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Having been released from the constraints of the red in tooth and claw capitalist running dogs by retirement the grumpy one now expresses opinions that would have previously limited his career options. (The pseudonym is used simply to avoid familial arguments with Tory-voting kin.) A loathing of Tory politicians is supplemented by an equal disdain for bad language - the corporatese and the flim-flam of sales spruikers, marketers, spin doctors, bureaucrats and politicians. Red-penning the tosh from such types was an upside to having to work with them. The crankiness is offset by a love of motorbicycles, the occasional glass of claret too many and the sun glittering off a blue swell just down the road. Could possibly be identified from the ash down his shirtfront and the egg in his beard.


Gold standard Gladys – the shine is fading

Eeny meeny miniMo: The accidental head master and the prefect.

Warning: This post contains mixed metaphors.

As fellow big biz ‘doucheland über alles’ nasties Gladdy Berejiklian and Scooter Morrison have much in common but I cannot imagine they’d ever be friends – I mean, FFS, the guy is mates with Stuart Robert who has to submit proof of life once a month and Alex Hawke (somewhere there’s a hole missing its toad). And Glad knows the “evil bully” Scooter, in his typically treacherous backgrounding of her, has her name pencilled in on his crowded bus schedule.

Not so much Daggy Dad™ as creepy Uncle Weirdo, Scooter is a particular class of odious; one that requires a complex logistical web to sanitise for public consumption. In contrast Gladdy comes across as an unaffected prissy head prefect and sanctimonious goody two-shoes who, at assembly, wants us all to please know that she’s been let down by the rough crowd’s bad behaviour of locking the doors and hiding the keys (looking at you Andrews, McGowan and Pałaszczuk).

Much to Scooter’s chagrin, Glad came through the bushfire crisis undamaged (provided we whisper that bit about her slashing of the firefighting capabilities of Fire and Rescue, the RFS and NP&WS). Mind you, compared to Scooter’s cowardly abandonment and transparently desperate PR recovery campaign a goat on a unicycle would look in control.

Image from Twitter (@TwoEyeHead)

The relationship between these two provides some amusement if you take your humour black. The evidence is in that Glad despises Morrison – after all, what’s not to despise. Here’s a creep who exploited an archived photo from a memorial service for kids killed by a drunk driver to disguise a secret trip for Fathers Day during lockdown and package his narcissistic, sociopathic self as Dutiful Dad.

For her part, Glad has never claimed celestial endorsement, indulged in furtive touchies of unsuspecting disaster victims, spent lockdown with a personal photographer, displayed a telling lack of curiosity about too-close-to-home rape allegations, suggested that March4Justice protestors should be grateful they weren’t shot, had a QAnon BFF or proposed a “multibillion-dollar program to build new mass detention facilities in Australia for asylum seekers who were living in the community on bridging visas” (remind you of a particular, historical precedent anyone…anyone?). The list of this guy’s awfulness is far too long to indulge here in a rant that started out as a piss-take of Gladdy Two-shoes… I’ll move on.

Gladdy is not looking for a house to haunt, rather that signature tormented, mournful expression of hers has served her well when confronted with uncomfortable questions. When under ICAC scrutiny of dodgy deals it came to light that Dirty Dazza McGuire had been pizzling her mimsy the sympathy flowed all Glad’s way. The mums of NSW tut-tutted and tsk-tsked that Dazza had done her wrong – perhaps remembering their own deflowering by a big-noting deadbeat behind a nightclub dumpster? That’s unfair. I’ll venture into the dangerous territory of mansplaining by suggesting it’s probably natural sympathy for a woman making it in the testosterone-laden world of politics in a party for whom misogyny is a KPI.

What is becoming apparent is that her Miss Prissy has way more in common with Morrison’s Foghorn Leghorn than just compliance with the traditional Tory practices of pandering to wealth interests, unapologetic rorting, corruption, flogging of public assets and exploitation of our natural and historical heritage.

The chutzpah of trumpeting abject failures as triumphs, the hubris, the gaslighting and the testiness at being challenged – these are not from the Introduction To Utter Bastardry guidebook that is Tory essential reading. It’s Ms 55% as she really is, snickering in a press conference about the possibility of Delta spreading to Labor states, comfortable with the notion that some, the disposables, are to be sacrificed at the alter of mammon.

She’s no Jacinda Ardern, nor an Angela Merkel, she’s not Julia Gillard’s example for young women, she’s just a gold standard mini-Mo surrounded by a claque of morally bankrupt grifters championing the failed neo-con experiment to corporatise society; previous metaphors aside, she’s the frog to Morrison’s scorpion in a strange pact of mutually assured destruction should the Delta run rampant and sink Morrison’s re-election chances and shred her reputation.

Gladys may not be as reprehensible as Morrison but lately she’s been giving it her best shot.

* * * * * *

They’ll have funerals, but people will be able to attend them.” Scott Morrison.

Death is horrible, but we also need to put things into perspective, because at the moment there are 8 million citizens who don’t have choice in how they spend their free time.” Gladdy B.

That’s some pretty weird shit.” George Dubya Bush.

“It’s the vibe of the thing.” Dennis Denuto.


Image from Twitter (@philmupp1)


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Happy anniversary, ScoMo

The spiv with the shiv celebrates the third anniversary of his defining perfidy

Scott was in it from the word go.” Herr Schickltuber on the political assassination of Malcolm Turnbull.

A piffler of modest abilities and questionable achievements who wanted to be PM, his only valid claim to the Prime Ministership was that he’s not Peter Dutton. A unctuous quibbler for whom a glib catchphrase passes for uplifting rhetoric, who goes on and on and on like a one-ended stick with utterances that are not so much Winston Churchill as Kuta beach kiosk t-shirt – “How good is Bali?”, “I’ll sunburn for you”, “If ya wanna go on the jet-ski you’ll get a go on the jet-ski.” Listening to Scooter attempt inspiring oratory is like watching a 3 year old draw a horse.

It was three years ago, on the 24th August 2018 that Scooter showed, unambiguously, his true self. He shanked his “mate” Malcolm Turnbull.

In what could be called his signature move he pressed the plausible deniability button. “Who me? Prime Minister? Oh… gosh, OK.” He would have us believe that the leadership plotting of his prayer circle of fellow god-shoppers including Alex Hawke, a potential donor for those needing a new arsehole and Stuart Robert, a contributing cause of vaginal dryness, was undertaken without his participation or knowledge. The master at dodging accountability subcontracted his dirty work to his humble flock of acolytes who eagerly invoked their Christian values – “do unto others before they see it coming.

Scooter lays claim to being called by God. Why did The Big Guy in the sky, the creator of an entire universe, need Scooter’s minions to carry out the plan? Perhaps the communications via an eagle painting got garbled – it was open to misinterpretation. Burning bushes and talking snakes may have once had their place but we now live in an age of technology and ubiquitous social media. Why not a godly Facebook post or even a Tik Tok interpretive dance routine?




Despite the endorsement of an omnipotent albeit hands-off deity there is no challenge too small for Morrison to fail to rise to. In times of crisis he resorts to the grand traditions of the self-righteously religious – dissembling, hypocrisy, blame and scapegoating. Apart from displacing about 95,000 cubic centimetres of air everywhere he goes what has this prick achieved in three years? The most corrupt government in federal history is no small feat, with blatant rorting as their business model and several MPs whose honorific ‘The Hon.’ should be replaced with ‘the accused’. To paraphrase Theodore Roosevelt, when they call the roll in Cabinet, the members do not know whether to answer ‘Present’ or ‘Not guilty.

Why does the most overtly religious PM in our history tolerate, facilitate or participate in the scams and the grift? How much does he believe his own holier than thou bullshit and how much is political contrivance?

With Brian Houston as his mentor and Donald Trump as his hero we get a glimpse of the character of the man. Given another three years will he go the full nasty, will he encourage the drift to a quasi-theocracy based on a prosperity cult? Exploiting the undeserving poor to feed the filthy rich is Tory tradition as is destroying the environment so, no changes there. With an election pending he’ll do whatever it takes and if that means exposing your kids to a deadly virus it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

There is no dire circumstance, no crisis that The Great Schmozzle cannot make worse by becoming involved. He is reliant on Murdoch’s muckspreaders, a slush fund of some “unallocated” $80M from the last budget to spend on rorts and the notoriously short memories and apathy of the electorate but he could be re-elected. How good is that?

As consolation, at some future time, even the most academic political biographies assessing Scooter’s legacy are likely to at least reference The Great Dak Shatting Incident of 1997 and how his personal protection squad is required to carry plastic poop bags. His greatest achievement shall live on.


Glossolalia. Scotty The Saviour sans Barking Barmy’s excuse of being lit to the gills.

* * * * *

There are long, long lists of Tory malfeasance, nastiness and incompetence so to save space here’s a few links. They’re subject to updates as the dirty deeds continue to accumulate:

A dossier of lies and falsehoods. Crikey.

A complete list of the Liberal Party’s corruption over the last 7 years. The Chaser.

Achievements Of The Coalition Government.

A rallying crime. Martin McKenzie-Murray, The Monthly.

‘He was in it right up to his neck’: How Scott Morrison deposed a prime minister. Peter Hartcher, SMH.

Scott Morrison’s partisan interpretation of biblical passages is disturbing for democracy. Kevin Rudd in The Guardian.

Where would this man be without pollsters dictating his every utterance? Dennis Atkins, In Queensland.


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If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention

A nation’s character is reflected in the calibre of the politicians it chooses

When there’s an idiot in power those who elected him are well represented.” Anonymous.

They think they’re smarter than the rest of us. They don’t think of themselves as our employees but as our betters. They are the smug, entitled born-to-rulers, the haw-hawing, self-righteous ponces, the snooty, be-coiffed scolds and rural oiks who have come to believe the Big Con – that they are exceptional, the lifters, the elite, the superior managers.

This honking nonsense from a cloistered cohort who’d struggle to colour coordinate the dildo display in the prayer room let alone run a country is hard to swallow in the good times. In a pandemic and climate crisis, their misplaced vanities are killing people and helping to kill the planet.

They come from the self-titled leader class of the toffy private school breeding grounds of Tory privilege – jumping vaccine queues ahead of healthcare workers or fleeing lockdown to a ski-fields campus, they are the pampered, pallid Barclays and Gabrielles from the Young Lib set and the IPA twat factory, they’re the sanctimonious hypocrites from church pews supplemented by the Chosen One from the Jesus Inc. merch industry, the rustic oafs and the graduates from the ranks of smart-arsed party apparatchiks. Their contempt shows in their haughty tone, their cloth ears, their shameless dismissiveness of rampant corruption, the arrogant disdain for accountability and in the entitlement and the self-regard of the worst people imaginable.

From the loopy fringes to the hardcore spivs they live in an alternative reality where their self-esteem entirely exceeds their worth. Crony-capitalist doctrine and the counsel of party political hacks trumps expert health advice and the inconvenient facts of pending environmental catastrophe where the very survivability of the planet is subject to a cost:benefit analysis.

The Tory’s flexible version of integrity allows for a large overlap in the Venn diagram of arseholery/nutbaggery, indulging lunatic causes as free speech whenever it accommodates their agenda. No Notion stalwarts Edna Bucket the ginger minge and her strap-on Malcolm Frodo Baggins-Roberts normally mop up much of the cognitively challenged vote but it’s contested territory.

When captain’s nose-pick Cray Cray Kelly MP, failed furniture salesman and member for Hughes shakes his head you can hear the metal ball rattle but it was only after his glue-sniffing idiocy on vaccines was undermining the government’s efforts to gaslight the public that he was politely asked to tone down the finger sniffing.

Cray Cray’s fellow party balloon and pie connoisseur Gorgeous George Christensen is similarly inclined (should an orb be able to be inclined) to believe he’s been blessed with special insights and wisdom. Georgeous and Cray Cray have their tyres pumped by a large social media following from the trailing edge of the IQ bell curve, Qrackpots, horse punchers, sovereign citizens and assorted tattooed anti-vaxxers. Having celebrity handrail licker Pete Evans in the tent must be quite the validation for two plonkers with the physical allure of a sweaty Uncle Pervy and the comprehension skills of a kelpie attempting a cross-word puzzle. It could be imagined that Gorgeous’s antipathy to facemasks stems from his dispensing with personal protection during his cultural exchanges in the Philippines.

While these two bloviating buffoons shout down the hallway at the home for the perpetually befuddled they have company in the ga-ga lane on fuckwit highway (come on – mixed metaphors have their place). Black-face revivalist Matt King Coal Canavan has expanded his repertoire from monetising climate denialism to include covidiocy by simultaneously megaphoning his pro-life sentiments and suggesting keeping your relos alive via lockdowns and masks is not worth the effort. This performative onanism is possibly just for the schitzengiggles (as the Germans might say) given Matty would guide Alan Jones into a glory hole if it got him some exposure on Gloria After Dark.


Crème de la crème bun (from Twitter)


The vibe of this whole pelican parade is set by the front of house. The quality of their management is a reflection of the character of their party – the best of their best whose behaviour under pressure is a cockroach stampede after the lights are switched on.

PM Schmozzle’s practice of hiding behind the curtains has required a re-think but still within the boundaries of his reflexive blame-shifting and credit-seeking. The new champion of lockdowns and EVs brags that his quarantine and vaccine stuff-ups have saved 30,000 lives and that, extrapolating his prosperity doctrine, it is the poor countries that are responsible for climate change and it is god’s will that they suffer – as if we occupy separate planets.

It should be remembered that the first act of Morrison’s COVID Commission was to fund a new gas pipeline and that he refused to buy or lease firefighting aircraft but spent $250M on his VIP jet.

Schmo’s deputy, the florid fornicator Roger Thystaff, a cerebral colossus, an idiot savant (but without the savant bit) has his wit and wisdom scribbled on beer coasters in pubs and taverns across New England. Roger has come to think of himself as something of a sage – his cleverness extending to his observation that given he’s been a senior member of government for 7 years it’s up to others to assess the implications of a changing climate.

Ex-Head of Inquisitions & Persecutions and team therapist Pyrrhic Porter, fresh from his victory of dropping his defamation case against the ABC has copped a tab of some 500 large because, as the once most senior legal figure in the land he did not understand the nuance of the workings of our legal system. Porter sets a fine example of the openness and transparency principles of this best of all possible governments by expending considerable additional investment to prevent the evidence of his professed innocence of rape allegations from being disclosed. Schmozzle had no problem with reconciling his Jen-endorsed “believe women” rhetoric with his promotion of Porter to acting Leader of the House.

NSW head prefect Gladdy Two-shoes sailed through her scandals and incompetence with the “Poor Sad Gladys” schtick and Schmo’s gold star stuck on her forehead. “Daryl done her wrong” is scant cover for the hubris that let loose the Delta – a once-cozy media is finally applying some scrutiny and it’s the hardest hammering she’s received since she handed Dirty Dazza’s house keys back.

The only way the Tories can keep ahead of criminal charges is to stay in power. As an election nears these creeps, bottom feeders, toad lickers, thieves and liars will do all they can to game the system.

They stole our money when you weren’t looking and as soon as your back is turned they’ll steal some more and the greatest efforts they’ll take in addressing climate change is to look for excuses to do nothing at all.

Re-election will be treated as endorsement of blatant rorting, their corruption of institutions and their bullying and bigotry. Dissent will be persecuted, they will ramp up the pandering to the privileged and punching down at the poor. Australia will be dragged backwards and further to the right. While priests and parsons are feted public universities, scientists and the ABC will be defunded and institutions will be stacked even higher with cronies.

Anyone voting Tory at the next election is complicit in their crimes.

As long as the general population is passive, apathetic, diverted to consumerism or hatred of the vulnerable, then the powerful can do as they please, and those who survive will be left to contemplate the outcome.” Noam Chomsky

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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What’s next from Scomb-over?

What’s next from Scomb-over von Skidmark?

The Daggy Dad routine has been put on hold

We are eighteen months on from Scooter Morrison’s Hawaiian decamping holiday during the devastating 2019-20’s bushfires and signs of re-growth have been appearing – the ScoFro on the top of Scooter’s head.

In the middle of a pandemic with millions of stressed citizens in lockdown and a vaccine roll-out in a shambles we will at least be re-assured that in this time of crisis the Prime Minister of our nation remains focused on his image.

The ScoMo™ personality cult, carefully crafted and managed by a legion of spin doctors, image wranglers and media manipulators from the Gaetjens, Kunkel & Finkelstein stain removal service within the Ministry of Propaganda will likely have been undergoing some panicked revisions. Following clear evidence that their boy’s integrity deficit is becoming too evident to too many there will have been some collective shatting of dacks – there’s nothing like a dive in the polls to motivate the re-packaging of their dodgy product.

Don’t expect any tattoos, a moustache or Scooter learning the drums but ‘ScoMo’s homemade curries’ (sic) will probably stay on the PR roster – cynical shmaltz to help calm a wavering base of middle-aged white blokes who are increasingly susceptible to buyer’s remorse when their golf courses are closed and their jet-skis are stored under a tarp.

Bogan Scotty downing a champagne shoey to insert himself into Olympic successes? Maybe just some green and gold face paint – Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oik, oik, oik! Not likely – I’m betting that saviour Scotty the Dear Leader will replace Daggy Dad for some little while at least.

Let’s not under-estimate the challenge posed for his grooms and bag carriers. The nation has not grown along with the noble aspirations of an inspirational leader – a Chifley or a Whitlam; it is shrinking to fit the stunted vision of a small mind that is untroubled by scruples, honesty or shame. Grand oratory that uplifts a nation has been replaced by the unprompted denials on a radio talk show that he’d shat himself at a fast food joint. So proud, so uplifted that this contemptible turd is in the national wheelhouse. The re-invention of Scooter should at least be an entertainment during lockdown.

Dear Leader will need to control the smirk. This ever-present tic broadcasts his arrogance and is never a good look but less so when you’re responsible for the most spectacular fail since federation. Expect the default to now be serious Scotty – an earnest expression topped by the newly fluffy coiffe. There will be waves of gish-galloped, focus-grouped inanities – “all in this together”, “keeping Australians safe”, “saving lives and livelihoods” and on and on and on ’til your will to live is only saved by your desire to see this useless braggart removed from office.

Heroic, sad Jen the ever-reliable empathy prop should get a good run. Jen’s been stressed in lockdown, apparently. Uncomforted by the panoramic harbour views across manicured lawns yet Jen’s trivial tribulations should play well with the North Shore Range Rover set whose gardeners have been unable to tend to the topiary and the mums of middle Australia will swallow it like a rent boy in a prayer room just as they did for Gladdy Twoshoes’ Poor Sad Gladys schtick.

In keeping true to neo-liberal/Pentacostal win/lose principles, for Scooter to shine others must suffer. Fingers will be pointed, colleagues will be back-grounded, lambs will be sacrificed, rugs will be pulled from under friend and foe and never shall accountability or blame be assigned to The Dear Leader whose true self is there to see for those who bother to look. We’d be better off if, for PM, someone had filled a wetsuit with the contents from the spa filter at an eczema convention.

Fun with Schadenfreude

Not all is doom and gloom:

Christian Porter will never be Prime Minister.

Christian Porter and barrister Sue Chrysanthou may have to pay $500,000 in legal fees to Jo Dyer.

One Nation’s James Ashby failed to convince the Federal Court the Government should meet his legal costs to date via an “act of grace” payment of $4.5 million.

Cream bun connoisseur Gorgeous George Christensen and Flaccido Domingo Craig Kelly will both be missing from Parliament after the next election.

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Sophist’s choice

Will the premature defecator make an early run for the polls?

“Morrison’s poor judgment, the debacle of the vaccination rollout, the failures on quarantine, the monumental debt created by the monumental spending, his intolerance of criticism will all catch up with him eventually, most likely not until after the election, when he will reap what he has sown.” (Niki Savva, journalist, author, and former senior adviser to Prime Minister John Howard and Treasurer Peter Costello).

Sydney, 26th June 2021…

Somewhere, hiding within the sheltered confines of the QAnon clubhouse at Kirribilli, Scurry Morrison shat his pants.

Head prefect Gladdy Twoshoes’ hubris had set the meanest, nastiest, ugliest virus variant loose after Scurry had expended considerable political capital pissing in our custard and telling us it was a trifle – “envy of the world“, “it’s not a race“, “NSW is the gold standard“, “I commend the NSW Premier, she hasn’t gone to lockdown…” and then Poor, Sad Gladys® went and announced the inevitable – another lockdown.

A smooth vaccine roll-out was Scurry’s ticket to any easy run to the polls. The big flaw in this all eggs in one basket strategy was of course Scurry’s considerable talents for fucking up. And here we are.

Scurry typically practises social distancing whenever the going gets tough, disappearing for days and maintaining radio silence while his team of flunkies catch their breath to war game the options. Their boy’s vulnerability can always be gauged by the frequency and duration of his disappearances and the volume of the covering fire from Murdoch’s night-soil spruikers. Burying the bodies, inventing distractions, blame shifting – spinning up more revs than a choirboys changing room until they regain control of the news cycle with announcements re-announcing old announcements or announcing upcoming announcements.

Such practices have served Scurry well during his tenure – the billions in rort fests, shrubbery lurkers and rapists, pissed off wimmin, ecocide, disaster capitalism to further enrich cronies, abandoned citizens, jailed kindergartners could all be forgotten with the virus soaking up all the air time but the very thing that was providing cover for the smug yob’s indolence, nastiness and grifting is the thing that will finish him.

As with the bushfires, the pandemic has exposed Morrison for who he truly is. No Facebooked curries, no borrowing of chickens or mounting of heavy machinery, no be-medalled general nor tame premier can hide his vacuity and uselessness. A coward who baulks at scrutiny and bullies any defiance, a clueless charlatan, a pig, a QAnon adjacent prosperity cultist who celebrated an affinity with Mr Tangerine Man, an overtly religious moral void, an inveterate liar, a poseur whose first instinct in a crisis is flight, whose vision is shaped by the rapture and whose ambitions are informed by an eagle painting will be desperately rifling through dumpsters for dead cats.

This was Morrison’s chance to shine, to show up the doubters and haters, to prove he was worthy of the office, that he could confidently go to an early election. Instead, he shat himself. Again.

Did you spot the musical reference?

Not my job:



Where is the PM when the country needs him? On LinkedIn. Women’s Agenda.

Sleaze of Origin: grubby Gladys shapes up to shady ScoMo. Crikey.

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The Nationals have re-tooled

New England recaptures the title of Dope Capital of Australia.

Barking Barmy Joyce, our most celebrated family man, has resumed his role as the nation’s Number 2.

Having a bloviating prosperity cultist who consults eagle paintings for career advice and a habitually pickled pest in the top two positions in the country is quite the achievement even for a nation that has sleepwalked through eight years of the Lying Nasty Party’s belligerent kakocracy.

Deputy PM Mickey McWhatsisname rose from obscurity to become one of the most unrecognised names in politics. He’s a man so soporific that migrating birds fall from the sky whenever he speaks. He has the substance of a chalk outline and is now reluctantly returning to his previous role as idiot at large – monitoring exploding cow pats and burning effigies of inner-city, latte-sipping greenie-lefties. Barking Barmy Joyce has resumed the position of leading the ignorance pride parade that is the National Party, the fossil fuel-obsessed creationists who don’t believe in fossils.

Image from Twitter

It seems that the Nats have decided that exploiting the credulous rubes who love a “character” requires more than just dressing as Elvis. And regional Australia does love its outsiders – how else to explain the incoherent Bob The Mad Katter, One Nation’s homunculus and “living soul” Malcolm Roberts (a diminutive Screwloose Lautrec) and Buoy George Christensen the floating member for Manila. So, time to embrace the National’s ethos of back to the future and resurrect a bloke whose red neck joins up at the front – the florid fornicator from New England; Barking Barmy Joyce.

Barmy is the answer to questions no one seems to have asked. Do dinosaurs still roam the earth? Who’s been plucking Gina Rinehart’s chin hairs? Do the ladies’ lavs in Tamworth pubs have panic rooms?

Barmy lost some skin (and some teeth) when, while maintaining his focus on the bush, his girlfriend’s IUD blew up in his face. But you can’t keep a cheap drunk down. While he still thinks Wi-Fi is the plural of wife and that gay marriage will damage our cattle exports he’s back, promising that his rortin’ rootin’ days are behind him, updating his register of extra-marital interests and announcing his newly discovered humility via text ($600k expense claim pending).

Barmy is no outlier in the Nats. Despite qualms about his hands-on style from the wimmin in the Party one of Barmy’s most enthusiastic supporters and a representative sample of the lead paint lickers is Matt Coalface Canavan of the Man-Coal Love Association. For Matty every paddock, every orchard, every vineyard and every endangered habitat is a coal mine awaiting a government subsidy. Matty’s future-focused business acumen – along the lines of a Canavan Saddlery and VCR Rentals franchise, is built on the concept of maximising tax payer inputs to dud investments for familial benefit in the Angus Squizzy Taylor tradition. But I am sure Matty’s support has nothing to do with his brother’s investment in a busted-arse coal mine.

Joyce and Scooter Morrison should be quite a team despite the fact they despise each other.

Joyce the great testiculator waving his arms about and talking bollocks, his puce-faced ranting complementing FauxMo’s end-times dogma – the apoplectic and the apocalyptic working together for a shared vision of Australia as a scarred landscape of massive holes in the ground, dry rivers, poisoned acquifers, collapsed eco-systems and dead coral reefs but on the plus side a healthy stream of donations from the eco-vandals of the mining lobby.

Barmy himself may well say “I’m no Albert Weinstein“, confusing the iconic genius with the Hollywood sexual predator and zimmer frame test pilot, thereby both proving the point and rekindling memories of his past proclivities. He’s declared that after three years in back-bench penury he’s a changed man who does not intend to rejoin his fellow Pepé Le Pew Club members Porter, Tudge and Lamming trawling Canberra’s nightspots looking for knee tremblers behind the coat racks. His new crusade is to fuck the country not his staff.

* * * * *


‘I didn’t sleep for a week’: Catherine Marriott speaks out about alleged sexual harassment by Barnaby Joyce. ABC

Barnaby Joyce spent $675,000 in expenses but less than three weeks on ground while drought envoy. The Guardian.

Barnaby Joyce signed off $80m for Angus Taylor’s old company after zero was paid for same sort of water nearby. Michael West Media.

An outline of

Matt Canavan’s family obsession with coal. The AFR.


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A message to Quiet Australians®

Lies, corruption and incompetence are the new normal

In a world awash with psychopathic tyrants, kleptocrats, killers and loons such as Trump, Putin, Bolsinaro, Netanyahu, Erdoğan et al and their hordes of grifting toadies it is still so very easy to loathe a comparative non-entity, a vapid mediocrity and serial underachiever like Smirkin’ Scotty Morrison.

* * * * *

Watching this hi-vizzed, be-moobed, smirking dimwit gyrate around his paunch while mugging for the cameras like a fat Wiggle should trigger a Pavlovian gag reflex in any sentient observer. But on their own his staged routines are no more than a suitable explainer for, say, a curious kindergartener’s innocent question – “Miss, what’s a fuckwit?”.

ScoMo’s BoJo mojo is merely as contrived as that of his UK equivalent’s distractive idiocies, he’s comfortable with letting people die but he’s not straight out murdered anybody, he’s no Lukashenko nor a Duterte but he’s still worth backing at short odds in a crowded field for the title of ‘most likely to fuck up an entire country’.

Lacking imagination, foresight, curiosity or the work ethic to earn full despot status it’s his ability to trash Oz on such a broad scale with so little effort that keeps him competitive.

Complementing his neglect and general uselessness is an innate nastiness that is untroubled by scruples, honesty or shame, where there are no moral dilemmas only political problems and opportunities. Ethics and standards are treated as roadblocks and openness, morality and principle are entirely dispensable. His awfulness is as obvious as to require a Riefenstahlist propaganda unit within the PMO’s Kunkel-Gaetjens’ laundromat, a 24/7 personal photographer, the payment of protection money to Murdoch’s turd polishing rags and a collection of focus-grouped personas to provide the quick change artiface for his endless smarm offensives.

Smirko’s hold on power is tenuous. The fragility of his authority is perhaps best illustrated by recent revelations that within the plain sight of this overt Pentacostalist, Parliament House became a 5 star knocking shop and masturbatorium for sex pests, drink spikers and rapists. If the hired help is not shy about jizzing on a minister’s desk then perhaps he’s not held in the high regard that he holds for himself.

As with any kakistocrat he protects himself via a horrendium of thralls and lickspittles and of like-minded Old Testament moon units and prosperity cultists and proto-nazi authoritarians and he presides over a criminal cartel eager to share in the spoils of the grift that he enables.

The Tory front bench is a police line-up; the entire Coalition is a combo deal of sex offenders’ convention, tent revival and mobster expo. This slurry, often accompanied in news stories by the term “alleged”, has not one redemptive member to offset their repulsiveness. Not one. Not since WW2 have we had to trust a government more and never has one done less to earn it.

According to Smirko, and an eagle painting, he’s been “called to do Gods’ work“. The surreptitious laying on of hands as some sort of covert conversion therapy seems to be the methodology that Smirko has adopted to meet his celestial KPIs. Clearly, fulfilling his earthly duties is not something he seems to be particularly bothered with and he’s happy to sub-contract the BAU Tory bastardry to his stooges.



Nosferatu replicant Stuart Robert, a missionary creep and very unattractive man, is one of Smirko’s favourite acolytes. His illegal persecution of the unemployed has earned him a new gig – persecuting the disabled and blowing up the NDIS. Robert’s inability to form an image in a mirror likely explains his lack of self-awareness. Not a handicap in this government but surely they should’ve appointed someone capable of working during daylight hours.

Health Minister Elmer Fudge’s vaccine rollout is so lethargic the back of his head is covered in bug splatter and his messaging is as coherent as a man whose tongue is caught in his bicycle spokes. What he’s saying, I think, is that the Tories don’t like targets without a plan, or a plan without a target, thereby disappearing up his own arse.

Chubby exchequer Joshie Friedenberg, the numbers guy who allows himself a +/- 100% margin of error is the blowie slowy circling the lounge room. He’s counting the days til Smirko’s demise so that he can assume the position and unleash his beloved Thatcherite austerity onto the vulnerable. Nothing cheers Joshie more than further enriching billionaires while withdrawing job support during a pandemic and telling knock knock jokes to the homeless.

The Nationals, partners in crime and fossil fuel co-conspirators from Cockheads’ Corner are “led” by Deputy Dag Michael McComack, a bleached, dull-eyed Elvis with the intellect of a bi-valve who grins like a shot fox at his cleverness whenever he’s able to recite the speaking notes he’s been handed by the PMO. This dullard is so stupid he thinks a Vol-au-Vent is the air-con outlet in a Swedish car and that the red ones were triumphant in the War Of The Roses. He would wear a baklava on his head if he were to ever rob a Lebanese pastry shop. McCormack’s role apparently is to prove that no matter how appalling the Libs can be in the worst of circumstances, the Nats can always outdo them.

Addressing each one of the odious brown baggers, shrubbery-lurkers, dead ends, weirdos, humbuggers, liars and thieves would challenge the most robust of attention spans so, back to Smirko.

Government for the Tories is a treasure hunt, an opportunity to settle scores and to prosecute their culture wars. The coronavirus was Morrison’s gift from his homicidal god – a political opportunity to distance himself from his Fibonacci accumulation of corruption and failures that will be the catalyst for Australia’s decline towards failed state status. He’s tried to exploit the virus for his own electoral advantage and as per historical precedent he’s fucked it up.

Belief in his own exceptionalism, ironically trading on his very ordinariness as a sales pitch for grooming the apathetic, the stupid and the complacent that he fondly brands as his “quiet Australians” will bring him undone. Fortuitously the virus has shone the spotlight on what a cowardly, useless spiv he is and it may be the end of his long, lucky run.

* * * * *


A dossier of lies and falsehoods. How Scott Morrison manipulates the truth. Crikey.

Dennis Atkins: Scott Morrison’s four favourite ways to bend the truth. The New Daily.

Dennis Atkins: We’re heading for an early election, and Scott Morrison has revealed his script. The New Daily.


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The dear leader: FauxMo’s cult of personalities

Does the absence of a personality of itself define a personality? This is the FauxMo Conundrum, or Schrödinger’s Twat as I like to call it.

The paradox being that if FauxMo does have a personality it is characterised by the apparent absence of a definitive personality; a void that he fills by projecting one of his focus grouped, duly accessorised caricatures onto the audience du jour, all franchised under the ScoMo® homebrand.

Contrived personalities disguise his true character and temperament. His ever-present, self-satisfied, know-all smirk is as obvious as a cock&balls tatooed on his forehead; it’s the nudge, nudge, wink, wink to his cohort of shonks and duds who think they’re getting away with it all.

This human embodiment of the gag reflex would not be successful at the great con if more people paid attention.

FauxMo, the patron saint of hypocrites and the incontinent, has finally outed himself. Swathed in all his exorable humbug St.’Unt di la Shire (canonisation formalities pending) is at once professing both humility and God’s personal endorsement. Unaccessorised with baseball cap, hi-viz or virgin tool-belt he has now succumbed to the urge of the self-righteous to proclaim his specialness and his virtue, overcoming any reservations about revealing his true self if his recent rambling sermon to his fellow Australian Christian Churches rapturists is any guide.

Bro Faux has put out the word that Hughie is on-side by explicitly proclaiming that the invisible hand of his fantastical, imaginary friend has personally intervened, his divine mission being “called to do Gods’ work“. The Messiah from The Shire in “the great south land of the Holy Spirit” FFS! Quite the presumption for other than the Pope, The Donald or televangelical hucksters who are, ironically, all aware that such takes are marketing flimflam.

Vapid, calculating, thin-skinned – the catalyst for FauxMo’s smarmy, uncompromising hubris in the face of his habitual incompetence and his avoidance of any accountability can now be explained. He really believes he’s been chosen via an evident miracle to steer secular Oz onto the path of his version of righteous cronyism while the hard yards of floods, droughts, fires and stranded Aussies are all in the hands of The Big Guy in the sky – “ …I can’t fix the world, I can’t save the world We both believe in someone who can…


Image from (Photo from Facebook)


FauxMo’s sermon, should you have the fortitude to listen to it, is a masterclass in hypocrisy and contradiction – useful tools for religious hustlers and political spivs. Faux is both but will deny he’s either.

The whole godliness persona could just be another manifestation of Faux’s transactional marketing sophistry. Is this whole Christian schtick contrived? His brand of holiness may be just another of his many fake routines confected for specific consumption. A Christian of convenience amplifying Medieval dogma for the Old Testament Armageddonist fan fringe but also dog-whistling to the more rational church goers – harvesting their sympathy by framing all Christians as victims of the ungodly woke progressives’ sneering disdain?

God-botherer or grifter?

Prophets or profits?

Jim Jones or Tony Blair?

Saving souls or sandbagging marginal seats?

Does he see Jesus’s face in cheese toasties or does he see useful idiots to help sell his big neo-liberal con?

This guy has a Stepford wife and a 24×7 personal photographer; he covers all bases – a touch-up artist by both meanings –

The anointed one has apparently adopted the hands-on style with surreptitious feels of distraught souls – “I’ve been in evacuation centres where people thought I was just giving someone a hug. And I was praying. And putting my hands on people & various places, laying hands on them and praying, in various situations.” Is God’s fondler groping disaster victims as furtive conversion therapy – saving the souls that his deity made homeless? Mysterious ways indeed!

Losing your house to facilitate a coming-to-Jesus has a biblical precedent – and Bro FauxMo has a literal belief in such. ‘Never mind, dear, I’ll just touch you. Tithe 10% of your token disaster relief and smile for the camera over there … now remember to vote for ScoMo.’

The gist is that this beligerent bully, this speaker-in-tongues, fluent in marketing piffle and gibberish, his contempt, smarm, arrogance and pettiness shaped by the prosperity doctrine of hard right evangelical hypocrites is so convinced by mis-placed self-belief he no longer even pretends to govern for those who won’t vote for him, pray with him or donate to him.

He’s ramping up the performances as the fuck ups cluster, subliminally morphing his kakocracy into a 7 Mountains Mandate theocracy that will ignore or persecute anyone not adhering to its end-times Old Testament values or participating in it’s Randesque prosperity doctrine.

As he and his cronies power full smirk ahead with a manifesto of blatant graft and favouritism that would embarrass Saudi royalty the traditional Tory practices of incompetence and bastardry continue in the background.


Image from


FauxMo quotes

We believe in the everlasting punishment of the wicked (in the sense of eternal torment) who wilfully reject and despise the love of God

Liberty cannot be established without morality, nor morality without faith.”

Freedom has never worked without deeply ingrained moral beliefs.

* * * * *

When the government puts its imprimatur on a particular religion, it conveys a message of exclusion to all those who do not adhere to the favored beliefs. A government cannot be premised on the belief that all persons are created equal when it asserts that God prefers some.” (Harry Blackmun, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States 1970 -1994).

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Who am I? A quiz.

Have you been paying attention?

They seek to rule not to serve.

They presume to rule through divine indulgence.

They craft their deity in their own image.

Wealth is their measure of all worth.

Self-enrichment is accepted as a legitimate pursuit of elected office.

They claim their privilege as an inalienable birth right, gifted by their messiah in recognition of their innate merit.

Dissent is intolerable.

They are self-righteous yet they fear scrutiny.

Democratic norms are an inconvenience to be suffered if not perverted, ignored or discarded.

Authoritarian by instinct and punitive by inclination they claim to unify yet it is their nature to divide. The wedge and the dog whistle are favoured tools.

Fear though is their treasured weapon. Fear of change, fear of ‘the other’. They always seek an enemy of convenience with which to distract us be it brown folks, GetUp! or EVs.

They claim to be the champions of freedom yet they impose more and more controls on us with fewer and fewer constraints on themselves.

Empathy must be funded.

Ethics and standards are impediments.

Integrity is for losers.

Faith trumps truth, facts can be uncomfortable and so are entirely dispensable.

Morality is a flexible and transitory concept that can be replaced with confected outrage or contrived artlessness whenever their malfeasance or negligence is exposed.

The biggest sin is being caught.

Egalitarianism is an impractical lefty abstraction.

For them to win someone else must lose.

For them to thrive others must be sacrificed.

They resent every cent and every gesture that helps the powerless.

The niggling fear that someone, somewhere may be getting something that they themselves are not causes them great distress.

Everyone and everything is exploitable for private profit. The elderly and frail, the dispossessed, the disabled and vulnerable, those without a voice, our rivers, forests and oceans, natural disasters, wars and pandemics.

They are sour and hateful. The heavies and bullies and the compliant cowards, the liars, incompetents and dullards, sleazy upskirters and grifters – their uniformity is their hypocrisy and hubris. When not genuflecting at their alters on Sundays they’re stealing our planet out from under our kids’ future. Their party’s also-rans, so inculcated, so incapable of either curiosity or original thought have become victims of their own gaslighting – the useful idiots filling the spaces on the backbenches desperately seeking approval by repeating the tired tropes of discredited neo-liberal dogma and crackpot idiocies.

They abhor progress and will reverse it at every opportunity to safeguard their place at the front of the queue.

They seek reassurance in denialism as protection from inconvenient truths and an uncomfortable reality.

They indulge nutters and ratbags for political advantage.

Shock jocks megaphone their distractions and their lies to the gormless, the stupid and the lazy.

The non-compliant and anyone seeking to challenge their incompetence or expose their corruption will be subject to backgrounding, trolling, undermining, police raids and secret trials.

They will never allow an effective integrity commission. Apparently they’re not that confident their Jesus would offer a character reference. What utter humbugs they are.

They are transitioning from political party to a religiously-driven cult of greed and corruption.

* * * * *

Who am I?

If you’ve been paying attention the answer is obvious. I am Scott Morrison and they are the plaything of Rupert Murdoch – the Liberal/National coalition.

Fortunately our democracy will withstand this aberration. It’s up to the sleepwalkers, the waiverers, and the stranded Aussies, the unvaccinated, the un and under-employed, women and their allies who habitually vote Tory and those who would like the Great Barrier Reef to survive to ensure the L/NP are consigned to the bin at the earliest opportunity.

* * * * *

As long as the general population is passive, apathetic, diverted to consumerism or hatred of the vulnerable, then the powerful can do as they please, and those who survive will be left to contemplate the outcome.” Noam Chomsky

Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” H. L. Mencken



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With great power comes great avoidance of responsibility

Spinocchio skirts the issue

Spinocchio Morrison the clueless MC from Announceables-R-Us has showed off the new org chart that is his disaster recovery plan. The women of Australia are revolting and the marketing man responded to his crisis like a marketing man does – by revamping the packaging. The LNP now comes in a choice of colours, swinging dick blue and sheila pink. Thankfully, during his pitch to the press Morrison resisted the urge to fondle his balls as a wink to his blokey-bloke base (“Play along, fellas. They’ve probably just got the painters in so they’ll forget all about itafter a box of Cadbury’s Favourites“).

As a demonstration of his sudden revelation of the value of women to the party Spinocchio has elevated several of the serving wenches to special ministerial status adding “women” to newly grandiloquent titles thereby cynically absolving the men from any accountability to half of the population.

First female Attorney General Excretia Borgia, the new chief law officer of the land and a fugitive from AFP interviews (whose public persona projects not so much lawyerly calm as ‘desperate crackhead haranguing her dealer for more credit’) has a somewhat soiled record when it comes to supporting the sisterhood. Who can forget the helmet-haired harridan’s screeching slurs against the women in Bill Shorten’s office with threats of “oil noime noimes”?

Excretia’s priority will be to provide cover for her predecessor the Xtian Porter against historical rape allegations which have conveniently been consigned to PMO Svengali Phil Gaetjens’s Penski file. The Xtian will now busy himself in his new role by persuing defamation action against our national broadcaster, claiming that he can be identified as the unnamed alleged rapist in the ABC’s disclosures of Tory sleaze by simply joining the dots. A rather bizarre argument for defending one’s reputation if you think about it.

Morrison’s marketing reflex kicked in with his anointing of a selection of heretofore handmaidens who have sought to thrive by being just as egregious as the men. Amanda Stoker, Anne Ruston and Jane Hume, the lipstick on the pig, will join Excretia in a taskforce to manage cultural change by making sure that privileged women don’t miss out on the largesse. A tag team of mini-Maggie Thatchers but without the personal warmth.

Contributing his blokey input Deputy PM Forrest Gimp, the bonus track on a Yoko Ono CD, was the go-to guy to explain how to try to not be a ballsack as a part of the Nat’s redemptive performance of newly found feminism. Gimpy used Barmy Joyce’s inflatable doll to demonstrate to the troops those places where it’s inappropriate to touch staff in an hour long mansplain (lunch break included). Gimpy’s empathy session covered his old talking points – comparing women’s soccer to an egg & spoon race, rampant homophobia and extolling the virtues of corporal punishment.

Some of the Big Swinging Dicks though found their feminine side a tad harder to get in touch with.

Head spud and now Minister for Defence gruppenfritter Aldo Fitler had had enough of shouty wimmin and free speech, claiming social media was being defamatory towards him, thereby invoking the Streisand Effect by refreshing memories of tuber-themed lampooning of his resemblance to a starchy staple. The “mad fucking witch” sledge that Aldo directed at a female journo must’ve slipped his mind as has the context – his expressing sympathy for Big Swinging Dicks member Jamie Briggs whose staff touching proclivities saw his use by date brought forward. It is notable and unsurprising that sympathy from the boiz went to the groper not the gropee including that of then Finance Minister and fellow BSD Hieronymus Botch:



This is not just an issue of a lack of women in the Tory parties, it’s their lack of decent human beings. How telling of their behaviours that media stories about them now inevitably include the Lifeline phone number.

The entropy continues.

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Dumpster fire of the vanities: A reality check for the born-to-rulers

Could it be a wank that brings Scooter Morrison undone? Not the metaphorical kind of Scooter’s self-indulgent posturing or his constant, carefully crafted photo ops but rather a literal wank – a hairy-palmed Lib staffer interrogating the prisoner in a female MP’s office and depositing a pearl necklace on her furniture.

It’s all a bit ewww but let he who has not lusted after a Swedish flatpack or felt a stirring in the loins at the sight of a come hither trestle table be the one to cast the first stone. A furniture fetish is not the most outrageous of aberrations and self-abuse is one small warp in the rich tapestry of sybaritism that characterises the private school boys, IPA Gordon Gekko tribute acts, spads and cosseted MPs who make up the Tory ecosystem. It’s all just elitist prigs behaving badly.

Ah, but see, it’s the context. This bloke, the wanker, was not succumbing to the allure of a fine wood grain and the subtle bouquet of Mr Sheen; he was marking his territory. A female MP had dared trespass onto the realm of the Big Swinging Dicks so she was to be demeaned. In absentia. Tacky as fuck but should we be too surprised?

When such a circumstance became known the Scooter no doubt tested the level of performative outrage required against Jen’s view of a misogynistic yahoo tabling his seminal works. “Jenny has a way of clarifying things, always has.” Apparently it was about a 9.5 on the indignance scale, somewhat higher than that expressed for two alleged rapes. Tory standards, what!

Jen’s perspective aside, rent boys in Parliament House trawling for rough trade is not a place I thought we’d ever be. Gay orgies in a prayer room was not on most folks’ radar, I suspect.

Barnaby the bedswerver has faded from the headlines and Georgie Buoy, our floating attaché for S.E. Asian Affairs must be relieved now that interest in his cultural exchanges is coming to a happy ending. Their behaviours now seem unremarkable. How much lower the Tories have sunk in such a short time!

Abuse, bullying and alleged rapes, cover ups and outraged women across the country – the chicken choking episode is only one small part of the Fibonacci accumulation of rorts, dodgy dealings and misogynistic sleaze but it could be the spark that blows the whole thing up.

The self-regarding born-to-rulers have been exposed as graduates of the Benny Hill school of gender studies – predators, staff fondlers, chair sniffers, sex pests and creepy uncles.

And the Scooter is no longer the master of his own domain.



* * * * *

Porter has always enjoyed having his cake and eating it too

Who’s who in the Liberals’ left, right and centre factions? SMH

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Can the Libs come up with someone even worse than Morrison? History says they will

When discourse between fair-minded people turns to speculation as to who has been Australia’s most appalling Prime Minister there are four names that are consistently short-listed – $3 Bill McMahon, fellow goblin John Howard, the feral friar Tony Abbott and Scott Spinocchio Morrison.

Arguing who is the worst of this noxious quartet is stepping into a steaming dollop of dog do and speculating as to whether it was a labrador, great dane or spaniel. A more appropriate take is surely along the lines of “how did we not smell that earlier?” Or, more perplexingly in the case of Howard, why did we step in it four times?

However, the trajectory of recent events turns such conjecture into a rhetorical question. We now have a clear winner.

The also ran

“I confess to a dislike of McMahon. The longer one is associated with him the deeper the contempt for him grows and I find it hard to allow him any merit. Disloyal, devious, dishonest, untrustworthy, petty, cowardly – all these adjectives have been weighed by me and I could not in truth modify or reduce any one of them in its application to him.” (Paul Hasluck, 17th Governor-General).

McMahon usually avoids a place on the podium of odium due to the passage of time and the level of egregiousness set by the other three finalists for munt of the century. McMahon was best known as a self-serving weasel and is remembered mostly from his wife Sonia’s split evening gown and rumours that it was she who legged it before Billy Snedden, one time Opposition leader, was discovered sans-metabolism in a Rushcutter’s Bay motel room wearing nothing but a fixed smile and a condom, his todger pointing heavenward in tumescent tribute to the best of possible departures to celestial reward. The gossip at the time also had Snedden’s son’s ex-girlfriend in the frame as a possible candidate for the coital causa mortis. I mention this for two purposes – it’s amusing salaciousness and because it’s tawdry ordinariness is in stark contrast to the depravity of the L/NP’s contemporary private school lager boys whose proud personal brand is rapey “swinging dicks“. The sign-in book in the Tory wing of Parliament House now serves as a defacto sex offenders register.

Let’s move on.


The English language has embraced many colourful German words – putsch, gestapo, blitzkrieg, obergruppenfuhrer and others to which we’ve become attuned since a certain Aldo Kipfler assumed the role of head tuber of the various spooks and goon squads. The more obscure term “sockenfalter” (a man who folds his socks) brings to mind a certain suburban pettifogger, a man of fifty shades of beige and the physical manifestation of a migraine. John Winston Howard set a standard of calculated mendacity and duplicity so low that arch-conservative and fully Range Rovered member of the squatocracy Malcolm Fraser resigned from the party in disgust.

Howard’s pre-selfies duck-face was a fixed expression of sour disapproval and resentment; his 1950s, white picket fence vision of an Anglican Australia where migrants are British and the working class know their place could not be resurrected, with no prospect that his local butcher would doff his cap as John Winston picked up his order of a 1/2 kilo (damn metrics) of sausages for Janette on his way home from his power walk.

Dumb luck (ala the mining boom, Tampa, 9/11) and a talent for lying kept him in the big chair for 12 years and cemented his reputation as a Tory icon.

“He occasionally stumbled over the truth, but hastily picked himself up and hurried on as if nothing had happened.” (Former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill in prescient anticipation of his acolyte and namesake).


Fast forward six years past a promisingly progressive but ultimately self-destructive Rudd/Gillard/Rudd Cirque du Solipsists and entering stage right came a discordant cackle in a yowie suit, bow-legged from his macho affectations and bike-riders’ ball rash. Shepherded by his Amazonian keeper Peta Credlin, an angry, big-haired figure retrieved from a 70s EuroVision demo-tape rejects bin, Abbott trashed convention, decency and the country.

Abbott’s legacy is his tearing down of the achievements of others as a substitute for having to conceive of any of his own, a man for whom opposition was so habitual he took it into government. Destructive idiocy has a short shelf-life – Abbott was soon consigned to the stuffed shirt speaking circuit and BoJo’s bob-a-job offer to spruik post-Brexit trade in spotted dicks and toads-in-the-hole.

The brevity of what the man himself laughingly calls the “Abbott era” (as if his two years of toxic presence at the helm is akin to a royal dynasty or geological time span – the bozozoic?) does not take him out of contention given his talent for setting fire to his own hair and the nation’s self-respect.


The Tories were later torn between leadership options – a psycopathic yam with a fondness for drowning kittens or a prosperity gospelling marketing spiv. They decided by a small margin that a familiarity with duping the punters was what was needed to lead the nation in times of unprecedented challenges and opportunities.

Morrison is maintaining the Howard business model of exploiting any niche for private profit, further enriching cronies and punching downwards but he has added his own weird Je$us Inc. endorsed fervour as justification for his disregard for any responsibility to those outside his rich=righteousness bubble; a righteousness that bristles at scrutiny or questioning.

Morrison settled into the big, green swivel chair through deception and treachery, claiming he came into the top job incidentally with no involvement on his own part. This is the MO that defines him.

Plausible deniability and a portfolio of personas – the artful dodger is never responsible, never accountable, the finger-pointing avoidance of any error is what we could call the Morrison Effect. The Wriggle Room that is the well-resourced Prime Minister’s Office carefully crafts his alibis, zealously guards the ScoMo® brand and initiates empathy training as a risk mitigation strategy. And they keep a practised eye on the bus schedule; Canberra’s road kill includes whistleblowers, non-partisan public service mandarins, female MPs and abused staffers.

The normalisation of corruption through a schedule of eye-wateringly costly rorts, the squalid, illegal persecution of legitimate welfare recipients and the exploitation of grannies to bolster the bottom line of Lamborghini-driving wideboys and chancers would be enough to set this government’s place in infamy but there is no bar too low. The crimes get worse and more frequent, the perps are more numerous and the sleaze and sexism spreads wider and it is Morrison who cultivates that toxic, consequences-free culture.

I’ve had plenty of mates who’ve asked me if they can be my special envoy to sort the issue out with Pamela Anderson“… smirk. Scott Morrison, Nov 2018.

We want to see women rise. But we don’t want to see women rise only on the basis of others doing worse…” Scott Morrison, 8th March 2019 – hence the presence of such talent as Craig Kelly then?

Omitting “sex pest and potential rapist” from your CV’s list of interests and hobbies when applying for a job with the Tories is a rational move given its inclusion could be considered tautological when “racist, entitled, misogynistic prick” is seemingly a default essential attribute on the L/NP job application form. Having accusations that the highest law officer in the country is an alleged rapist blithely brushed aside as “I won’t hold an enquiry, mate … case closed, move along” is quite the misreading of the mood.

Morrison can only empathise when events are filtered through the lens of his own limited experience. He hit the snooze button on the Tudge/Porter wake-up call and here we are.

* * * * *

There was a 22 year gap between McMahon and Howard, a six year gap between Howard and Abbott and a two year gap between Abbott and Morrison.

The question now is can the Libs come up with someone even worse than Morrison? History says so, and arithmetic says it’ll be soon.


A complete list of the Liberal Party’s corruption over the last 7 years. The Chaser.

Achievements Of The Coalition Government. Matthew Davis.

Investigation reveals history of sexism and inappropriate behaviour by Attorney-General Christian Porter. ABC.

Inside the Canberra bubble – Four Corners

Christian Porter: the unshakeable belief of a white man born to rule. The Mandarin.

Malcolm Farr, political leaders and rumours

The Christian Porter is now out of the running and Spud Dutton’s ambitions seem to have been lost in the noise. Ruprecht Shadenfraud our Maggie Thatcher reincarnated Treasurer doesn’t have the numeracy skills for organised crime but he has the requisite artifice and the ambition to be a contender for Morrison’s tainted crown. Can he maintain the tradition?

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We can’t exorcise RWFWery

The Bleach Boy’s douche coup has failed – it was a close call but the stale waft of fried chicken grease has now been steam cleaned from the Oval Office curtains, Junior’s crack spoons and coke stash have been crated off to Berghof Sur-la-Mer while Eric was last seen trying to negotiate a revolving door at the Tijuana franchise of the El Chapo Cosmetic Surgery chain. Frigid Bardot is scrutinising the LinkedIn profiles of Miami divorce lawyers and Ivanka has a wax job as an update to her CV in anticipation of an out-on-bail tilt at the 2024 Republican presidential nomination.

While BLOTUS contemplates his legacy – re-framing a rampant plague, the impoverishment of millions, graft, sedition and national humiliation as the “greatest presidency ever” his lawyer of last resort Rudi Giuliani is spending his time negotiating a finder’s fee with the Philadelphia Discount Dildo shop for shelf space to house the Trump presidential library.

Trump’s base (was there ever a more suitable noun?) of QAnon lead paint lickers, end of times religious cultists, Klansmen, Walmartians and cut lunch survivalists is fraught and confused. Their dream of protecting freedom and democracy by summarily executing Joe Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer and Mike Pence is shattered. Their discoloured dementarian had slunk from the field of battle leaving them to their fate and their country in the hands of a cabal of cannibalistic, radical left Democrat paedophiles.

The Trumpists’ common cause of white supremacy (the concept undermined somewhat by their florid, all-you-can-eat configurations, mullet-headed cluelessness, poor self esteem and low figure IQs) remains quite resilient however. They’re still out there, they’re just as batshit crazy and they are being courted by the likes of the S-bend residue of unconstrained Trumpist wanna-bes and wingnuts like Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley, Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert.




Trumpism is taking a breather and re-grouping. It hasn’t gone away.

Luckily, here in Australia…


Image from The Australian


This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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The Trumpists are thriving in Oz

“Facts sometimes are contentious, aren’t they? And what you may think is right, somebody else might think is completely untrue. And that’s part of living in a democratic country.” (Acting Prime Minister Michael McCormack, January 12, 2021).

A neat four years ago Antique Barbie and Trump flunky Kellyanne Conway set the tone for a post-truth Trumpworld when she defended the tangerine tyrant’s ludicrous claims of an outsized inauguration crowd by invoking the Orwellian notion of “alternative facts”(1).

Fast forward from Trump’s Year Zero to when the seditionists and rioters obeyed the command of the despotic, half-sucked mango seed by attempting to literally torch American democracy, aided and abetted from within by treasonous, mercenary GOP urgers and spivs. All the result of four years of accumulated alternative facts and “fake news” gaslighting.

Across the Trump years tens of millions of willing dupes, oiks, the useful idiotista, Qrackpots, slope-shouldered racists and stool samplers wallowed in a steady effluvium of post-truth ordure that megaphoned Trump’s self-aggrandising lies and whiney grievance mongering.

But, the introductory quote at the start of this rant is not from some Trump vassal pissing out of the tent, it is not an artefact from crazy-town nor is it from the toxic bile factory that trades as the Dirty Digger’s Fox News. It is Australia’s acting Prime Minister Mickey The Dip McCormack speaking mere days after an attempted coup that was fuelled by “contentious facts”.

Apart from its timing the context of the quote is two-fold. Firstly, Mickey has an intellect that would not challenge foliage. He’s as thick as a coal miner’s sandwich yet he’s apparently the best and brightest the National Party has to offer – i.e. the least worst option. Secondly, he was defending the Trumpist effluent of two of the most egregious examples of the far right dross that has infected our own politics – specifically the swivel-eyed, Pete Evans-level Covid quackery from failed furniture salesman Fatty Carbuncle and, by extension, the trumpetings of Gorgeous George the Manila back street trawler and blubbertigibbet.

The BMI of these two globular nongs is such that they affect weather patterns, but that is not particularly germaine other than that these self-proclaimed champions of free speech should not have any problem with the deployment of a gratuitous sledge, yeah? The hypocrisy and idiocies of their flatulent gibberings have, following Trump’s attempted democrocide, received wide exposure and deserved ridicule but the bigger picture is the refusal of their respective masters to either call them to heel or penalise their Trumpian fanboy distortion of pandemic science and their anti-democratic blatherings and what that says about the mindset of the Tory side of our politics. Trumpism is a dangerous psychosis but both Scooter Morrison and Mickey Mac have now acknowledged by default that it has a home in the L/NP.

As the Tories go about their routine tasks of shovelling public money and assets to themselves and their cronies their ideological slide to the loony right has developed a distinctly orange tinge.

When Josh Freudenberg and Call Me Dave Sharma, two prominent Jewish Tory MPs, one an ostensible Prime Minister-in-waiting, the other an ex-Ambassador to Israel, jump aboard the anti-Twitter “free speech” ruse that propagates Nazi rhetoric and promotes Proud Boys’ fascist merch then something is deeply, deeply awry.

Scooter himself, interrupting his holidaying lifestyle to spend a few days attending to photo ops, has pointedly refused to criticise Trump in any way. Perhaps that’s down to Trump’s bestowal upon him of the Legion of Merit – the Right does so appreciate shiny baubles, ostentatious trophies and grandiose titles. The absurdity of a cowardly draft dodger gifting a militarty honour to a bloke whose first instinct is to flee from a crisis is lost on Scooter of course. Coming from Trump that medal merely symbolises Morrison’s membership of the cult of the citrus clunge.

From birtherism to The Big Lie (“the election was rigged”) Trump has long signalled his character. His betrayal of America is not new despite which Scooter has gone beyond the protocols of relationships between national leaders. His embrace of Trumpism was always enthusiastic, unquestioning and compliant with Trump’s grotesque adulteration of accepted norms and institutions. As one example Scooter, champion of the economy-first neo-lib mindset, jeopardised Australia’s economic interests on the altar of Trumpism by leading with his chin at the orange one’s urging to openly and loudly insult China.

Two deluded non-entities shouting at clouds from the backbench should be an amusing sideshow, after all the Tory goat rodeo had Abbott and Joyce in the two top jobs for a time. But Carbuncle and Gorgeous G are symptoms not abberations. With one notable exception(2), and Morrison’s dissembling weasel words aside, no Tory MP has condemned the radical right insurrection in the US last week.

Across the board the self-proclaimed champions of free speech hypocritically loathe any free speech that is not their own. They always have. Scrutiny, questioning, dissent, alternative views, truth…they don’t like it. Parliament, journalists, unions, the ABC, judges, scientists, academics, environmentalists, whistleblowers, safe schools, you and me…we’re all existing or potential targets for their mendacity.

RWNJ opinion is now the news. The Tories all watched Trump, they all liked what they saw. All the little lies are useful and the Big Lie almost worked.

What most citizens of Oz are not watching is our own Trumpist, post-truth creep to far right shitfuckery and that suits the Tories just fine.

(1) “The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” George Orwell. 1984.

(2) Matt Keane, NSW Minister For The Environment


Image from


Image from (Photographer: Marco Bello/Bloomberg via Getty Images)


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2020 and the anus horribilis

Old fried dough stick (老油条 Lao Youtiao) is an amusingly accurate sobriquet that China state TV aimed at he who the French might label with the similar floury metaphor of douche baguette if they were to care about his existence at all. Roughly translated Lao Youtiao means a lazy manipulator, someone insincere, who’s two-faced, hates doing real work but has been around long enough to know all the tricks of how to take credit for others’ work and deflect any blame.

That definition immediately identifies China TV’s target because it so perfectly describes the twice-failed travel agent who is now our shirker in chief. There’s an ironic edge to this most excellent sledge given it originated from within the thought control machinery of an increasingly antagonistic, testy Chinese Communist Party. No attempt at stereotypical Oriental inscrutability here – it was a Sichuanese Phuk Yu take-away. Extra chili.

In an inversion of Eastern nuance vs Western bluntness the Betoota Advocate coined the more artful, inspired “Scotty From Marketing”. It’s so essentially Scott Morrison that, like Barnaby The Beetrooter in a rooms-by-the-hour motel, it rooted and propagated, spreading to become his default designation.

The issue to hand though is confusion over whether the Tory product is being fronted by Scotty From Marketing as chief spruiker or whether Scotty sees himself as the product. The give-away is his tragic, try-hard self-branding as ScoMo® – as pathetic as it is derisory yet it’s signed under Prime Ministerial letterhead, it’s a byline on his social media and it’s a widely wielded PR brand. The lumpen yob even offered up this facile diminutive to a bewildered Japanese Prime Minister Yoshihide Suga when he turned up uninvited in Tokyo for an all-expenses paid photo-op.

Scotty From Marketing’s motive is clear – he’s selling himself. He is the product.

At some point in his career trajectory of always failing upwards it must’ve dawned upon Morrison that at best he’s an acquired taste – like tripe & onions or getting used to the smell of cat’s piss on the cushions.

Some personal brand management was obviously required otherwise gulling the dupes and the complacent into imagining he’s the likable bloke from next door is a curious focus for an arrogant egoist with a messiah complex and an over-dose of misplaced self-confidence. Perhaps he possesses a smidgen of self-awareness – a hidden memory from his days as a child actor who people found less distasteful when he pretended to be someone else?



But the real Scott Morrison is not hard to find if you’re paying attention (Hawaii December 2019 excepted). Unlike his predecessor Harold Holt the real Scott Morrison regularly bobs to the surface.

The real Scott Morrison is the shadowy minister for immigration who questioned the decision to allow the relatives of 48 drowned asylum seekers to attend their funerals and who then immediately sought to race bait by capitalising on concerns about Muslim integration.

The real Scott Morrison is the architect of the illegal $1.2 billion guilty-til-proven-innocent Robodebt disaster, the purposeful design of which was to persecute and demonise all those dependent upon the social welfare safety net.

The real Scott Morrison was rubbed in all of our faces when he disappeared on a de-camping holiday to Waikiki as large swathes of Australia was consumed by fires – the spiv who told his office to deny his whereabouts and when called-out staged photo-ops and forced himself on burnt-out victims and exhausted firies.

Morrison is the shit who hit the fan. The waft from a turd like Morrison is not easily disguised. It takes the efforts of a North Korean-level propaganda machine (24/7 personal photographer inc.) to put lipstick on the dipstick, to develop a Trump-lite cult of personality when the personality has all the appeal of Jeffrey Dahmer’s toothbrush, a shiver whose physical manifestation is a wide-hipped, slope-shouldered, man-boobed smirking arsehole. Yet they seem to have managed it.

How does this beer chugging, crotch-stained galoot, this shonky grifter and chancer manage to get a 66% approval rating as Prime Minister?

The gullibility, short attention spans and short memories of the patsies and marks are manna from Scotty’s miraculous heaven. A catalogue of templated, market-tested personas is put through the spin cycle of blokey schmaltz – curries, cubbies, chook pens, exercise bikes, inflatable sharks, trouserless scrolling of his latest Instagram posts, pointer at maps, wearer of high viz, smirking twat in a hard hat – it’s a scroll & click cornucopia of pre-fab personalities. Which one do you like, madam?


Image from Twitter (creator unknown)

It should surprise no-one if this habitual photo-bomber should produce a Christmas picture calendar of his greatest curries, a collector set of ScoMo action figures, a Scotty board game or jigsaw puzzle.

The great pretender gets away with this schtick because, unlike with Harold Holt, people don’t bother looking too hard.



This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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