When the world gets grim, you’ve only got two choices: crack up or crack apart.
After days of heavy headlines and the suffocating weight of politics and history, sometimes the wisest thing we can do is pause, pour a cuppa, and remember to laugh. Yet I suspect many have gone past that point.
Australia has always been a country of people who crack up, crack a tinny, crack a joke, and move on. But even we are weary of watching our nation and our world crack apart.
Today I want to talk about the birth and death of humour - how the left lost what little they had, and how humour itself has shifted. Because when laughter dies and mockery takes over, humanity has lost its soul. And sadly, too many governments are legislating joy out of our lives.
Read more: The Death of Laughter: Can a Humourless World Survive?
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Special Correspondent (still in hiding)
There are times in a rat’s life when you wonder if scratching a pencil in a wombat burrow matters at all. Whether your words rise to the surface - or sink into dust with the town above. But this time, against all odds, someone heard me. With a purloined Starlink dish strapped precariously to the CWA hall roof before its members were fully duckified - my message got through.
And someone answered.
When we speak of Ukraine and Russia in the 1930s, we are speaking of lands under Stalin’s Soviet regime - not the independent nations they are today.
It was this regime that forced millions of farmers to surrender their land in 1929. This was not a natural disaster, but a man-made catastrophe - engineered to crush resistance and bend people to the state.
Three cases, scattered across three eras, warn us that unless law remembers its duty to serve justice, not just authority, Australia and other countries, will keep reliving the same tragedy.
The stories of Max Stuart (1959), Ned Kelly (1878–1880), and Dezi Freeman (2025) span more than a century, yet they converge on a single truth: whenever law and justice are prised apart, destruction follows.
The accused suffer, communities fracture, and the authority of the state corrodes.
Was each man’s fate determined less by fact than by the way power was wielded: through provocation, bias, and suppression?
As a teacher seasoned by years of studying history and upholding the integrity of language, I beseech all who read this to confront a grave truth:
For at least eight decades, a pernicious propaganda has infiltrated our media, schools, and entertainment, crafted to deceive and destabilize society. I am of the older generation, hardly a boomer. They are youngsters, and I am of the previous generation.
Until we acknowledge this, we remain blind to the true adversaries of our civilization.
History, when studied with diligence, offers clarity. So let us look to history to open our eyes.
Read more: The Timeless Strategy of Deception: Propaganda as a Weapon Against Society
Read more: The Stupidity of Democracy is leading to it's failure
It was 19 years ago on the 4th of September 2006 that Steve Irwin rolled his swag for the last time.
It’s hard to believe that all these years have passed since we lost Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Man. He was one of us. A Queenslander through and through, who could turn a dodgy encounter with a twelve-foot saltie into a lesson about loving this country and how it means living with its bite as well as its beauty.
So, with Steve’s memory in mind, let me take you north, right up to the pointy end of Australia. A place where a “Welcome to Country” isn’t always a smoke ceremony or a handshake, but the sudden snap of jaws in a muddy creek. Life beyond the city limits is no zoo enclosure; it’s the real deal. And if you think you’re ready for it, well, you’d better keep your eyes peeled… because up there, the crocs still rule the rivers.
Like Steve, I have had a pretty colourful life one way or another.
Life out of Australian cities is not for people who cannot deal with the odd oversized lizard or two. It's almost more like " Welcome to the Jungle. "
Read more: Gone but Not Forgotten: Steve Irwin, the Crocs, and the Memories That Endure
Why Even a My Little Pony Rifle Makes More Sense than Gun Bans
We have all heard the chants from the leftie luvvies that guns kill people. I remember reading a comment online somewhere that if taking guns off people was the answer then surely, in order to cut rapes, men need to chop their dicks off…. Such is the logic.
That guns, in the hands of the wrong people, are wicked. And there is no one with a mind free of mental illness, would think otherwise. In so much as a kind and decent man, in possession of a penis, is not automatically a rapist ( despite the protestations of many radical feminazi’s ) a good man, in possession of a firearm does not a murderer make.
Over the years I have known men with both a penis and a firearm and staggeringly, they are good and decent fellows who work hard, support their families, pay their taxes and believe in old fashioned traditional conservative values.
Dusty Gulch Dispatch: The Great Literary Rebellion
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Special Correspondent (still in hiding after a big week in Dusty Gulch)
Well, folks, Dusty Gulch has gone and done it again - stirred up a storm bigger than a dingo’s howl in a willy willy.
The arrival of Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson, two of Australia’s literary titans, was meant to be a moment of pride, a rare chance for our little town to bask in the glow of heritage. Instead, it’s turned into a full-blown revolt against bureaucracy, censorship, and a time of reckoning.
They walked ) or waltzed - into town and and Miss Matilda Longpaddock, member of the CWA, was in tears of joy. Yes, Dusty Gulch was celebrating and Mayor, Dusty McFookit, gave them the keys to the Golden Lamington Cabinet. But what happened next was inconceivable.....
Read more: Literary Legends on the Run: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson Booted out of Dusty Gulch!
I was 12 years old when "The Prisoner " came out. Sometimes, I would sneak out of bed and watch it from the hallway when my parents were engrossed in watching the TV. I will never forget my fascination with some bloke running around a quirky town being chased by giant bubbles and mini mokes were the go-to vehicle of the time. It confused me and intrigued me. No doubt, my parents felt the same way. It was hardly the same as watching " I love Lucy " or " Rawhide " but it surely got my little grey cells working overtime.
"The Prisoner," a British television series created by Patrick McGoohan, first aired in September 1967 and ran for 17 episodes. It followed the story of a British secret agent named Number Six, played by McGoohan himself. Set in a mysterious and surreal village, the series explored themes of individualism, freedom, surveillance, and the power of the state.
His most famous and often quoted line was " I am not a number. I am a free man. "
Read more: Be Not a Number: Starving the Serpent to Break Free from the Modern Village
Read more: The Banality of Compliance: When Law Replaces Conscience
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