the Xplorer to Sydney. From Central, I caught a bus to Paddington where my sister lives. I haven't seen her new-ish home yet. When I found the address, I located the key she had left me, and entered the terrace house. I waited for someone to come home, and first home was my sis. She let her dog out of the basement. The beast is a boisterous cross-breed and it jumped into my lap, an action that almost sent my reading glasses spinning like a frisbee across the room. Just as well I really like dogs. From there I went to dinner with my sister and brother-in-law at the local RSL. Had a great night.

Tuesday: Woke up at bit after 2am, in the grip of a stomach cramp that felt like it was trying to twist me in half. Spent a good while sitting on the toilet and clutching a plastic bag, as I shot ballast from both ends. Wondered was my sister sick as well (she'd had the same meal as me). Finally got back to sleep, and woke up feeling not so bad. Cadged some Imodium from my twenty-year-old niece, for which I was grateful, and then made my way to an appointment in Surry Hills. After my appointment, I returned to Central, and caught the two trains that would bring me back to Muswellbrook.

Wednesday: Worked and interviewed a potential new tutoring student.

Thursday: Worked and went batshit.

Friday (today): Worked.  Was about to go batshit, and realised after I finished my shift, I am now on two weeks of holidays. I cracked open a cold beer.

So, as you can see, I have been busy and exhausted in equal measures. I haven't even done anything all that exciting. Well, my Tuesday appointment in Surry Hills was exciting for me, but I am keeping shtum just at the moment. All will be revealed in good time, so be patient.

So for the next two weeks, I will be writing. When I am not writing, I will be watching my new must-binge on Netflix. It is a reworking of the old Eighties series Dynasty, adjusted for today's issues. It's not got the shoulder pads and diamonds of the original, but it's still got a level of gaudiness - particularly in the Fallon Carrington character. Blake Carrington clashes with his son, but this time it is about his political causes, which go against the Carrington business, instead of his son's homosexuality. Krystle is a feisty Hispanic character, instead of a lachrymose looking WASP with stiff blonde hair. Krystle's nephew is Samuel Josiah, Stephen's love interest (instead of the original unbelievable Sammy Jo because the producers didn't understand that a sexy blonde will not make a gay man turn straight). There is quite a bit of cultural diversity this time. From what I remember, the only person of colour from the original series was Dominique Devereaux (played by Diahann Carroll), the illegitimate half-sister of Blake Carrington. So far, with my viewing, Alexis is yet to put in appearance (although she is a character). Also, there has been no cat-fight in the fish pond yet. As long as there is no unbelievable plot twist like that shitty Moldavian wedding from the original series, then I will remain happy. Also, Blake Carrington is played by that spunky guy from Melrose Place.

What's The Right Way To Act?

I might sound like a bit of a hypocrite when I write this, because I have a bugbear with well-known box office stars doing voice work in animation films, when there are immensely talented voice actors who need the work. Sometimes I wonder if they get the work because they are a drawcard. Think Ray Ramone who voiced that mammoth in the Ice Age movies. He has a very distinctive voice. Not a nice voice at all, but rather an adenoidal whiny droning. And although known for comedy, he's not what I would call a particularly funny man. That show Everybody Loves Raymond is the stupidest dross to crawl across my television screen EVER!

Now, why I might sound hypocritical is because I'm going to have a go at the people who are complaining about the actor Bryan Cranston being cast as a quadriplegic billionaire in the new movie The Upside. The movie is an American re-working of the French movie The Intouchables. It's about the relationship forged between a rich quadriplegic man, and the ne'er-do-well who is hired as his carer.

What has people's ire aroused regarding the casting of Cranston is that he is an able-bodied actor playing a person with disability. I know, right? How dare an actor do his job, which is to ACT! He's playing a man in a wheelchair. The monster!

Cranston also played a character in the series Breaking Bad. Do you think the producers should have cast an actual teacher-turned-amphetamine cook, instead of an actor? Do you think the producers should have hired actual Nazis to play the stalag commandants in Hogan's Heroes, instead of hiring actual ACTORS? As an interesting side note, the actors who played Klink and Schultz were Jewish.

'They' are upset that genuine actors with disability miss out on roles which are taken by able-bodied actors. I do see this point. I also see the point of the production company in hiring an actor who is a drawcard, which Cranston will be. The funny thing about actors is this: they ACT! They play people they're not. Why the fuck SHOULDN'T Cranston take the role if it's offered to him? I bet he does a great job with it.

Years ago, I read a review for a newly opened movie called My Left Foot, a biopic on the Irish writer Christie Brown, who had cerebral palsy. The reviewer was entranced with the performance of Daniel Day Lewis, and wrote words to the effect: 'You forget you're watching an actor'. Intrigued by this, I decided to go to the Dendy and watch the movie for myself. Before I left my digs, a friend dropped by, and I invited him along.

So, we went to Martin Place and watched My Left Foot. I'm not going to rhapsodise about the movie, suffice to say it totally blew me out of the water, and Daniel Day-Lewis's performance was like watching poetry in motion. I had the same feeling watching Brando in The Godfather. When we left the cinema, my friend said to me, 'Is that guy really disabled?'  I replied, 'No, he's as able-bodied as you or me!' My friend just stood there, shaking his head in amazement at the performance we had just watched. Daniel Day-Lewis won an Oscar for this performance, and deservedly so.

Right now, I'm feeling nostalgic for a simpler time when actors played roles without a whole heap of woke as fuck types losing their shit over it.

Sky News = Cry News, & The Palmer Chameleon (I Wish I Was Making It Up)

Like it or not, and whether you want to call it Australia Day or Invasion Day, 26 January is approaching. I don't know if I'm rostered to work yet or not. If not, I will probably celebrate with a few coldies and play some Aussie music. Some people will be sworn in as citizens that day by their respective local councils, and to those people, I say this: Congratulations, and it's great to have you. Regardless of what Scummo reckons, you wear what you want, and I daresay you will likely dress appropriately for the occasion, anyway. It's what's inside that matters the most, not the wrapping.

I don't know if all the local councils in our land are going to officially celebrate Australia Day on 26 January, but by the Living Harries, if you don't, you are certainly going to have the journalists (journalists? bahahahahahaha! I slay even myself at times!) at Sky News Australia getting their boxer shorts, such shorts no doubt having the Southern Cross motif, in quite a tangle. Today I saw some dude giving his opinion, and I thought his head was going to fill with blood and explode, like in that movie Scanners. Watching his asinine diatribe kind of had my own head feeling the same. This bloke's name, in the Aussie tradition of truncating nouns, is 'Gleeso'. He was going off about the movement to change the date of Australia Day, and the decisions of some councils to not swear in new citizens and/or have official celebrations. Peter Gleeson, or Gleeso if that's what you prefer, can I just point out these things to you:

1. You talked about the leftie elitists needing a 'cause celebre'. I like fancy phrases, too, and I will give you points for effort, but just a hint: it's not pronounced 'cause seller-BRAY'. It is pronounced 'cause say leb', with equal accented stress on all three syllables.

2. You said the actions of these councils was 'tantamount to treason'. When you delivered this view, I was hoping there were paramedics on standby with defibrillators and adrenaline to bring you back round, because you were about to pass out with the apoplexy. Treason? Mate, do you know what treason is? Clearly not, so sit back because I'm going to give you a really basic idea of what constitutes an act of treason in Australia. Treason, according to Australian law, entails the deliberate killing of a sovereign or heir, or the engaging in war alongside enemy against Australia. Interestingly, it apparently also entails banging the wife of the sovereign. No matter how you spin it, stretch it, or interpret it, the councils are NOT committing an act of treason.

3. You said it was 'unAustralian'.  That is the most ineffectual, pointless, meaningless, steaming shitball of a word EVER! It is bandied about by those who are losing the argument. It is like trying to scare away a charging rhino by flapping one's hands and yelling, 'Shoo! Bad rhino! Get away!'

Did Clive Palmer ever go to school? I'm guessing not, because he has learned NO lesson from the total clusterfuck of destroying We're Not Gonna Take It. His minions have come up with some app, and it uses the Culture Club hit Karma Chameleon, reworded as Palmer Chameleon. I really wish I was making that up, but I'm not. And as you can imagine, Boy George's people are not happy that their song is being used in this manner. Hey, Clive, I've got an idea for you. If you must fuck up Culture Club songs, how about these:

1. Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?, but sing it to the employees you fucked over; and
2. I'll Tumble 4 Ya, and go right ahead and do it, but down a rocky embankment.

Ciao for now, reader.

Scofflaw & Gobdaw Rolled In One

A week ago I posted about Clive Palmer's appropriation of Twisted Sister's We're Not Gonna Take It for his own dumb-arsed ad in his own dumb-arsed political campaign.  Twisted Sister's front man, Dee Snider, issued a cease and desist to Palmer. Palmer has defied Snider's demand. Not only is he still having this atrocious ad aired, he stated Duds Dutton should revoke Snider's visa for the upcoming Twisted Sister tour because, so Clive grizzles, Snider has issued threats. Um, Clivey-boy, the only threats Dee has issued are ones to sue your miserable, fat, twin-blobs-of-blancmange arse because you won't stop playing that shit ad, and you have not paid any royalties to which Dee and the band are entitled because of your appropriation of their song in said shit ad! Connect the dots, you dullard, seriously. Dee is entitled to issue those threats, and they are hardly sinister threats.

Since then, Clive has challenged Dee to some kind of absurd 'sing-off' in which the fans can decide who has ripped off whom. Clive reckons he's ripped off nobody. He also reckons his tune channels 'Oh, Come All Ye Faithful'.  He further reckons that warm yellow liquid trickling down our legs is rain, and not his urine.

Reader, can you imagine this? Clive would make an even bigger arse of himself, if possible. Fine, let the arseclown take to the stage, but let's have the first few rows of the venue filled with disgruntled employees of Queensland Nickel. Hilarious mayhem would likely ensue. Put it this way, Clive; you might need a chicken wire barrier on that stage. As a sidenote: Dee, if Clive's employees are still waiting their fair dues, then you might not want to bank your retirement on the royalties Clive owes you.

If you're going to engage in a battle of words, Clive, you will find Dee Snider a powerful adversary. Check out his testimony to Tipper Gore's bullshit committee - it's on You Tube. He will serve you your own arse on a plate.

Just the business of suggesting revocation of Dee Snider's visa had me embarrassed to have Clive representing Australian politics. Sadly, if Clive is to embarrass us in his political representation, he might have to take a ticket and wait until his number is called, what with Dutton, Joyce, Broad, Scomo et al. That lugubrious deadshit Dutton would be a big enough arsehat to actually listen to Clive and revoke Dee's visa. There is too much verisimilitude in this to even call it satirical hyperbole.

Clive, some advice:

(1) Stop airing the shitty ad wherein it is blatantly obvious you have ripped off Twisted Sister.

(2) Pay Twisted Sister their royalties, and stop insulting everyone.

(3) Stop trying to influence the Immigration Minister to revoke Dee's visa - you sound like a fat crybaby bully who's picked up his ball and is going home.

(4) Pay your employees.

(5) Learn how copyright works. Hint: pay the artist for his or her work, and don't try and barter in the form of an undignified karaoke contest.

(6) Wait for the paint to dry, so you can safely walk on it and get out of the corner into which you've painted yourself with your utter buffoonery.

One good thing about this dumpster fire; I learned a new word: 'scofflaw'. It means what it sounds like. Dee Snider used in in one of his tweets to describe - accurately! - Clive Palmer. I like that word. Thanks, Dee.

Outrage & Offence All Around The (Golden) Globe

Certain things are predictable. The weather, for example, is fairly predictable. Meteorologists study weather patterns, and there have been advances made in technology over the years, so the instruments used to forecast weather are very reliable. This is not to pooh-pooh the predictions made by Aunt Thelma that it's going to rain because her knee is aching; Aunt Thelma's knee is not without merit, I'm sure.

The other thing that is so predictable that one can set one's watch by it is the 'offended' brigade. Every time there's an event, someone is offended. You're probably aware the Golden Globes were held yesterday, and the headlines I've read hearken to the A Star is Born camp being outraged at Golden Globes snub. To the outraged, I say this: change your tampon.

I don't know whether Bohemian Rhapsody deserved the best drama picture because I haven't viewed all the films nominated. I have seen both A Star is Born and Bohemian Rhapsody, and between the two: I'd have awarded Bohemian Rhapsody, too. Sure, it's a follow-the-simple-steps, paint-by-numbers biopic, but shit, it's a good one. Star was good, too, and the performances were great. I will admit to trying not to cry and cringe at Bradley Cooper's raw portrayal of the perpetually shit-faced musician whose star is on the wane. Lady Gaga got the gong for her original song, and I was impressed with her performance, too.

But folks, Rami Malek so beautifully brought to life the flamboyance and intoxicating charisma of the Freddie Mercury we saw on stage, and juxtaposed it beautifully with the man's private frailty, loneliness, and vulnerability. When viewing the Live Aid scenes, I felt like there was somebody behind me pulling the hairs on the back of my neck. Maybe there was? If there was, and you're reading this, if you sit behind me and try this again, I'm going to turn around and throw popcorn in your face. The popcorn at the cinema has a high enough sodium content to turn you into a lump of prosciutto, so I will sit there and smirk at you.

The silliest thing I read yesterday was an article complaining about Bohemian Rhapsody winning because the director has had allegations of a sexual nature made against him. Um, and? Look, the award was given because of the final result in the creation of the work of art, and the private peccadilloes of anybody involved play no role. It's art for art's sake, remember? Another thing, the key word here is 'allegations'. Even if the allegations are tested and proven, then they still have no bearing on the work of art (which involved the work of other people such as writers, musicians, actors, set designers, et al).

I listen to all sorts of music. I love glam rock, and metal, and Sixties and Seventies rock and bubble gum, and punk, and oh: lots and lots! (Not country; it can fuck off and die in a hole). I have a particular fondness for the different styles from the Sixties, and much awesome stuff was produced by Phil Spector, who proved to be an absolute magician in the recording studio. It might not be too hyperbolic to describe him as a genius in the recording studio, even though 'genius' is a term I would rather leave for the likes of the Edisons and Da Vincis of this world. So, using the pretzel-twisted logic of some of these nincompoops complaining about the directorship behind Bohemian Rhapsody, should we no longer listen to the fabulous tunes that echo Spector's trademark 'wall of sound' because Spector is serving a sentence for second degree murder? See where I'm going with this?

Yes, I know I still complain about the cinematic brilliance of Pulp Fiction losing to the nauseating Forrest Gump, but I think I have a case here. Pulp Fiction was a far superior film to Forrest Gump, which is corny enough to appear in your crap for a week following its viewing. However, Bohemian Rhapsody's victory at the Golden Globes is not a travesty.  Okay?

Twisted Sister Are Definitely Not Gonna Take It

When I was in my late teens, my most concerning decision was whether to order a Tequila Sunrise or a Harvey Wallbanger at the bar.  When I had made the choice, I would hand over the currency for my cocktail, and the fluorescent bar overhead would reflect on the studs of the black studded wristband gracing my slender wrists. Chances are, I looked like a two-bob mug lair, or the female equivalent (a two-bob mug-she-lair). I thought I just looked the duck's nuts. A while ago, my eldest son and I were watching an Iron Maiden film clip; I pointed to the studded wrist bands sported by Bruce Dickinson, and told him I wore similar back in the day. My son looked very disconcerted, and said, 'You are not a good person, Mum.'

When I wasn't deciding which sickly cocktails to consume, I'd be sketching at home. Sometimes I'd put on music, and sometimes that music was Iron Maiden, or a new album that came out at the time: Stay Hungry by what looked like a bunch of Spinal Tap rejects, but were more likely piss-takers, called Twisted Sister. I really liked that album, and I loved the song We're Not Gonna Take It, and the film clip was a laugh, with actor Mark Metcalf paying tribute to his iconic Animal House role of ROTC arsehole-in-chief Douglas C Neidermeyer.

Many years later, my youngest son often cranks up Twisted Sister when he's washing up. All is good. The music-loving genes have been passed on. My work is done.

However, also many years later, Clive Palmer of the United Palmer Party decided it would be a topperoo idea to appropriate the song for his campaign. Unfortunately, it sounds shit, and the re-written lyrics do not scan musically, which makes it even more jarring.  Compare if you will the two: (1) We're/Not/Gon/na/Take/It has six syllables; whilst (2) Aus/sies/Are/Not/Gon/na/Take/It crams in two more syllables, and it completely fucks over everything.

Clive, your campaign song totally blows the foreskin off a bull elephant. You can't do a great big shit on the dining room table, sprinkle it with glitter, then spray it with shellac and say it's a lovely decoration, because it doesn't stop it from being SHIT. You're a rich man; surely you could have paid some aspiring song writer to come up with a jingle, and paid some people to perform it. Look how well it worked for the Labor Party's 'It's Time' slogan back in the early Seventies. You might have trouble finding well-known performers because they won't want to be associated with you. Can anyone in the Palmer United Party hold a tune?

Another thing, the band Twisted Sister are not impressed with your appropriation of their song, which you've done minus their permission. Theft of intellectual property and infringement of copyright are not looked upon favourably.  As I mentioned, you've got some serious coin, and I reckon a scrounge around beneath the cushions of your lounge would yield enough spare change to pay a songwriter.

Dee Snyder is not someone with whom you should be engaging in semantics; he is a very intelligent and articulate man, and will show your baseless arguments up for the pathetic balderdash they are. On a side note, I've wanted to use the word 'balderdash' in an article for ages, so thanks for that, Clive.

Clive, you said Twisted Sister should stay out of our politics. If you get some binoculars and train them skyward, you just might see the point you missed when it went clean over your head with a clearance up into the stratosphere.  Whether you intended to or not, you committed an act of intellectual property theft. Even more offensive is that you reduced an awesome song to paltry, nonsensical piffle.

Here's what Dee had to say on the matter, I've copied the text from his Twitter:

Retweeted Wall of Sound

Got no interest in Australian politics @CliveFPalmer @PalmerUtdParty ...unless iut involves plagiarism, misappropriation of creative property & my artistic rights. Stay away from my song, I'll stay away from your politics.  As @Silverchair once sang..."Wait 'til tomorrow!"

Anyway, I'm off to do some writing. Ciao for now.