“Today I got the Pfizer vaccine in the event I need to travel to Tokyo for the Olympics,” tweeted Queensland Premier Annastacia Palaszczuk this week. Such understatement is typical of the great woman.
Source: The Mocker, News Corp
Annastacia Palaszczuk’s jab and truth serum gone to the dogs
She is fully aware the games would be nothing without her presence. Her non-attendance would be as devastating as an Olympics without the trampoline event.
At 51, Palaszczuk would normally be expected to receive the AstraZeneca vaccine. Pfizer is usually reserved for under 50s, given that demographic’s susceptibility to developing blood clots if given AZ. But do not for a moment blame Palaszczuk for exacerbating the problem of over-50s delaying their vaccination in holding out for Pfizer. That fault lies solely with her dog Winton.
“I had an accidental dog bite, so I had to go and have my tetanus and they ask you if you have your tetanus you’ll need two weeks from when you have your tetanus to have your Covid, then I had my flu vaccine,” she explained. Mind you, NSW Premier Gladys Berejiklian had her AZ shot exactly three months ago. As early as February, Palaszczuk was telling Queenslanders to get vaccinated as soon as it was their turn, but it appears only the plebs had to observe their civic duty.
She claimed this week the one-off Pfizer shot was necessary as there was a possibility the Olympics Committee would require her to give a presentation in Tokyo. Like me, many of you were probably thinking it was truth serum she needed, not a tetanus shot.
But there is no doubt she relishes the prospect of addressing an international sporting body of such prestige.
Palaszczuk loves a podium
In fact, it is a desire bordering on needy. When the Gold Coast hosted the 2018 Commonwealth Games, Palaszczuk was most miffed upon discovering she would not be invited to speak at the opening ceremony, a reaction that chairman of the games organising committee and former Queensland premier Peter Beattie described as “embarrassing”.
“To be honest … this is actually about the athletes, this is not about Annastacia,” said a bemused Beattie after learning that Palaszczuk had taken the extraordinary step of releasing to the media the speech she had intended giving.
A few excerpts: “We are, in fact, in the best part of Australia: the beautiful state of Queensland!” And: “There’s a reason a Queensland smile is that little bit broader, why we walk that little bit taller. It’s the pride we feel about our home.”
Lastly: “Queenslanders put the Q in Qantas, the bend in bananas and the warmth into every sip of Bundaberg Rum”. Just cut and paste, Premier. Surely the Olympics Committee will be mesmerised by your eloquent and mellifluous oratory.
And why stop at presenting at the Olympics? The Premier’s abilities are such she could effortlessly compete in several events at the games. For example, there is the chutzpah hurdles. Think of Palaszczuk demanding in March the federal government extend JobKeeper for tourism operators in North Queensland when she had all but destroyed the industry with her arbitrary and populist border closures.
Remember Palaszczuk saying “I don’t make the decisions” regarding her government’s refusal to let family members cross the border to see dying relatives?
She would be perfect for the handball event. You will also recall last year Prime Minister Scott Morrison implored her to let a woman from ACT – which then had not had a COVID-19 case for 60 days – attend her father’s funeral. In response, Palaszczuk claimed he was trying to bully her and acted as if she was the real victim. She would take out the gold medal for the rhythmic gymnastics event where participants ponce about the mat while waving a streamer.
Good luck in wooing the Olympics, Premier, but remember the lessons of Montreal, the city which hosted the 1976 Olympics. It took until 2006 for the city to pay off its debts for the privilege. Your state is predicted to be $130bn in debt within four years. If Brisbane secures the 2032 games, we can expect its five-ringed fiscal circus to last for many years.
Woke white women wailing
The thought one is likely to spend the evening as the only male in a house full of middle-aged women will terrify the average man, especially if he is given short notice to look for an excuse to go elsewhere. Instinctively he will ring around, hoping one of his friends – anyone really – will join him at the local for a counter meal and a few beers.
His frantic efforts are usually in vain. “Mate, I’d love to but dinner’s already in the oven,” I remember saying to one friend in this situation. “Maybe some other night?” Immediately after I uttered those remarks he made a sound that reminded me of a movie I saw about a mountain climber trapped on a remote peak during a freak blizzard. Having tried unsuccessfully all afternoon to rescue him, his companions abandon him at dusk, leaving the doomed man to sob and wail as he sees them depart.
Confessing racism over dinner
But now I realise that hosting a women-only party for the evening could be a lucrative business opportunity. As New York Magazine reported last month, the latest woke fad for white women is to host dinner parties where guests confess their racism before po-faced organisers Regina Jackson and Saira Rao, the founders of Race2Dinner.
“White women attending these dinners need to be committed to resisting white defences and the host is prepared to interrupt white fragility so as not to derail the conversation,” write Jackson and Rao, who have African and Indian heritage respectively. The cost for this privilege is $US5000 for group of eight, and this self-debasement package includes dinner. A bargain, really.
This shakedown has a heuristic theme in that guests confess acts of racism. For example, they might have read Enid Blyton’s ‘The Three Golliwogs’ as a child, or worn dreadlocks during their adolescent years, or questioned the wisdom that proof of racism is to be found in the accusation.
Disappointingly, white men are excluded from this mass self-flagellation exercise. Fear not though: for $300 they can secure a one-on-one consultation with either Rao or Jackson. Pay double that and men can have an hour-long session where both will help you purge your innate bigotry. “So far, none have done so,” notes NYM. Something to do with them having a life, I believe.
‘Dredging up white women’s shame’
Rao and Jackson must be raking in the cash with all the free publicity, but they are most put out in NYM describing their venture with the line “Two entrepreneurs have built a business dredging up white women’s shame”. Not true, according to Jackson. “What they’re trying to do is paint us as grifters,” she says.
Grifters? Perish the thought. I see nothing but altruistic motives. Why would people think for example that Rao, a former Wall Street lawyer who claims that capitalism is “destroying the planet” would exploit gullible people by divisive browbeating?
Laugh all you will at this stupidity in America, but as with most things there, it is a sign of what we can expect here soon. Rather than being run over by it, I intend getting on this gravy train. My transition from white heterosexual male to Congolese lesbian will begin soon, following which I will establish an Australian version of Race2Dinner and berate guests for perpetuating white supremacy. Guests will be served traditional Congolese cuisine, including spag bol, curried sausages, and lamb chump chops with mashed potatoes, followed by vanilla ice cream and chocolate topping.
I have never understood the mindset of people who pay others exorbitant sums to be abused and humiliated. It is not confined to one gender. There are men whose idea of enjoyment is having a dominatrix repeatedly stomp her stiletto heel over their nether regions. And there are women who willingly spend two hours being castigated and harangued for their whiteness by a pair of minority entitlement princesses. As to which of the experiences is worse, I hate to think.