Slattsnews

Terry McCrann dumps a well-deserved bucket on Treasury modelling of the economic impact of the government’s proposed emissions trading scheme:
But the bigger part of the answer is that Treasury modelling is shite.
Treasury models can’t get even close on something they do every year and Treasury actually knows something about. Federal budgets and the economy.

OMG – as the youngsters say – this would give the luvvies terminal vapours.

I’ve just received a comment to this post I wrote in 2006 on the death of famous Australian showman Jimmy Sharman. I’ll republish it in the hope that someone may have some information that can be passed on to Bronwyn who sent the comment.

For decades, Sharman ran a legendary boxing troupe that attended agricultural shows throughout the country, putting on contests in a sprawling, dirt-floored tent.
A feature of his shows was his spruiker’s challenge to the crowd before every series of bouts for some local to “take a glove” and fight one of his travelling pugilists.
Often the challengers from the mob were tough bushies — stockmen, shearers, wood-cutters and the like who’d travel miles for a Sharman’s tent stoush.
But down in my neck of the woods they were meeker dairy farmers who’d often have to be home sober and unscathed at 4pm for the milking. Volunteers were scarce. So Sharman would have a “plant” in the crowd, who’d announce himself as a truckie or roadworker from the next town who was indeed prepared to take on the Darky from the Murray.
One year, the old man had a contract to truck prize cattle to different agricultural shows in our district over consecutive weeks.
So I spent a lot of time outside Sharman’s tent enjoying the spruiking and general show business goings-on.
At Warrnambool an accepter bobbed up in the crowd claiming to be a cocky from Allansford; at Noorat, the same bloke was a fencer from Mortlake; and at Camperdown he was a fox-shooter from the Stony Rises.
Of course, in recent decades killjoy neo-religionists virtually killed off tent boxing. The same went for cracker nights and waterhole diving boards. Give the wowser, anti-competition bastards half a chance and they’d ban footy and horseracing, too.
In the early 80s I had the pleasure of meeting and interviewing Jimmy during his annual sojourn to Townsville. He’d prop in the corner of the Criterion’s public bar soaking up the sun and the local colour.
Regrettably, I didn’t file the piece I wrote, but I recall he was friendly, immensely proud of some of the Aboriginal success stories who’d gone through his tent, and funny in a dry bushy way.
I recalled to him from boyhood memories of how threatening was the appearance of a big bald Chinese bloke who oversaw admission to the tent.
“Ah, Han-Lee” (or something like that, I can’t remember the real name), Jimmy said. “He wouldn’t let the breeze in without a ticket!”

It would have to be an intellectual who came up with this doozy. No one else could be that stupid.

The word “drought” makes farmers feel depressed and should be replaced with “dryness”, a panel of Australian government experts has said.
“Words like drought … have negative connotations for farm families,” a report by the Drought Policy Review Expert Social Panel found.

“There needs to be a new national approach to living with dryness, as we prefer to call it, rather than dealing with drought.”

Dorothea Mackellar must be spinning in her plot:
“Of dryness and exceptionally wetting rain” . . . doesn’t quite make it, does it?

And whose job is it to come up with a new word? Winston Smith?

This should have many journalists writhing in shame. It won’t, of course. Like so many words, they wouldn’t know the meaning of it. A revealing piece by veteran newsman Michael S. Malone.
But worst of all, for the last couple weeks, I’ve begun — for the first time in my adult life — to be embarrassed to admit what I do for a living. A few days ago, when asked by a new acquaintance what I did for a living, I replied that I was “a writer,” because I couldn’t bring myself to admit to a stranger that I’m a journalist.

From the Sad but True Dept:

Sarah Palin and the Pope

So, Sarah Palin’s advisors decide that it is time for her to meet a bunch of serious world leaders. They head to Europe, where, first up, she has an appointment with the Pope. The Pope and some of his Cardinals invite her for a boat ride on the Tiber. As they are sitting in the gondola talking, a wind starts up and blows the Pope’s hat into the water. Palin looks around and realizes that no one is going to do anything about it, so she calmy rises, takes off her high heels, and steps off the side of the boat. Instead of diving into the water, however, she walks across it, to the hat, picks it up and walks back across the water to the boat. She climbs in, hands the Pope his hat and continues discussing whatever it was they had been talking about. The Cardinals are open mouthed in astonishment at what they have just seen. The news media, in nearby boats are busy discussing among themselves how to report it. Headlines the next day at the New York Times, The Washington Post and the networks all blare: “New Revelation: Sarah Palin Can’t Swim.”

H/T Al Hurley

How did that old song go? . . . she swallowed the bird to catch the spider that wriggled and wiggled and tickled inside her . . .

It didn’t quite work out that way in this Far North Queensland back yard.

No doubt about it. Feeble socialists have flushed the rule of law down the tube along with the “Great” that once preceded Britain.

Civil rights campaigners are angry that ministers have approved plans to allow Sharia councils in Britain the right to settle disputes regarding money, property and access to children.
They say such tribunals are institutions for male domination which treat women like second-class citizens.
Couples who choose to use the Sharia system must get the ruling rubber-stamped by a judge sitting in an ordinary family court.
But neither party has to attend this hearing and approval can be obtained by filling in a two-page application.

The painful irony is that a female politician orchestrated this obscene idiocy.

UPDATE:
Here’s some more weak socialists who spit the dummy after a couple of tough questions of the type they don’t expect from their tamed media monkeys.

Judging by the polls and continued overwhelming media support, Barack Obama looks set to win the US presidential election.
Should he win, one can only hope that instead of a grandiose victory salute, the victor’s first hand gesture is the hitchhiker’s wave of farewell.
This “thanks for the ride” dismissive backhand flick should be directed at the black militants, Chicago political gangsters, unrepentant terrorists, airhead celebrities, extremist socialists and disgustingly partisan media whose support got him this far.
He must ditch such baggage if he is to lead the free world responsibly and inspiringly. This would take a man of strength and substance, qualities that Obama has not exhibited yet; nothing like it, in fact.
If, however, he figuratively finds places in the White House for this unrepresentative filth, he’ll go off with the mainstream quicker than a bucket of prawns in the sun.
Merrikans, you could well be about to enjoy your own Whitlam era.

This is from Africa. You know, the place where they send emails telling you of your million-dollar inheritance to be released on receipt of your banking details.
So I’m sceptical about the claims. However, we’ll know soon enough whether there’s any truth to it.
API has recordings of the conversation between API and Mrs Obama (Shocking development: Mrs Obama decides enough is enough: “My husband was born in Hawaii and adopted by his step father, does that make him unpatriotic; she asks”, on a direct telephone to API., and we confirm that the audio will be released to the public. In the last 24 hours, API has been consulting legal advisers on the way forward in order to avoid being sued by the Obama camp. API has realised that the contents of the tapes if made public may change the political atmosphere in America for ever, especially in the next few days.
They state clearly that if the story is true and released now, the contents will safe America from a constitutional crisis that may come if things come out after the elections that proves Obama was adopted by a foreigner, thus, disqualifying him from the Presidency.

Dopey socialists. Found at Bolta’s blog.

Judith Wheeldon has aptly produced as fine a piece of writing you’re likely to find in any newspaper to hail officialdom’s belated recommitment to literacy in schools.

For 40 years we have cruelly turned aside from the needs of children wanting to master our complex, subtle and wonderful language and refused to teach them the skills to understand how English works. Without this understanding, their use of English is condemned to remain far below their potential.
It is as if we taught mathematics without the tools of addition and subtraction, without times tables and an explanation of fractions, but still expected to get good mathematical thinking, analysis and problem-solving from our young people.

Challenges loom, though. We need to find personnel and programs to get teachers literate. And we should find, identify and, if necessary get rid of, the ideologically driven idiots who brought about this situation in the first place.
This person could perhaps provide a hint:

“We are looking at a whole range of technical things and it doesn’t have soul,” Anne Feehan, principal of Melbourne’s Camberwell Girls’ Grammar, told The Weekend Australian yesterday.
“Relationships are at the heart of good teaching and it is at the heart of excellent schools, and until they get the relationships right a technical solution isn’t going to be engaging for the teaching staff who have to deliver it. Teachers need to see how the child is at the centre of the curriculum, not the content.”
“. . . doesn’t have soul”? Fergawdzakes!
It’s a worry when the head of a school – a school that, by the way, charges tens of thousands a year in fees – never learns. Guess that’s where you’ll find the next crop of doctors’ wives.

Uncherished memories:

Uproar intervened at The Local on Friday night before I could respond to a pal’s query as to whether we were entering a recession.
The Local is a rare establishment: a traditional workers pub replete with meat raffles, TAB, pool tables, $9 counter meals (the lamb’s fry and bacon is nirvana on china), 70s decor and, of course workers. In fact, Obie the licensee reckons he cuts the power bill by leaving a light off on pay nights thanks to the illumination offered by scores of flouro work safety jackets. It’s the type of place where it would have to be raining naked blondes to sway regulars’ attention from critical matters of the day like footy, cricket, racing and the price of beer.
So, when a rowdy tide of glowing yellow flowed to the pub’s side windows to view matters in the street outside, I figured something extraordinary had to be distracting the regulars from their Caulfied Cup prognostications. And yes, there was indeed a remarkable scene outside.
A bushie who drives to The Local every week to deliver pairs of dressed rabbits to a loyal and growing clientele had escorted Nick the Russian to his station wagon across the side street from the pub. The son of the steppes had affronted the rabbito with a sceptical inquiry about the freshness of his product.
The trapper took a brace of bunnies from the back, nicked their pelts and with bare hands skun and gutted them on the footpath in full view of intrigued bar patrons. With the innards steaming in the gutter he inquired deadpan: “That fresh enough?”
Codgers in the crowd chuckled through their stagger down memory lane, but the reaction from several young blokes belied their tattooed tough-fella demeanours.
One bolted for the dunny with fist clamped firmly across maw, while another pondered that “he’s broken about 10 by-laws, and they’re just for the Health Act”. Others were pale and silent.
Me, I returned to my beer peer and his query about the national economy.
“Not a recession, mate. My money’s on a Depression.”

Let’s hear it from the man who gave you TV in 1929 and a president years ahead of his time:
BIDEN: John’s last-minute economic plan does nothing to tackle the number-one job facing the middle class, and it happens to be, as Barack says, a three-letter word: jobs, j-o-b-s, jobs.

As our regular commenter here never stops telling us it’s Sarah Palin who is the moron who probably can’t count all the fingers on one hand.

Another day, another gorilla on paper down the tube. You’ve gotta laugh, though . . .
This financial meltdown is far worse than divorce, I’ve heard.
Yes, I’ve lost half my assets but I’ve still got my wife.
Boom, boom!

Some economic crisis: Families on more than $100,000 get $1000 Christmas bonuses; the first-home owners’ grant is doubled from $7000 to $14,000, with another $7000 for those who buy newly built homes; and pensioners – who weren’t consider worthy of a rise by the Rudd Government just a fortnight ago – get a one-off boost with a $1400 payment for singles and $2100 for couples.
Gee, there’ll be plenty of Australians praying for a financial meltdown every few months.

One name you never hear when lefties rabbit on about Sarah Palin’s lack of experience is Arnold Schwarzenegger. Before taking responsibility for the world’s fifth largest economy and a population of 36 million, Arnie was a body-builder and ham actor – with connections.
Palin comes across as much smarter, experienced, wittier and tougher in her run for the vice-presidency than the governator was when he took office. So why does she cop such bitter, patronising vitriol when, at worst, Arnie was treated by critics as something of a joke?
Is it because Palin’s origins are with the lesser classes whereas Arnie has elitist connections? If it is a case of the common folk now having someone to speak for them, it would seem lefty brahmans are packing their daks and all they can do is hurl abuse like loonies at asylum windows.
I’m particularly intrigued by the lefty sisterhood’s unbridled hatred for this woman who clearly has no doubt she could achieve anything she set out to do. Without blaming a man at the first obstacle.
UPDATE: Wonder if a couple of commenters here are comfortable with allies like this?

!. Why in this era of previously unimaginable, user-friendly technology do I need four remotes to watch my favourite TV program?
2. When did garden weeds become essential ingredients of trendy salads?
3. How does a group of four teenage girls all manage to speak, listen and comprehend at the same time?
4.Why don’t retail clerks ask if you want a receipt before stacking it under your change?
5. Is it possible to find and publish the names and phone numbers of the 25 idiots prepared to listen to tele-marketers who call between 6-7pm?
6. Are elderly women at the check-out desk practising a form of life insurance when they wait until the last item is processed before ferreting in the bottom of their trolley to find their bag and then their purse and then the exact cash down to the last five cents?
7. Why do computer systems go on the blink whenever you have to process something immediately?
8. Why do supposedly clever people savagely criticise religious adherants when the latter are usually good, kind, friendly folk?
9. Shouldn’t it be the Found Dogs Home?
10. How come 80 per cent of bike riding is against the wind?

This is the man with whom Barack Obama shared a special activist relationship.

If this doesn’t get widespread mainstream media coverage, publishers and broadcasters have failed dismally in their basic mission: to get out the big story. Of course, by not running it big they will be consistent in their disgraceful bias, a bias that defies notions of press impartiality. Such blatant partisanship you’d think would only hasten the fourth estate’s collapse in the market place.
What the left-wing New York Times had to say about Bill Ayres:

Mr. Ayers, who in 1970 was said to have summed up the Weatherman philosophy as: ”Kill all the rich people. Break up their cars and apartments. Bring the revolution home, kill your parents, that’s where it’s really at,” is today distinguished professor of education at the University of Illinois at Chicago. And he says he doesn’t actually remember suggesting that rich people be killed or that people kill their parents, but ”it’s been quoted so many times I’m beginning to think I did,” he said. ”It was a joke about the distribution of wealth.”
He went underground in 1970, after his girlfriend, Diana Oughton, and two other people were killed when bombs they were making exploded in a Greenwich Village town house. With him in the Weather Underground was Bernardine Dohrn, who was put on the F.B.I.’s 10 Most Wanted List. J. Edgar Hoover called her ”the most dangerous woman in America” and ”la Pasionara of the Lunatic Left.” Mr. Ayers and Ms. Dohrn later married.
In his book Mr. Ayers describes the Weathermen descending into a ”whirlpool of violence.”
”Everything was absolutely ideal on the day I bombed the Pentagon,” he writes. But then comes a disclaimer: ”Even though I didn’t actually bomb the Pentagon — we bombed it, in the sense that Weathermen organized it and claimed it.” He goes on to provide details about the manufacture of the bomb and how a woman he calls Anna placed the bomb in a restroom. No one was killed or injured, though damage was extensive.