Biden Administration Is ‘Irreparably Harmed’ by Free Speech Injunction

Good. But absurd. The injunction prevents the Biden administration from censoring free speech on social media. Nothing more.

If that irreparably harms it, then it damned well needed to be irreparably harmed.

Preliminary Injunction in Missouri v. Biden

No-one’s claiming to be a building expert

Uh huh …
but referring to personal experience and pointing put that there is no licensing or certification of waterproofing in Victoria; which is why there are so many problems.
There’s only 1 reason:
The CFMEU controls Unit Construction in Victoria.
Footings not waterproofed because it had been raining and the job was behind Program?
No worries.
The waterproofer will still sign off on it if he ever wants to work in the industry again.
It’s the same with all the Trades.
Bottom line:
Import wogs, import corruption.
It’s all they know.

It’s like a hipster, with a $120 op shop shirt, a bushranger beard and a top knot.

‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand.’

Ed Case
Jul 8, 2023 8:26 PM

Hurts you it does the anal – Yoda

adds much depth to the bullshit

Speaking of bullshit – nice deflection, but that fact is you don’t know.

Do you? God Oracle?

No. Thought not.

*But*

stupid vowels

if only they could be waterproofed

i know all about it

but i can’t tell youse

St. Matrix, signing off

if you say so

Yes. I do say so.

Because if you did know, and you are in fact a God Oracle pants-shitter-maker, you may have actually offered something.

Lightweight.

Dean Martin With Orchestra Conducted by Frank Sinatra – Good Night Sweetheart [1959]

What we do know is that it’s always been the plan to use the “soft sell” of the Voice to lock Indigenous co-governance into the Constitution and then unleash the real agenda of the Uluru Statement, a “treaty” (which means reparations, or taxpayer- funded compensation) and “truth” (which means rewriting Australia’s history as a story of shame).

And self-determination.

And we know Uncle Luigi’s position on that particular agenda:

On behalf of the Australian Labor Party, I commit to the Uluru Statement from the Heart in full.

And, given the composition of the Parliament, that’s exactly what we will get if it looks like the little shit has enough of the voteherd behind him.

You have to run after this child because he’s into everything and could cause damage or injure himself. I expect soon he might get some ADHD medication which would make things a lot easier. They went to Fiji recently for an outer-island resort holiday with him, and that was a great respite period for them. He could attend the kids club activities, which he enjoyed being part of, as long as they hired an individual minder for him. Six dollars a day was all she cost, they say to me in wonder. A good tip for anyone else who has a child who is similar and who need a family break. And they of course gave the minder a good tip too. The little fellow loved it all, which was the real bonus.

it would be nice if a bloke of intellect and reason offered something substantive
give it a go sometime

okay

this joint is rooted

Or – or, and hear me out:

What, exactly, are the requirements for waterproofing buildings – and their foundations – in Victoria?

Is that enough substance for you?

I have always disliked the term ‘passed away’. I prefer to be honest and say ‘died’, but I’ve swung into ‘passed away’ when I’ve been with people who use it and who would be offended if I didn’t. On such matters one doesn’t want to give offense.

Leave that for commenting on The Australian. lol.

Attapuss has already turned in for the nite. He’s in his little beddies in our room. It’s one of those round fluffy types made in China for cats who are pampered not eaten. It’s very warm and he looks so cute all cuddled up in it, one paw over his eye to block the light, dreaming of how behind the curtain he watched that little kid frighten the birdies away from their food placed on the verandah ledge. He’s allowed to do it, but I’m not, you could see him thinking. It’s not preferential treatment, I tell him now in his dreams, it’s just that I can pick you up by the scruff of your neck and stop you; can’t with the kid.

Lizzie,

My first child was worse than your grandson from your description. He was though a great sleeper, would not wake till about 8 to 8:30 each morning, go flat out until midday then collapse on the floor boards sound asleep, and wouldn’t wake till about 3:30pm when it would all start again. At 6:30pm he was exhausted and would go to sleep until 8 or so in the morning. His antics whilst awake were horrific. I was exhausted at the end of each day.

He now holds two Masters from UTS and has done well in business.

Palestrina – Sicut cervus | The Marian Consort

That was quick.
Mark Cavendish had a prang in the Tour just minutes ago. I watched the immediate replays of the crash and his withdrawal from the race then looked up his career record on Wikipedia.
Already updated.

Greetings from somewhere in the Icelandic Sea. On the Beloved’s device, at usurious innernet rates. We are experiencing a fairly decent swell (thank you stabilisers) and a magnificent fog – the warm Gulf Stream hits cold Arctic air and the inevitable happens.

Dock in Iceland tomorrow and going ashore – they tell me I’m viewing “Leisurely Akureyri and Godafoss”. Presume that I’ll be leisurely, not the destinations.

The site appears to be loading well way out here. Which is reassuring, considering the ship is completely fogbound and dependent on GPS and radar. The horn is sounded at regular intervals…I expect less to do with actual collision avoidance and more to do with rules and tradition.

No icebergs yet.

Hey Calli, I’m somewhere to the south of you, in Londonderry, Ireland.

Just to console you we went to the Ulster Museum today to look at the Spanish Armada collection. Following their 1588 defeat by Francis Drake and Co, some of the surviving ships fled north around Scotland and then west of Ireland. One of them, the Girona, got wrecked and sank with the loss of 1500 lives. There’s a good collection of artefacts in the Museum including three guns and a lot of personal items, including jewellery.

Happy sailing!

Testing

Thanks Tom – a few chortles in WIP

This is from the Atlantic. I think they forget the satire label.

The Atlantic is the mouth piece of the deep state.
When they say anything, it’s a road map for the establishment’s pending policy change.
When the Atlantic says it’s time to go Joe, it’s over.

Matrix, whatever went wrong with your daughter don’t blame yourself. There’s enough blamers out there for the world to cope with without you adding to them. When a kid goes haywire in a serious way it’s hard to say what drove them to it, but if you gave love and tried to counter some of the insanity around then rest assured it wasn’t you. Parents, especially mothers, often cop it hard even when we do our best.

Donald Triplett was Autism’s Case 1

Obit: Through the dark clouds shining. died 15/6/23 age 89

At first there were words, so many words. “Chrysanthemum!”
was a favourite. He used to like saying that one. And “Dahlia”
too—he liked that one so much he would repeat it: “Dahlia! Dahlia!
Dahlia!” The five-year-old Donald Triplett had non-floral favourites
as well. Sometimes, he sounded like an irate grammarian:
“Semicolon, capital, slain, slain,” he would say. Then, as if
conciliatory: “I could put a little comma.” Some of his phrases had an
almost biblical beauty: “Through the dark clouds shining.”

But if his words could be brilliant his meaning was often opaque.
When he said “you” he meant “me”. When he said “yes” it meant
“pick me up and put me on your shoulders.” When someone stood
on his toy he said “umbrella”. And what he meant by
“chrysanthemum” was anybody’s guess. He had other idiosyncrasies,
too. He shook his head, constantly, from side to side. He gave people
numbers, not just names. And if his toys weren’t just so, he
screamed till the muscles stood out on his neck. Most upsetting of
all, he never seemed glad to see his mother, Mary. But he loved
making things—blocks, pans, ashtrays, anything at all—spin. And
when they span the boy would, as the psychiatrist’s report observed,
jump up and down “in ecstasy”.

There were so many words. But there was no word for Donald. In the
1930s American psychiatry was not short of terms for what they
called “nature’s mistakes”. There was “imbecile” and “cretin” and
“lunatic”; there was “simpleton” and “dullard” and “dunce”. However
there was nothing to describe a little boy who liked to shout
“chrysanthemum” but didn’t hug his mother. Mary begged doctors to
give her a term. She even took her son to Leo Kanner, the best child
psychiatrist in America, but he too demurred. Modern medicine, he
told her, had no words for this. So in despair she came up with her
own. Her son, she wrote, was “hopelessly insane”. Kanner would,
eventually, opt for a more neutral term for Donald. He would call
him “Case 1”.

An earlier doctor, near her home in Forest, Mississippi, had been far
less cautious. He had known exactly what was wrong with Mary’s
boy: it was Mary. She had overstimulated him, with all her songs and
all that talking. He knew how to cure him, too: Mary must put
Donald in an institution, away from her. So she and her husband put
their boy in the family Buick and drove him to a children’s
institution in a town called Sanatorium. Then they left him there.
And, in a way, it worked: Donald’s tantrums and screaming stopped.
However so too did everything else. There was no more humming, or
singing, or spinning. Now Donald did almost nothing at all. He just
sat, motionless, in his regulation white bloomers and top. He was
three years old.

Which was why Mary ended up taking him to Kanner. He was an
Austrian-Jewish psychiatrist who had come to America years before
(he would later help hundreds of people escape from Nazi Germany).
He was never much of a one for putting labels on people: they were
more complicated than that. Then Mary turned up in his office with
her boy Donald, and her husband, and her husband’s 33 pages of
typed notes on his son (“obsessive”, Kanner observed). He read the
notes and he studied the boy. He stuck a pin in Donald’s arm and was
riveted to see that though the boy pushed the pin away, “He was
never angry at the interfering person.” And he could see that this
needed a name.

Kanner started work on a paper. He would include ten other children
in it too but Donald would be his frst: “Case 1”. Many of these
children had wildly different characteristics, he wrote. However they
all shared one thing: an “inability to relate themselves in the
ordinary way to people”. Common English had no word for this, so
Kanner borrowed a word for it from elsewhere in psychiatry. The
word he chose came from a Greek word, “autos”, which meant “self”.
Donald, he wrote, was “autistic”. Kanner went further: this “unique
syndrome not heretofore reported” was rare—but probably more
frequent than “the paucity of observed cases” made it seem. Kanner’s
paper has since been cited 17,000 times.

Later, Kanner would always say that he hadn’t discovered autism: it
was there before. Not that the people of Forest, Mississippi, the
home of its first case, knew much about that. Back in Forest
(population—as Don could tell you—5,330), they hadn’t really heard
about “autism”. But everyone knew Don. After those spells away, Don
had come back to Forest and spent the rest of his life there: he
graduated from high school there; learned to drive there; he even got
a job in the bank there: he could add long numbers in his head faster
than you could type them into a calculator. Sure, he was different.
And never much of a one for chit-chat. But that was just Don. Too
clever for his own good. A genius, they reckoned.

And he was happy. He still gave numbers to people, too. Pastor Mark
was 472. His friend Celeste was 1,315. Olivia and Toby were 154 and
155. And he just loved to flick people with rubber bands. At first he
had flicked his colleagues at work, but then he got in a whole lot of
trouble for that. So he took to getting his fellow workers when they
were out and about. In the grocery store. In the parking lot. He used
to keep the bands on his wrist so he was always ready. He
particularly liked to flick Celeste in church. She’d feel the flick—it
really stung!—and she’d know: that’s Don.

Later, when other people started to know who Don was too, Forest
looked out for him. When some journalists had wanted to write
about him, they’d approached locals to ask if they could be
introduced. Sure, they had said. Then they had said: and if you hurt
him in any way we’ll make sure you regret it. Don’s story became a
book; the book became a film, “In A Different Key”; and Don became
an entry in the “Encyclopaedia Britannica”.

Though to the people of Forest, he was always just Don. The pastor
who preached at his funeral began his sermon by introducing
himself with his number: I’m 472, he said. Later, others in the
congregation had joined in: I’m 1,316. I’m 40. I’m 30. But Don had
never given himself a number, so neither did they. To them, Donald
Triplett—Case 1—was always just Don. 7

This article appeared in the Obituary section of the print edition of The Economist

It broke my heart yesterday. Little fellow turned up at our door happy and smiling. Hello, so nice to see you, I say, bending down to him as he walks in and walks right by me without recognition. Gama huz, he says. Grandma’s house. Cat, he says. Attapuss has already fled behind the curtains. He is blank around people even his Dad, who picks him up a lot, because then he laughs and giggles. He used to sit on my knee when he was smaller and watch Thomas the Tank Engine. When a tree falls on the line he becomes super-excited and yells crash, crash, as Edward bumps into it and Thomas comes to the rescue. He won’t sit on my knee these days, he hangs upside down dribbling on the leather sofa biting it, before scattering some blocks everywhere, but his reaction to the same story is the same and he waits for the moment. Crash, crash. Except it sounds more like ash, ash. Is his very limited speech devolving? We are all anxious about that.

Yet more backfiring from the Voice proponents (the Tele):

A member of Anthony Albanese’s Referendum Engagement Group on the proposed Voice to Parliament has described Australia as “a nation without a soul” and believes our national day on January 26 should be abolished.

Teela Reid, a lawyer and academic at the University of Sydney is an Uluru Dialogue leader and member of the Referendum Engagement Group, who in January was described by the PM as part of the next generation of “remarkable” Indigenous leaders.

Yes. Ms Reid is indeed remarkable. This is what she said two months ago:

“Racism is synonymous with Australia. Australia wouldn’t exists without racism. Racism has nothing to do with the colour of your skin, it has everything to do with power & privilege” and: “There is no point in blackfullas trying to explain our pain to a nation without a soul”.

In January, in response to a proposal on Twitter that Australia Day be moved, Ms Reid responded: “How very Aussie is this; let’s ignore history, find a new meaningless date to celebrate, and forget that the Blaks ever declared 26 Jan a Day of Mourning” adding “It’s always been #AbolishAustraliaDay changing the date is a cop out.”

Nice. Seems like Reid wants a bit of ‘power and privilege’ from the average punter currently paying for it. Nothing like getting in ahead, jockeying for a ‘leadership’ position. And the cash that comes with it.

In 2020 she wrote in the Griffith Review: “The struggle for a First Nations Voice has been 250 years coming, ever since Captain Cook landed uninvited in 1770”

What? Uninvited?

You mean there wasn’t a Welcome to Country?

Lizzie,
I have read all your comments overnight and into this morning. I am struggling to find words except, wow. I have absolutely no idea what you are going through, how it feels.
I am glad though, that you have shared here. It must be so devastating when your child doesn’t crush their warm little body to your own, when they beg “more, more, do it again”, when you do horsie or aeroplane.

I have only been with autistic kids when I worked with Riding for the Disabled. I don’t know if the kids gained anything from it, but it certainly gave the mother’s a much needed respite for an hour or two.

As you well know, putting sad things into written words can sometimes act as a bit of a purge for a few blessed hours.

Stay warm and dry. The weather is positively evil down here.

Speaking to his Dad a couple of days ago, the desperate Father asked whether it ever happened when he was a kid and how he would have reacted.
“What do you think”?

We refused to accept it when my second son aged 13 did that. So I’d drop him at a local high school (his second one) and he’d go in and I’d think well, that’s done, and an hour later I’d get a call, he’d absconded for the day. This happened so often. I tried to get help, we all sat in family counselling sessions, except he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t come. The truant officer was no help at all. A psychologist said he’s getting lost in a family of four, especially with his older brother behaving autistically, and suggested sending him to his father for a year, which both he and his father had said they wanted to do. OK, so we did that, and then the boy felt shoved out of the family and his father was neglectful leaving him far too often to his own devices and his father’s new wife hated him, so we said come back home, and we sent him to a private school that took ‘difficult’ children, where he academically did well but socially went more downhill, starting to stay out late at night. We put all sorts of conditions on him but he fought every bit of the way. We tried gentle negotiating too, but that didn’t work either. In desperation, I took the advice of Hairy and friends and we sent him to boarding school, but he ran away from there constantly. He ended up back with us and back at the older easy-going private school, from which he eventually managed to get to university.

There is so much more to this tale, but in essence the outside culture (especially in the inner city with his father) said he could do what he liked, and with a recalcitrant child it can be disastrous. You struggle through, hoping that the drugs don’t take over with them. For the drug issues also arise in this context. We flushed marihuana down the toilet if we found it at home, but elsewhere in his ambit it was condoned or tolerated.

Here’s a story that parallels Titan the Imploder in a small way.

” July 9
Seeking to prove to a class of law students that the glass in his office building was unbreakable, Canadian lawyer Garry Hoy jumped at the window at speed on July 9, 1993.

Unfortunately, while the glass pane remained intact, the seals on the window frame gave way

Hoy fell 24 floors to his death from the Toronto-Dominion Centre.

The bizarre death traumatised the students and led to the closing of Holden Day Wilson, one of the largest law firms in Canada.”

GIVE thanks. sheesh.

Crossie,
happy you liked it. I have hundreds of funny dog and cat memes. As a dog and cat owner, I can vouch for the reality of most of them. 😀

Here’s another which is appropriate for the current dreadful weather we are having.

Roger -“If the Liberals can’t tailor a plan to sweep Mr 32% and the dregs of the R-G-R years from office by then they’re not worth their salt.”

You know that the Libs won’t do anything. Dutton’s a trier but that’s it. They just dumped Rennick, the state branches are utterly useless and the ranks of the Lib pollies are full of people who would be more at home in the Labor party.

The conservative /libertarian minors are in an ideal position to merge and form a powerful force in Aussie politics but they won’t. Too many ‘pure’ libertarians in the LDP, and too many big personalities in PHON and UAP. Without another Menzies to get these ego and policy driven minors together there won’t be a resurgence of conservative/liberal values in politics for the rest of our lives.

There’s a mass of people who want such a party but nobody seems to want them.