WHAT’S HOT/WHAT’S NOT
THANK God guns don’t kill people. People kill people. This is according to the holy writ of the National Rifle Association which has Donald Trump and the Republican Congress in its pocket.
Of course, people kill people – not guns. Stephen Paddock could have just as easily killed 59 innocents and maimed 527 more from his 32nd storey room at the Mandalay Hotel, in Las Vegas, with rocks or his fists or a Samurai sword or by calling names.
His 23 high-powered assault and other weapons had nothing to do with it. In fact, Americans need more guns. If everyone in the crowd had been armed to the teeth with assault weaponry they can buy at discount department stores in designer colours, they could’ve taken him out, shot up the entire hotel and then killed one another.
In America, that is, tragically, the only real response. More guns. Arm teachers, preachers, passersby ... arm everyone.
When every American shoots every other American, will the NRA finally be happy that the Second Amendment is fulfilled? They’re doing a great job so far with a gun massacre every day and more than 16,000 people murdered in gun deaths every year.
This honours what you’d believe is the most important clause in an honourable and inspiring Constitution – the right to bear
The 20th anniversary of the movie which has its sunburnt charms. Dusty Martin – wow! Thanks to Tony Abbott and Bob Katter, I loved Macklemore’s performance at the NRL Grand Final (pictured). I had never heard of him and his beautiful song but its opponents made me watch. arms which was actually created to allow a militia to bear arms in the 18th century. Muskets which took minutes to load.
It’s ludicrous that the most powerful nation on Earth and a supposed beacon of freedom has become a shooting gallery and still suffers from a lack of universal healthcare – two things which more civilised nations such as ours solved a long time ago.
Violence begets violence. Political lobby groups with billiondollar bankrolls flex their muscles, manipulate fear and create a nation obsessed with the right to kill.
And then you get more and more gun massacres, more and more national grief and more and more blame – yet nothing happens. Change the smoking age to 21. The Bend Motorsport Park at
beaut Tailem Bend – excellent.
The flu – I can’t understand why people are admitted to hospital and die. Senator Matt Canavan telling people you can’t trust politicians to legislate for same-sex marriage. So what can we trust pollies to do? Hillary Clinton is the only presidential candidate to stand up to the gun lobby – one of the reasons she wasn’t elected. Even Barack Obama’s resolve against the lobby collapsed.
Trump is pro-gun and offered his “warmest condolences” to the uselessly slaughtered. There’s nothing warm about grief.
The 338th mass shooting in the US this year will soon be barely notable. A whimper not a bang. In February, Trump signed a law making it easier for people with a history of mental illness to buy assault rifles.
In April, he told the NRA: “You have a true friend and champion in the White House.”
He’s holding the smoking gun.
DEAR Crows and Crows fans, you were beaten by a better team – not a better club. “We fly as one” applies in victory and defeat. Any football fan understands the grief of a nasty loss but please stop blaming everyone.
Stop blaming your own. So far, Taylor Walker, Don Pyke, the umpires, the MCG and, of course, the media are to blame.
The media was not playing Richmond. Apparently, there’s either too much attention in the media (which Crows fans did not complain about in the saturated week leading to the Grand Final) or no attention. “We fly as one” has become the motto of the Crows kamikaze. It gets better. Time heals all wounds and wounds all heels.
The great thing about football is that there’s always a second chance – next week/next year.
Meanwhile, as a humble fan of the glorious Power, why am I having to tell the Crows this? Soon they will get back to doing what they do best – hating the Power which may be part of the problem.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think the pre-finals Gold Coast idyll was a good idea and that staring caper during the national anthem was stupid.
IF you find yourself losing the will to live, and I suspect there may be a few after last weekend’s avian mauling, don’t go anywhere the new adventure playground at Morialta during school holidays because it might just push you over the edge.
Unless, of course, the idea of being surrounded by a few thousand kids left to run amok while their parents stuff their faces with Cheezels and inflict cruelty on picnic chairs is your idea of a good day out. It certainly isn’t mine. I have this theory I like to call the “Three Levels of Appropriate Responses to Small Humans”.
The first level is occupied by your own offspring. Of course you love them. You have to. It’s what keeps our species going.
By and large, they’re pretty cool and I think we all take narcissistic pleasure in watching the development of scaled-down versions of ourselves.
But even these creatures we supposedly love like no other can sometimes make a man wonder why, when considering the human male produces half a trillion sperm in his lifetime, the little swimmer that made this particular child had to be the one that made it past the keeper.
Then there are your kid’s friends and your friend’s kids. This is Level Two.
These are the kids you get to know to a modest degree. They always hang around, you watch them grow up and you know their foibles because it’s their parents you’re hanging out with.
They’re usually well-behaved but can, just by being present, create problems. If you add two other kids to the two you’ve supplied yourself, you’re increasing the possibility of the kind of trivial conflict that can happen between kids by 200 per cent.
These are the ones who come for sleepovers and say things such as “But my dad lets me do it at home” or “I like sausages but only the way Mum cooks them”. These are the kids who decide, at 2am, that they miss their parents and want to go home.
You like Level Two kids but you’re usually happy to see them leave.
Then there’s Level Three. Everybody else’s kids. Like the little horrors who descended on the Morialta adventure playground at the same time I had to find a way to kill an hour with mine.
Like the little punk who shoved my twoyear-old off a log in his rush to get past.
Or the kid who sat at the top of the slippery dip ignoring the queue forming behind him. As his face started to redden, I realised it wouldn’t be wise for anyone else to go sliding where he’d been sitting.
There were the kids running over the roped-off areas of fragile new grass and the kids who kicked their football straight at me just because I mocked them for wearing Crows jumpers. And the kids who make you wonder how hard it would be to put doses of birth-control drugs into the water supply.
That’s what school-holiday survival mode is. Dealing with bored Level Ones, conspiring with the parents of the Level Twos to spread the load and doing whatever is possible to avoid large-scale congregations of Level Threes.
And I’m failing. Badly.