Australia’s Arts Industry Needs to Grow Some Balls & Tell ZioNazis to Fuck Off
These unfuckable dorks do not deserve the power you're giving them.
Hello, welcome to another YNR rant that may or may not end my career. To keep me off the streets, you can wish list my upcoming debut novel NOCK LOOSE by clicking here.
Monash University has “indefinitely postponed” an upcoming exhibition featuring works from Khaled Sabsabi, the artist who was moronically pulled as Australia’s representative at the Venice Biennale by the lickspittle wimps at Creative Australia, at the bequest of the glue-snorting gooner squad at our beloved national broadsheet.
Drongoloids, we are living in wildly dumb times, overseen by wildly dumb men. In Australia, a country that’s always been run by its most craven and venal suck-ups and fail-sons, the chronic cuckery of of our media/cultural landscape, and the lead-poisoned commentariat that keep it plugging along, is now at terminal levels of cringing subsequence. And it’s all for the favour of a small cadre of lobbyists, hate-mongers, and professional arms dealers, all of whom have been maintaining raging hard-ons for the Holocaust taking part in Gaza for almost two years.
In that time, we’ve seen the Australian arts industry — in its many hovels and hidey-holes — bow and scrape its way through sublime acts of bleakly Smeagol-esque dicktrippery. Be it the dunderheaded gout survivors at The Australian going after Sabsabi, the fervent bukkake hatestorming from the Zionist WhatsApp group that went after Overland and others, or the Fawlty Towers style farce played out on Jayson Gillham by the MSO last year: Australia’s cultural guardians and gatekeepers have made us witness acts of debasement and delusion previously reserved for German scat-porn purveyors and white-girl-ukelele covers of Wu-Tang songs. They are mainlining shame like a Catholic choirboy with a crippling hentai habit, and boy oh boy has it been hard to watch.
For an industry composed mainly of dorks, dweebs, and dinguses, you’d think at least some of them would have internalised the school-ground adage: “two for flinching.”
Instead, the pro-Genocide blood-huffers that bat for Israel with the same level of excitement as an IDF officer wearing the underwear of a child they just murdered on their head, have managed to, somehow, convince our institutions — or at least those making the decisions within/for them — that their corpse defiling banality of evil roadshow is somehow significant, influential, or important to the state of Australian arts and culture.
The thing is, the likes of Mark Leibler and AIJAC, and the media goons that carry water for them, have about the same amount of pull as a chronic masturbator at an old folk’s home. These are, increasingly, cunts you’d cross the street to avoid: dead-eyed freaks who would only seem approachable if you were already one of the ghouls who operate and officiate within Australia’s piddling halls of power.
In our culture industry, they persist only because of its baked-in deference towards mediocrity, and its well-honed indifference towards what it considers ‘politics’ (anything left of Leunig). Within the confines of our art/culture institution’s slack-jawed managerial class — who tend to be private-school burn-outs who failed-up from uncompleted PhDs about The Situationists, or some guff — certain special interest groups are able to stir panic as easily as a fox with a chainsaw running wild in a henhouse.
As with all things wrong with this business, the ZioNazis successful censorship, deplatforming, and cancellation of Australian artists stems from the disconnect between arts labour and arts management. The latter, people who have forgotten, or never quite grasped, how imagination, creation, and the hard yakka of giving it form actually works, do not know how to deal with the friction good art creates or which its creation necessitates. Their dreams of an AirBnB-sponsored-BIPOC-friendly-environmentally-conscious-pro-Enron-multi-medium-intertextual-pre-nonbinary-post-digitalQR-code-dependant arts festival within one of Sydney’s abandoned sewer mains etc. are the dreams of the incurably deranged.
To live like this is to suffer terribly (one assumes).
The CEOs, Board Squattocracy, Grant Anointers, and ‘Creative Directors’ of such endeavours are in a hell of their own making, where they’re constantly working themselves up to stack a brick labelled ‘DISCOURSE’ onto the wobbling tower of cards they’ve half-built in their imaginospheres. All the ZioNazis and co. have to do is appear in their mind-palaces like Freddy Kreuger and threaten to fart to make these simps freak the fuck out and fold.
The people who acquiesce to these threats, having spent their careers within the establishment’s Gorman-design padded cells, have tricked themselves into removing the audience from the equation, entirely. To them, art is something for 1) them and their circle of LinkedIn connections 2) the cucumber sandwich opening night/launch crowd 3) a cottage industry of sweaty publicists 4) donors who make Daniel Plainview seem reasonable and chill 5) a coterie of pathologically sub-seaslug-stupid, experimental-strand-of-rabies-from-a-secret-lab media frothers, and 6) our skinless politicians, the best of whom has the interiority of an inkjet printer (HP).
By abandoning audience and artists both, they permit the ZioNazis to go first in another round of rochambeau which decides who or what art is ‘anti-semetic’ aka degenerate. In turning their back on our community, and the solidarity that stems from maintaining a practice with and amongst your peers, they are turning their back on the only resource that could offer them immunity from pressure from the likes of the ZioNazis, The Australian, and similar creeps and cretins who — and always will be — cropping up.
Because, at the end of the day, these fascists represent a very small interest group dedicated to peddling one deeply unpopular agenda. Never have they been more loathed or loathsome. Never have they been such Unfuckable Dorks. And that Unfuckability — signalling an absolute dearth of clout — makes their self-perpetuating hissy-fits about as weighty as that of a toddler who’s shat their dacks in an Ikea.
Why are we letting people who deserve the biggest wedgies in history wedge us on every exhibition, book, song, joke, film, painting, and poem etc that dares show distaste for killing kids, ballistic missiles, and genocide?
What can these drooling dunces do at the end of the day, really? Show them some — any — pushback, and watch how quickly they grab their ball and head home.
All it requires is two words: fuck off.
It’s never too late to say ‘em.
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