Comedians laughing at our expense Dave Warner's work as an agent of social reform is well-documented, if a tad misunderstood. COMEDY, in its most subtle form, can get lost under a cloak of drama. Take the work of full-time comedian and part-time cricketer Dave Warner. He let us believe he didn't like a green-and-gold wig, which English cricketer Joe Root had donned as a beard. The pair were at a bar. It was 2am. Masquerading as a bogan, Warner clocked Root, or at least tried to. The official response to this outburst of slapstick was to label Warner as some sort of cave man. More enlightened thinkers might grasp that Warner was instead seeking to spread the gospel of Moe from the Three Stooges - or perhaps working undercover for friends of pogonophobia, a support group for those who fear beards. Warner's work as an agent of social reform is well-documented, if a tad misunderstood. Only weeks ago, he tried to educate youngsters about the dangers of tweeting when you're really, really mad. He announced afterwards he was really, really sorry and declared that he was ready to act really, really grown up and stuff. In the subsequent pub incident, he sought to illuminate one of modern society's stranger disparities, in which sportspeople can leap almost every other endeavour, so that any bumpkin who can bat a bit - and we emphasise "a bit" - can earn an estimated $3.2 million a year. Warner's acting at being a clown proves he is no clown. He's an inspiration to mediocrity. So, too, was last week's news of a pay rise for federal politicians. They, too, demonstrate that excellence is not the only pathway to financial reward. Consider their latest preoccupations - the colour of ties, what's on the menu, legal and social protections that the rest of the country didn't know we needed to protect. For years, popular culture has poked fun at the shallowness of celebrity culture. Actors and models have always amused us with motherhood statements about the state of the planet or the need to improve this or that injustice. Such folk are different to our politicians. One, they actually have to look good; two, they can't do much about important issues. Politicians may be as stiff and scripted as the Mormons at the front door. But they can make decisions that matter. Last week, dozens more asylum seekers died at sea. Hundreds of jobs were cut at Target. Education reforms, largely abstract in form, were there to be digested, as was the much-vaunted National Disability Insurance Scheme. The when and why of the NDIS made some sense. The who, what and how of it remained vague. Instead, federal politics delved into the origins and merits of a mock menu that didn't matter and few people cared about. Hypotheticals replaced realities. In the breathless sprays that amounted to "he said, she said" accusations, obituaries were officially written for political spoofs, such as Yes, Minister. They are no longer required: we've got real-life nonsense, which isn't as witty, but is a lot more depressing. A pay rise for federal politicians, in such a climate of conceit, mocked every Australian worker employed on a performance-based contract. It's a world that Julian Assange seeks to enter. The WikiLeaks founder, and long-term guest of the Ecuadorian embassy in London, is standing for a Senate seat. Perhaps his plans are part of a comedy conspiracy that is only now starting to emerge - Assange will square off against ex-footballer Doug Hawkins and ex-boxer Barry Michael for a Victorian spot. The conspiracy grows - they are members of Clive Palmer's party. Palmer, as far as we can tell, is for dinosaurs, sinking ships and long lunches, and - like Assange - against politicians. Conventional politics wasn't always Assange's thing. He remains a political cause, and great causes have prompted great acts of sacrifice throughout history. On Thursday, Melbourne looked ready to host one of its own - a hunger strike. Think Gandhi and suffragettes and freedom and independence. Then think again. Think cabbies. Think short-fare queuing arrangements. Five taxi drivers at Melbourne airport vowed to go "forever" when they started fasting. An internet search revealed some remarkable tales - two of Gandhi's spiritual kin went 117 days without food. Well, the cabbies did set some sort of record - four hours after they started, they headed off for lunch. At least they proved a point. Beware people who invite you to be seriously stupid. Because they'll make you pay.