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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.


The horse’s doovers

An amuse-bouche of mainstream news: A round-up of items that barely rated a mention in the mainstream coverage

Following a renewed push for an Oz republic the Australian Monarchist League has appointed Liberal senate loser Eric “Otto” Abetz as chairman of their group whose objective is to retain the Windsor (née Saxe-Coburg and Gotha) monarchy. Eric said he was delighted to contribute to any campaign that helped to keep the Germans in charge.

In unrelated royal news Liz has gifted a guidebook of Parisian road tunnels to Meghan Markle following Meg’s latest ploy to pap The Firm. Reportedly the ex-actress, now pro gold-digger ‘rediscovered’ her diary in which she recorded her experience in the Royal Family as an ‘insurance policy’. “Nice little earner you’ve got there Liz. Shame if anything should happen to it.” The Australian Republican Movement has put in an early bid for publishing rights.

* * * * *

Arch-monarchist Tony Abbott, the red-sluggoed, forelock-tugging, groom of the stool candidate and technophobic visionary who was ejected by his party from the PM chair and rejected by otherwise reliable Tory voters from his own seat has been recruited by the Victorian Liberals to improve their own electoral palatability. Which reminds me of Piggy Mudloon’s crack about Kiwi immigrants to Oz improving the average IQ of both countries.

The other key plank in the southern Tories’ clever pre-election PR campaign is to shorten their leader’s name from Matthew to Matt in a cunning reprise of the ScoMo™ strategy. As a distraction from previous proclivities such as sharing lobster & Grange with a mobster and drunkenly crashing their prestige motor into a child’s bedroom it may not be as effective as they may hope given the ALP in Victoria increased its large election-winning lead from a month ago: ALP 60.5%, L-NP 39.5%.

* * * * *

At the national Jobs Summit the Australian Retailers Association has called for the rescinding of the Factory Act (1883) so as to legalise the employment of 13 year olds. Director of Workhouse Gruel, Ezra d’Tripe, defended the idea claiming it would help to keep the youngsters out of the reach of the clergy.

This is a multi-faceted approach to statistical manipulation as it offsets the aging demographic of the workforce that was exacerbated by the Tories’ bold initiative of forcing retirees back on the tools.

At this same forum the Nationals’ Dave Bradbury Littleproud volunteered his idea of bringing back blackbirding to keep the price of fruit within reach and offset the collapse of the food chain brought about by his Party’s digging up of all fertile agricultural land in search of additional raw material with which to cook the planet.

* * * * *

Numerologist and one-woman whinge fest Sussan Ley has continued her campaign to re-connect with disaffected women by disparaging the “union thugs” at Albo’s Jobs Summit. The average unionist is a 35 year old female nurse.

Suss – when the vacuum in your head causes your face to cave in. Her latest pitch takes up Spud’s line, whining about the “forgotten people”, forgetting that it was their lot who forgot them.


Tosser. Aging like a fine whine


* * * * *

Sarah Palin, an Alaskan, Trump-endorsed version of Bridget McKenzie on crack, has lost a special election for Congress to a native American Democrat in a state that has been red for almost 50 years. The blow-back from the Roe v Wade decision by the GOP cookers on the SCOTUS has put the frighteners on the gun toting right-to-lifers and law abiding insurrectionists of the Republican Party whose Big Lie has now become their standard concession speech – “the election was stolen”.

The USA may yet be saved from its rapid descent into busted-arse status if enough sensible Americans decide that saving their democracy is worth delaying their trip for a Cholesterols-R-Us triple-decker burger with spray-on cheese, family fries and a Bucket-O-Coke and instead register a vote.

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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The Tory talent pool

This is the best they’ve got!

While Scott Morrison was rooting the country daggy style, with every emergency met with the best stage-managed photo-ops he (we?) could afford, he cultivated a cohort of wideboys and carpet baggers, he indulged his cronies and stood over a coterie of nutters, fabulists and no-hopers. Many were dragged behind the cow shed in the Great Cleansing of 21 May 2022 with the surviving dross now charged with reframing the tainted Tory brand.

But, the L/NP machine is so invested in the grift, so committed to quackery and deceit that they won’t shift. They can’t. There’s a consistent theme when it comes to Tories – a resistance to progress motivated by the privilege that is threatened by change. They have a yearning to cling to the past yet have a desperate need to remove the fingerprints of their complicity in it. And they are so intimidated by competent governance that in opposition, rather than seek to emulate it, they’ve piled on with a campaign to discredit it.

Pending further attrition due to criminal charges there are some prominent contenders for a future Tory regime – the crème de la crime, the semi-sentient and the sociopathic effluvia of a reviled cartel.

Placeholder opposition leader Peter Cuddles Dutton toyed briefly with the notion of smiling in public. After squeaks of alarm from small children he’s reverted to his default expression of a Rottweiler shown a card trick. Pete’s throttled back on the overt racism in favour of undermining the idea that after 200+ years of ostracism and failed paternalism indigenous Australians should have a say in their own future.

Sussan Ley (rapper name LeyZ) has the frantic demeanour of someone who’s escaped through a hedge after being attacked by badgers. Histrionics and snark appear to be the style that Suss has elected to run with. She’s dipped into the Lib’s clutching-straws basket and drawn out Michaelia Cash’s puerile 2019 EV fear campaign. Is that really her theme for delivering on her “message to the women of Australia…we’re listening. We’re talking. And we are determined to earn back your trust and your faith“?

“No one in the world is making an electric ute…”

2IC in the “technology not taxes” party. FMD!

The Tories’ strategy of winning back women involves rolling out the strap-ons. Holly Hughes’ petulance at Labor’s cheek of actually governing comes across as air escaping from the bycatch of a deep-sea trawler’s fishing net. Jane Hume, needy and clingy, is not the feminist ideal that right-wingers may imagine. Bang Bang McKenzie, MS Excel super-user and Miss Appropriation 2019 has settled upon an ‘up yours’ approach to redemption while the sound of shovels scraping on gravel has faded now that Michaelia Cash has foregone many of her screeching engagements.

Being mentored by Barnaby Joyce is not a sign that you’re a visionary on top of your game. Matt King Coal Canavan’s testicles remain undescended and his mum still irons his jeans. His pontifications on climate and energy are a waft from soiled laundry, redolent of stale socks and undie crust and should be of no importance. His presence in other circumstances would be as consequential as a shiver from a passing breeze. However Matty has dedicated himself to the cause of profit from planetary destruction and hence contributed in no small way to the wipe-out in once safe Lib enclaves across the country. The coalition’s response to this is that, as a Nationals oik, he’s entitled to say the quiet bits of their manifesto out loud.

As for Bananaby Bender, the fleshy root vegetable and wobbley-booted national embarrassment whose greatest fear is the call for last drinks – he remains on the front bench, a literal and metaphorical hang-over. He’s an imbecilic, walking wardrobe malfunction (who let the boob out?). Adorned with a comically large hat for the rube cred, BJ fancies himself as a rustic sage, a champion of the rural underdog, blessed with insights that escape those with an education, an enquiring mind or serviceable IQ. Facts, logic, science, arithmetic, history – all are entirely dispensable to Barns who has accumulated his wisdom from the back of beer coasters, check-out queues at IGAs, backblocks mayors and Wally the servo mechanic who does his dentistry.

Bananaby no doubt maintains a belief that he can yet again regain his rightful position as big knob of the Frackers & Miners but the pork barrel bonanzas he favours as the price of his “best retail politician” gyp have been kyboshed by his exile to opposition. Any ambition of his for resurrection will be vigorously undermined by both his current and previous bosses – dopey Dave (known by his Sioux name of Littleproud) and MickeyMac McCormack, the man in the muddle, a gormless dullard of such bovine vacuity that he’s been rejected by rescue dogs as too far gone.

Conjecture has it that Brother Stuie and Fingers Taylor may be too busy inventing alibis and shredding evidence to figure prominently – other than on wanted posters.

Since failing the Burke and Hare quality test John Howard the beloved icon of the calcified has been kept in cold storage for emergency deployment. Whenever the Tories feel the need to resort to their culture wars Johnnie gets thawed out to stalk the streets of marginal electorates accosting alarmed strangers to remind them of how good the 1950s were. This has never paid off and so we can expect Einstein’s maxim to be re-activated some three years hence by the geniuses of the Lib PR unit.

Some of the Tories most vociferous RWNJ cheersquadders have faded from view. When much of the once-prominent queen of confected outrage Alan Gloria Jones’ audience began ‘pining for the fjords’ he retreated to his sprawling southern highlands manor to shout at clouds and restock his butler’s pantry. In his absence a chum bucket of Trumpist Fox News wannabes have stepped up to monetise the idiocy at the trailing end of the IQ bell curve. Their powers of persuasion are as sophisticated as their shitty takes – they’re shouting down the hallway at those befuddled simpletons who want their opinions to be formed by others.

If this is what Labor (and the Greens and independents) are up against then the Tories will be in opposition for some time yet. Perhaps we can now regain our national dignity.

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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The conceit of a serial failure

The messiah complex: Brother Scotty’s weird grab for power

The reflexive criminal behaviour of the grift & congealed bacon grease that is Donald Trump can be understood if you test his every action against his primary motivation – pleonexia, the all consuming greed of a grotesque, amoral fraud. Burying his dead first wife Ivana at his Bedminster golf resort for the tax breaks is penny-pinching avarice that defines this corrupt vulgarian. The upside of that affront is that it may encourage Melania to double the salt and cheese content of his hamburger intake to ensure he’s not around to have her future, naked corpse displayed in a glass case at Mar-a-Lago for $50 a peek.

That the ludicrous, tangerine ballbag is entirely driven by the accumulation of ostentatious wealth is clear, whereas it’s trickier to pin down what enthuses our very own unchained malady – the artifice trading as ScoMo™.

I was intending to move on from sledging the dolt after his ignominious banishment to the bleachers but his miasma clings to one’s clothing. His behaviour has always been a clear indication he’d be a continuing source of derision as evidenced by his post-election squatting at Kirribilli House when it looked as if the only way he could be removed was to notify the Israeli military that a Palestinian family was living there.

Morrison’s a particularly peculiar unit. Possessed of a self-regard that exceeds the bloated ego of a talentless politician favoured by happenstance to always fail upwards he seems to have interpreted his luck as the beneficence of an all powerful deity, a god who has a grand plan – Scotty the Chosen One. Not for Scooter the standard issue narcissism that drives seekers of high office or the ‘God’s on our side’ invocation of self-righteous self-interests. Scooter has a fully-blown messiah complex.

Pastor Supreme, Blessed Leader, Shepherd of the Flock, The Keeper of Truth, Beloved Father of the Nation, His Benevolence, Keeper of all Wisdom. The latest revelations (there will surely be more to come) of his usurping of power by taking his squatting inclinations into the portfolios of five of his own ministers was Morrison’s take on Trump’s sedition customised for local conditions and in accordance with his fervent belief that he’s the next best thing to the second coming. Brother Scotty the missionary creep.

“Only I could really understand the weight of responsibility that was on my shoulders and on no-one else…” (Scott Morrison).

“Nobody knows the system better than me, which is why I alone can fix it.” (Donald Trump).

Source photo: Mick Tsikas/AAP

Apart from their shared awfulness and mutual admiration comparing Scooter to Trump is fraught. Whereas Deckstain Donny cynically exploited the profitable gullibility of ‘Jesus was a white American’ rubes and dullards, Scooter’s motivation seems to have been a sincere belief in his own godly specialness. As Minister For All Things could he facilitate an imminent Rapture – the further accumulation of riches by the wealthy righteous while he encourages the incineration of the planet? To me his Pentacostalist-inspired weirdness is a convincing explanation of his aberrant mindset.

When you have the warmth of a Cobargo handshake, suffer from the underlying conditions of smarm and a suite of off-putting personality tics, if you’re aesthetically unpleasant with the physique of a lasagne thrown from a speeding car and with a head better suited to Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge but yet retain a skerrick of self-awareness, when lying and artifice are second nature it is understandable you could be tempted to disguise your lack of appeal with a barrage of his “I’m not pretending to be someone else” dress-ups and role plays.

Image: a Twitter clever clogs

But Morrison’s deceit goes deeper.

A give-away was the ever-present, know-all smirk. Morrison has always had an aversion to scrutiny. His modus operandi is secrecy. With God on his side, untroubled by scruples, honesty or shame he thought he’d get away with his despotic power grab pending the end times.

Now with a new government checking the books, with enquiries and royal commissions in the offing, the Morrison carcass is not yet picked clean. I am anticipating further material.

I wonder what Jesus is telling him now.

* * * * * * *

Why the former prime minister saw fit to amass such immense secret power may never be properly explained. But his former cabinet colleagues, many of whom have been horrified to learn what had been concealed from them, say it speaks of a psychology of control, distrust and even paranoia. ABC. Behind the scenes of Scott Morrisons power grab.

“It’s clear what Morrison and co are doing here. It would be “indefensible” for them not to cooperate with an inquiry into what happened, as Guardian Australia’s Paul Karp noted yesterday. So they are instead doing everything they can to undermine it – to turn what the government is seeking to make a calm, judicial process (Labor even rejected a bid to take this to the more political privileges committee) into a “political circus”, one that is not credible or genuine because it doesn’t fit some expanded parameters they have created. It’s surely only a matter of time before we hear the term “kangaroo court”, a Morrison favourite. All throughout this saga, the Trumpian parallels have been hard to ignore. But there is something especially concerning about a former leader seeking to delegitimise an investigation into his conduct, and a once-legitimate party that is more than happy to enable him.” Taking full irresponsibility. Rachel Withers, The Monthly

Why did Donald Trump bury his first wife Ivana at his golf resort? Irish Central.

* * * * * * *

Interesting reads:

What drives Donald Trump? Greed, and greed alone. Catherine Rampell, Tampa Bay Times.


This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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Papering over the crackpots

How will they sell the tattered remains of a discarded and discredited rabble?

Now that Stooge McFuck has been consigned to a nosebleed seat on the backbenches from whence to idly speculate on the humiliating turn his miracles have taken and to importune potential post-politics grift it will be interesting to watch how the Tories repackage their unsellable bunko brand as being a credible alternative government.

The thinning of the Tory herd has provided their tattered remnants with an opportunity for renewal, for some introspection on their electoral drubbing, for a dash of humility or contrition as redress for the embarrassment that was that Jesusing, self-regarding calamity DiddleyScott Morrison.

The light shone on their monetising of crises, their turpitude, cronyism, incompetence and mendacity should’ve elicited a profession of regret or apology or perhaps some distancing from the most odious of their spivs. Now that we’ve been spared many of the colourful personalities who’d come to define the character of the L/NP they could’ve dialled back the awful.

Two outstanding examples of the colour that has drained from their ranks are persons of girth Gorgeous George Christensen and Craig Kelly, both having voluntarily left the building – Georgiebuoy to flog RWFW merch and his conspiratorial fucknuttery via his poor man’s Alex Jones social media, while Cray Cray’s status as “our next Prime Minister” has been down-graded to bouncy castle consultant.

Another of my favourites was Eric Abetz. When, like Eric, you have real Nazis in your family tree – great uncle SS Standartenführer Otto and then also Erwin Rommel, an alleged cousin of his maternal grandfather, you’re a sitting duck for innuendo and cheap shots. Who am I to resist such temptation?

If Eric had harboured any ambitions for launching a panzer attack on Stalingrad he kept it fairly quiet; his right wing fuckwittery was kept within the traditional Tory boundaries of racism, homophobia and cutting the wages of lowly-paid Parliament House cleaners. Eric’s appeal to proto-Nazis in the Tory base became redundant once the embaldened Dutton-dressed-as-yam became tuber supreme.


From Twitter


A broad sweep of other funsters was also lost to the L/NP. They cover a range of personality disorders from a-holes to Zed. Canny share trader Diamond Dave Sharma, blunderkind Joshie Frydenberg, shrubbery lurker Andrew Laming, Red Gladys Liu aka Bimboo (she’s a thick Chinese plant), Mandy-Jane Stoker (somewhere there’s a camel missing its toe), prayer room supplicant Tim Wilson and that tosser Greg ‘Berkeley’ Hunt. Christian Porter the Tory princeling and darling of the born-to-rule set, those entitled types who complain about the bald kids getting priority in the queue at SeaWorld, had his privileged, consequences-free life evaporate as he punched himself in the face with futile lawsuits against those calling him out for the dirtbag that he is. After such a cleanse how have the Tories behaved?

Hint: They’re not taking it well.


Cartoon by Alan Moir (


Sulking and public tantrums were on display from the “natural party of government” as the lolly jar was removed from their grasp. Toys were chucked, dummies were spat, fainting couches were deployed. Tory-spruiker talk shows indulged the pouting and shouting from the remaining dross that populates the smoking ruin of the Lying Nasty Party. As if to demonstrate that women can make it in Tory politics provided they are just as egregious as the men the umbrage was led by Holly Hughes, most notable for her pearl necklaces (subliminal messaging as to Holly’s favourite past-time perhaps) and her crusade against the Marxist ideology of the teaching profession and her dismissal of climate change as a “luxury issue”.


From the Tory brains trust


When confronted with their malfeasance the Tories are capable of embarrassment but not shame. They circle the wagons – obfuscating, quibbling, blame-shifting and projecting albeit while blushing and looking at their shoes. Any regret is only ever at getting caught.

DiddleyScott led the Nasties to new levels of heinous behaviour, clad in his belief he had celestial licence to indulge his megalomania. Can the Nasties change? They won’t. Morrison and his messiah complex may be toxic and while now a figure of derision he moved the dial on acceptable behaviour way beyond norms and conventions. He tested what he could get away with; who knows what he was capable of had he been re-elected. The stench still clings to the shady characters who survived. I doubt that Spud has the inclination, the character or the stones to do anything about it.





This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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So long, and thanks for all the pish

Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?

And so we bid farewell to inarguably Australia’s worst ever Prime Minister.

A shameless liar, a humbug, a serial failure, a belligerent bully, a duplicitous toad oozing smarm from every pore. A pig who appealed to worst instincts, who saw opportunity in the dogma of a prosperity cult to justify the exploitation of the vulnerable and indulgence of the wealthy. He treated natural disasters as photo opportunities, he was an indolent incompetent who bungled problems and fled crises. A bellicose grifter masquerading as Scotty from next door, a facile galoot mugging for the cameras to fill the void of actual effort, a Tupperware area manager playing dress-ups as Dear Leader. He was contemptuous of all expertise or insight that challenged the small notions of his own repressed experience and his selective, biblical literalism. Simply, he was a vacuous, smirking clown who thought he was getting away with it.

This genius political tactician, the master campaigner took to market a sales pitch of licenced corruption, of “more CO² is less” and the feeding of anti-trans tropes to a usually reliable constituency of hateful religious bigots. As a desperate off-set to The Oaf’s blunderfucks the Tory machine resorted to re-animating the spectral John Howard to haunt the streets making noises like a trod-upon duck in once-safe blue-ribbon enclaves whose posh inhabitants fled for the exits.

Scooter left the office as he came to it – with self-serving duplicity and bastardry. Our affected Jesus Freak In Chief, a Christian of convenience, specialises in the demonisation of the desperate for personal benefit. His final wretched act as Prime Minister was to instruct the Australian Border Force to over-ride his own protocols and publicise an interception of a suspected asylum seeker boat on election day.

“I’ve been here to stop this boat, but in order for me to be there to stop those that may come from here, you need to vote Liberal and Nationals today.”

The last, frantic flailings of a fraud. No eagle painting this time but chickens coming home to roost – in an unused Bunnings flat-pack chook pen.

To stretch the metaphorical ironies – this useless shonk has burned down the House Of Liberal and charred the paint on the National Party outhouse as a bonus. If you listen carefully you can hear the ‘fwit fwit fwit’ of his chubby thighs as he flees the scene smelling of petrol and hubris, a sound not quite drowned out by the tantrums of entitled Tory born-to-rulers.

Perhaps, in a few years after a little of his damage is repaired, some may recall his name as they drop into Engadine Maccers and see, there in the corner, the Scott Morrison memorial stool.


(The entitled are not known for a capacity for introspection and self analysis.)


Looking for Mr Right

From Howard, to Abbott to Morrison the Tories continue to search for the bottom of the barrel and their scrapings have revealed what many dreaded. Herr Schickltuber. This is a man who clenches his butt cheeks to force a smile, who thinks “ex-Queensland copper” is a positive on his résumé and “lefty” is a pejorative and whose aesthetic runs to menace and black uniforms, side-arms and dark-sunnied goon squads. A hairless Lurch sans the joie de vivre.

Ersatzgruppenfritter Dutton, unlike his predecessor, possess some modicum of self-awareness but his human skin-suit is a work in progress. The warmongering of a belligerent hawk is to be toned down, a cuddlier, softer, kinder style of refugee abuser is to emerge – handing out a free kitten with every poking stick.

“I’ve always seen Parliament as a disadvantage frankly for sitting governments.” (Peter Dutton, 10 December 2018).

Let the re-imaging begin. FMD!

Meanwhile the rubes of the Nats contemplate a future continuing with a befuddled oik at the pointy end, hands clasped over his beer belly at pressers, puce of face, snaggled of tooth reciting the names of country towns he’s been pissed in like some bizarre rendition of I’ve Been Everywhere.

* * * * * * *

Regardless, Labor, the Greens and progressive independents have routed the bastards. It’s a bright new day and I will now retire my ScoMo sledges and direct my energies to developing a portfolio of potato-themed invective.




This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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Oh loathsome me

There has been no occasion too small for Smirko to fail to rise to.

Have you heard about the loathsome loser? He’s a loser but he still keeps on lyin’.

Loathed in Tory heirloom electorates, despised by many of his own MPs, hated by Victorians and Western Australians and abhorred by women, he’s even been called out by the puce-headed, bibulous slothario of bovine stupidity and dodgy morals who is his deputy. How low can you go when you cannot even meet the standards of a fornicating Father Jack in a comically over-sized cowboy hat?

His values are not so much formed by self-interests as being entirely replaced by them. A delusional narcissist and reflexive liar in the Trumpian style he’s devoid of introspection and hostile to critique. His kevlar self-belief is centred on the ludicrous notion that an omnipotent, super-natural being, creator of all things, took a personal interest in his career. ‘Everything is permissible when The Big Guy is on your side’ was too tempting a concept for an amoral hypocrite – he embraced the god-helps-those-who-help-themselves sophism like Barnaby clenches a cold beer.

It takes a monumental ego and a cloth ear to campaign on the concepts of acceptable government corruption, lowered wages, disenfranchisement of women and the legitimisation of trans trauma. WTAF, apart from a belief in his own genius and celestial sponsorship encourages him to dismiss the concerns of all but the hard-core arseholes and wannabe Big Swinging Dicks, to lie so casually and so conspicuously, to trumpet his failures as successes, his indolence as hard work and his grift as virtue and then shamelessly lay claim to the achievements of others? Is he that bereft of self-awareness or is he merely an unapologetic, whatever it takes shyster?

I. Am. The. Prime. Minister.” This is a bloke who preens and smarms as heroic leader. The alpha male, a national saviour who enjoys a beer with the boys, the boss cocky who’s good on the tools, the big dog who can run up a chook pen, a Churchill pointing at maps, resolute leader of men in times of strife. Is he fooling himself as much as he tries to fool the rest of us?

More timorous coward than the Brave Sir Scotty of his own narrative, he hid behind the curtains when confronted by angry women. He fled from flood victims. He abandoned the country in a crisis. He was laughed at by backbench oblate spheroids Craig Kelly and Gorgeous George Christensen whose only claims to formidability would be at a hoppo-bumpo jamboree.

Everything this fucker does is calculated. He may have an unwavering belief in his own god-ordained destiny but he’s prepared to dispense with any principle, any standard of integrity and degrade any institution to fit his own agenda – himself. He frames decency as weakness, he shouts and hectors, he punches down and bullies. He is, by any measure, a complete turd.

The focus groups have confronted him with an uncomfortable truth. Despite the anti-Labor histrionics and ScoMo™ hagiographies of Murdoch’s pamphleteers, the bias of the Stokes/Costello bobble-heads and the Vichyesque collaborators and whipped dogs in the ABC the revealed truth is that he is a widely detested creep. For a wanker who saw himself as the Tories’ best selling point, as a marketing savant and an admired man of the people and showed every sign of believing his own “I saved the country” bullshit it would have been a rude shock. I would’ve paid good money to be the PMO operative who broke the news to him. It would’ve been a challenge not to snigger.

Now he says he will change but he will see no need to do so.

His nastiness is innate. His disdain for the unfortunate, the underprivileged and the merely unlucky and those not voting for him is genuine. If you’re not prospering it’s your own fault, if you’ve been the victim of a disaster you’re on your own, if you didn’t vote for him then ‘fuck you’. It will be women who will contribute the most to the demise of this bullying misogynist but the ultimate irony is that this loathsome loser is about to be sacked when according to his personal dogma it’s his own unworthiness that will bring it about.

Sit down, take a look at yourself

Don’t you want to be somebody?

Someday somebody’s gonna see inside.

You have to face up, you can’t run and hide.

(Lonesome Loser, Little River Band)


This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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The Gaffer Tapes

The great awakening

Morrison’s tenure has been a test of his character – one he has failed abysmally. The election will be a test of Australia’s character but likely one we will pass.

It is not entirely clear to me when Smirko Morrison’s re-election campaign jumped the shark.

Tony Abbott was a national embarrassment, a badly shaved yowie in red-sluggos who bumble-fucked his brief, shambolic term as PM as if he were still in opposition. Morrison runs his as a marketing exercise. Electioneering has been his permanent setting since he and his retinue of Winston Wolfes and limbo champions steam-cleaned Malcolm Turnbull’s blood spatter from the PM’s suite and took up residence. We’ve had >3 years of Smirko the spiv playing dress-ups, 1,300+ days of curries and cock-ups, of crimes and cover-ups, of the game of mates, of drink spikers and staff shaggers, of dullards and sousers in high office – a time when a functionary tabled his seminal work on a minister’s desk and two Tory amuse-douche MPs tea-bagged rent boys in the PH prayer room.

Abbott’s trademark was the man who said ‘no’, manifesting in a chum bucket of idiocies and hyper-partisan destruction. Adrift in a world that had long passed him by, threatened by notions of gender equality, confused by the concept of functioning governance and bewildered by technology he traded on a swaggering, hairy-chested machismo that had the north shore matrons and Toorak ladies-who-lunch swooning onto their fainting couches. Yet signs of dementia pugilistica came daily, culminating in the anointing of Sir Prince Philip – a comical travesty that defined him; it was the tipping point for the Mad Monk.

With Abbott it was idiocy, with Smirko it’s integrity – a surfeit of one and a dearth of the other. Both embraced the Tory manifesto of enriching cronies, trashing standards and running down services. Both are manifestly incompetent – same same but different. Abbott’s character was comically flawed – an emu on roller skates. Smirko is rotten to his blackened soul – loathed by much of his own party, toxic in traditional blue ribbon urban seats, particularly despised in Victoria and WA, recognised by women for his inherent misogyny; by putting himself forward as the solution to crises of his own creation he’s revealed himself as a humbug, a charlatan of disposable principles, transactional loyalties, casual cruelty, habitual mendacity and practiced duplicity who has overseen not just the normalisation of corruption but the institutionalisation of it, throwing pork about like burley and shovelling billions of our dollars into the greedy maw of the Tory chums and party apparatchiks.

But when did it all start to go wrong for Smirko?

I don’t hold a hose, mate“, “That’s not my job” will be the epitaph for the Shirker from the Shire.

As Smirko the flaccid, dull eyed blaggard lazed on a Waikiki deckchair fingering a slippery nipple he was comforted by the knowledge that the ash-flecked citizens from burning towns across the country would be lied to about his whereabouts. What the cowardly twat didn’t anticipate was an observant Aussie tourist with a smartphone capturing his idyll. This was the loose thread. The start of the unravelling of any notion of ethical, courageous or competent governance.

This was the character defining moment but it falls outside of the formal election campaign and in the midst of an epidemic a distracted population moved on. Smirko reverted to type and bunged on the bogan for the blokey blokes and the irredeemably gullible. More toolie than tradie Smirko’s photo-ops morphed into a fuckwit-at-large montage – creepy uncle fondling a stranger’s head, Wally the cross-eyed welder, work experience guy dangling his loose tie over a high-powered, pneumatic rattle gun, ukulele player (Hawaii…WTAF? Another country member? Yes; yes we do).

There are times when Morrison lets his facile FauxMo cover slip and he reveals his true self in all of his smug glibness and self-satisfied smarm, displaying a personality with the appeal of a bin juice smoothie. The demeanour of the great dissembler is now a barometer of the dawning realisation that his affected schtick and linguistic gymnastics are not working any more. He’s become the trombone player practising behind you on the bus – loud, bellicose, pushy. As the gaslighting, attempted wedges, obfuscation, deflection and projection fail to recover the tanking Tory numbers his volume and tempo increases, his belligerence intensifies. A shouty, gish-galloping Morrison is a desperate Morrison.

The beginning of the end for this kakocracy was not one single thing or one moment – it’s been the Fibonacci accumulation of scandals, grift, incompetence, ecocide, sleaze and cruelty. The most beautiful words that I can anticipate will be counsel assisting a federal ICAC putting to these criminals seated in the stand “Let me see if I can help you with that”.



This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Smirko flashes his nasty

He lies so often, so casually, so consistently and so reflexively you’d think he’d be better at it.

One of the most unpleasant men I’ve ever had to sit in front of.” (Jacqui Lambie)

Immediately following the termination of John Howard’s twelve stultifying years as Prime Minister the job had a change of tone; and a higher turn-over rate than a Bangladeshi ferry service – six PMs in eleven years. Even the Italians were impressed. This helps explain why the electorate narrowly opted to further tolerate a marketing spiv and treacherous political assassin for another term – the jerk with a smirk and his cabal of grifters vs yet another change? “Better the devil we know” they said.

The consequences of that misjudgement have become clear to any sentient citizen with an IQ greater than their shoe size and a functioning decency gene. Now there are Tory MPs who can no longer ignore the stench and are distancing themselves and offering up their own assessments of Smirko’s true self.

Their man is toxic; outed as a reprehensible, obnoxious, backstabbing fraud and liar, the most repulsive individual to have ever occupied the PM suite. There are any number of events over time that demonstrate his unfitness to serve in the role but there are standouts that expose the true character of the man – lower than the most odious of effluvia to ever ooze from beneath a Port-A-Loo door at a doggers’ day out.

A nasty, vindictive bully with a casual indifference to truth, a snake, a floundering incompetent and bloviating gobshite, a misogynist by inclination and an opportunistic racist for whom an individual’s worth is based solely on their contribution to his own interests. There are three names that define this void of decency and principles – Brian Houston, Michael Towke and Kimberley Kitching.

Loyalty for Smirko is entirely transactional. Brian Houston, hereafter referred to by Smirko as “Brian Who?” was his close friend and mentor, spiritual guide and role model of godly profit who has turned out to be no more than a confidant-of-convenience, past his use by date the moment his Pastor Creepy vibe became too public. Smirko was of course far more forgiving of sex pest MPs and an alleged rapist whose vociferous denials were accepted without question as doing so served his own purposes. The hint was there for Brother Brian when Smirko dismissed as gossip the truth of his attempted inveigling of an invitation for Bro Brian to attend Trump’s White House.

There’s abandonment of a friend and then there’s the reputational destruction of a party colleague for personal advancement. What moral vacuum approaches his political opponents to solicit dirt on one of his own? Smirko established his political career the same way he practised it – with shameless duplicity.

I would never underestimate Scott Morrison… because I would never underestimate a guy who would turn to one of his political opponents to take out one of his own… a guy who will do that will do anythingsays Sam Dastyari who as a Labor Party operative provided Smirko’s gangsters with their requested dirt file on Michael Towke who was the clear winner over Smirko 82:8 for Liberal Party candidature for the seat of Cook.

Smirko’s not one to let democratic process or decency stand in his way – the character assassination of Towke was triggered with the enthusiastic participation of Murdoch’s muck spreaders suggesting Towke’s Lebanese heritage was suspicious and somehow offensive to the sensitivities of The Shire. Smirko denies involvement of course but much to his discomfort statutory declarations from party members attest to the veracity of his connivance which also hinted at the future defenestration of another of Smirko’s good friends – Malcolm Turnbull.

A man who uses dead children as props was not going to blanch at the opportunity to exploit the untimely death of Labor MP Kimberley Kitching for political point scoring. Smirko needed no hi-viz or hard hat when he whipped out one of his go-to tools of trade – industrial grade hypocrisy.

The bully de la bullies could scarcely hide his delight by implying it was Labor Party bullying that had contributed to Kitching’s early demise. Unfortunately for Morrison, and as always, there’s his own history to confront and it blew up in his face as such things so often do when his attempted deflection simply consolidated all of the stories of his own appalling stand-over behaviour:

Concetta Fierravanti-Wells: an “autocrat [and] a bully who has no moral compass”, “not fit to be prime minister.”

Julia Banks: “menacing, controlling wallpaper.”

Jacqui Lambie: “one of the most unpleasant men I’ve ever had to sit in front of.”

Gladys Berijiklian: “evil”, “a bully”, “a horrible, horrible person.”

Christine Holgate: “I became the roadkill of our Prime Minister, who sought a major distraction of the piling criticism in parliament that week”, “one of the worst acts of bullying I’ve ever witnessed” and an “utter disgrace”.

Pauline Hanson: “he is a bully, because I have experienced it myself…he is…you do it ‘my way, or there’s no way’.”

Bridget Archer: “a frank discussion – not just a pastoral care meeting…I would have preferred not to have the meeting at that time while I was feeling emotional.”

The bully will be brought low. In trying to save the odious toad and their own grifting arses the Tories have an advertising expenditure (using our money aka theft) that exceeds that of McDonalds and Coles but it will prove to be insufficient.

Morrison’s concession speech will, of course, frame the impending result as a failing on the part of the electorate.

* * * * *


Looking for Scott Morrison – Sean Kelly, The Monthly, Nov 2018. “Morrison’s particular talent for avoiding traces might have helped him reach the prime ministership. It might not help him keep it.

The End. Andrew P Street -“Tony Abbott invites anger for his continued climate denial; Malcolm Turnbull inspires regret for what might have been. Morrison’s name will represent something even less dignified: absolutely nothing at all.

Party members say Morrison used Lebanese background against opponent – SMH. “Also during that meeting, Scott Morrison informed me that there was a strong rumour about that ‘Michael Towke is actually a Moslem’ [sic].

Scott Morrison denies falsely claiming 2007 preselection rival Michael Towke was a Muslim. The Guardian. “I am advised that there are several statutory declarations to attest to racial comments made by Morrison at the time that we can’t have a Lebanese person in Cook”.

Sam Dastyari talks about PM Scott Morrison’s dirty tactics to be elected to parliament in 2007. Dastyari spills the beans.

Michael Towke repeats claims after PM denies raising his Lebanese heritage in 2007 preselection fight The Guardian “Amongst many unedifying tactics used to unseat me from my preselection victory for Morrison, racial vilification was front and centre and he was directly involved”.

Turns Out ScoMo’s Father’s Day Pic Was From A Memorial For Four Kids Killed By A Drunk Driver. Pedestrian TV. “Turns out old mate Scott Morrison used a picture from a memorial event grieving the loss of four children who were killed by a drunk driver to make himself look like father of the year on Father’s Day.”


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Not being Scott Morrison

Not being Scott Morrison, and being the real Barnaby Joyce

I’m not pretending to be anyone else, I’m still wearing the same glasses, sadly the same suits, and I weigh about the same, and I don’t mind a bit of Italian cake either. So, I’m happy in my own skin.” (Scott Morrison pretending he’s not a pretender).

When you’re Scott Morrison you need to pretend that you’re not Scott Morrison

In Latin the name ‘Scott Morrison’ translates as ‘Gobshiteus Ad Nauseum’. OK, it doesn’t but it should. Morrison is, however, a human ambigram – a condition known as Zachary disease, a symptom of which is the discharges from either end being indistinguishable.

When you’re prime minister, you can’t pretend to be anyone else” effluviated the originator of the ScoMo® artifice in all of its manifestations:

Old mate

Sharkies tragic

Drinking buddy

Family guy

Bob the builder

Scotty next door

BroSco, messiah from the Shire


Bon vivant

Curry connoisseur

Stoic bushie gazing into the distance

Big rig truckie

Lab tech


Fighter pilot

Long distance swimmer

Team mascot

Tank commander

Trump whisperer

Defender of Aussie values

Father of the nation

On the tools tradie

Fiscal conservative

Big spender

Glorious leader

One of the boys

Insightful engineer (“...they won’t tow your boat, they won’t tow your caravan“)

Dog Lover*

Mark McGowan’s BFF

*insert cat as required to cover the bases

There is no escape from the stage managed appearances of this smarmy pillock in one of his many ScoMo contrivances. A flubbetered, be-moobed, crotch stained incontinent in his dress-up du jour who thought it a clever sledge to skinny-shame a trimmed down Albo. He’s a colourless dullard who thinks that just enough electors to matter are stupid enough to indulge his inane dress-ups when even Lib rusted-ons are rolling their eyes.

Awkwardly for Morrison his assertion of authenticity has simply highlighted his phoniness. Those that know him best said it best…

Image: The Twitterati

People may not agree with everything I have done but they know what I am about.” Unfortunately for Faux this is probably true but not in the way he intends it. His general uselessness has alerted the politically disengaged that what he’s about is photo-ops trumping substance, announcements substituting for delivery and that what he and his minders are all about is saturating a complicit media with stunts to distract from his habit of setting fire to his own head.

The shameless lying of this media whore has caught him out – it’s all on tape. The gullible, the lazy, the apathetic and the wilfully ignorant have had the real ScoMo rubbed in their faces via monumental failures in national crises so his fatuous marketing schtick and relentless bullshitting is blowing back in many and varied forms including many takes on his self-applied, asinine nickname:

Scotty from Marketing, Diddley Scott and Smorph

Spinocchio, Scurry, Smoko and Sir Smirksalot

Smirko, Smuggo, Smarmo and SloMo

Shirko, Sooty, Skiddy and Scooter

Scuttle, SchMo, FauxMo and Shithead

The odious prick has been fully exposed for who he really is to those who may have otherwise been inclined to ignore the obvious and now he’s in panic mode. Still, it is fun watching him shit himself. This time, in real time.

I may miss him when he’s gone.


Image from The Shovel


The best retail politician in the country

And so we move on to the B Team, the rustic oiks of the Nationals (t/a the Man-Coal Love Association) headed by a bloke who most of the nation gazes upon and, as with a penguin on a flag pole, wonders how the actual fuck he got there.

Image from

Fermented brewster Boozerby Joyce, the stool to Morrison’s dunce, red of face and blue of balls, has apparently earned his place at the pointy end of the bumpkin patch due to his focus on the bush. Having the intellect of plankton and the vocabulary of a Peppa Pig early reader must be essential attributes in the job description for these crem de la criminals for whom rorting is not a dodge but a credential.

Boozerby could detect the opening of a plain, brown envelope through a concrete wall so no-one is questioning his aptitude in that respect. What is a tad more challenging to understand is the appeal of his presence.

This boke is unburied landfill, he’s physical tourettes with the satorial elegance of an upended kitchen tidy. Culture is what grows between his toes, he has the coherence of gravel shaken in a rusty bucket and breath that should never be exposed to a naked flame. None of this reconciles the penguin/flagpole paradox.

Perhaps he’s just a reflection of his constituency. Rugged, self-reliant stoics always on the make for a hand-out. Big farmer, big polluters, water thieves, tree poisoners, pet abandoners, double parkers, seal clubbers, finger sniffers and those whose utes outnumber their books.

Perhaps it’s because Boozerby has overcome many challenges in his career, not least brewer’s droop. Perhaps it’s his personal contribution to employment opportunities within New England – of dry cleaners and designated drivers, divorce lawyers and Alco-lock beta testers, girlfriend placement agents and barmaids’ bodyguards.

Perhaps, gawd help us, it’s because he really is the best the Nationals have got.

* * * * *

The only good judgement either of these two have shown is that they hate each other.

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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Obituary for a failure: The political passing of our always late PM

A draft obituary for the election aftermath

In anticipation of the political passing of our soon to be ex-PM I thought I’d get ahead of the pack and celebrate early, confident that I do not have the power to spoil the outcome by doing so.

A most amusing irony in the removal of the blunder omnibus that was MIA Morrison’s toxic government will be his attempt to reconcile his belief in divine endorsement of his worthiness with his humiliating loss of office due in no small part to ‘acts of God’. He would’ve made a pathetic yet also gratifying spectacle when on his knees (that peculiar, buttockless derriere overflowing his flanny jim-jams) praying for an explanation from his celestial sponsor – the one whose advice he sought over that of experts and scientists. The for once non-practised tears and choking voice would damn the lazy coward for the hypocrite and fraud that he was.

Lauded by Trump, a carrot-coloured, psychotic narcissist with whom he celebrated many shared values and yet perversely also called by God, F. Scott Fitzfuckup PM was a fatuous blaggard of no discernible decency or talent beyond posturing and the avoidance of accountability. He was an opportunist of disposable principles whose instinct in any circumstance, however dire, was to hide while looking for angles that served his own interests and for scapegoats to finger for his own failings. As with so many mediocre men he had in his possession an entirely undeserved self-belief and relentless ambition unhindered by merit.

As the country and the world moved on around him The Great Schmo, a flailing middle manager, flattered himself with the title of ‘leader’. A petty mind further constrained by a literal belief in Santa Claus for adults, a practised liar, a deceiver, a manipulator, a shrivelled, one-dimensional intellect, a light-weight incapable of reflection or forethought, mentored by a grifter, impervious to self-reflection. A lazy laggard with the underlying condition of smarm that typified the shameless big-noter.

There was no occasion too small for Skiddy to fail to rise to. Untroubled by scruples, honesty or shame he would claim credit for the work of others and deny his own well-documented fuck-ups. Like all poseurs and bullies, he was a coward. Frightened by feisty women, intimidated by the rubes of the Rustic Party, reduced to pathetic whimperings when confronted by the blatherings of twin non-entities Colonel Blimp Kelly and his rotund, fellow nutter-in-residence Buoy George Christensen.

He surrounded himself with sycophants, he used “Jen and the girls®” as human shields, no child, living or dead, was safe from being used as a prop, no brazen photo-op was too shameful. There was no bar too low, no issue he wouldn’t politicise, no expectation he couldn’t disappoint, no accountability he couldn’t dodge, no rort he wouldn’t exploit. There were no fringe loonies from climate conspiracists to neo-Nazis he wouldn’t dog-whistle. Victim blaming, bullying and backgrounding were his specialties.

Aggrieved by the concept of proactive government he was nevertheless comfortable with the notion that he was deserving of two publicly funded and staffed mansions and a retinue of minions and minders. The reality check of voter anger, disappointment and regret affronted his entitlement and was explained away as a failing on the part of the electorate. For Scotty, someone else was always to blame.

After >3 years of indolence interspersed with problems he bungled into crises the unanswered question is ‘what was the purpose of Scott Morrison?’ In retrospect it would seem he sought government simply to prove that government was counter-productive and in this one mission he was successful in so far as it applied to his own.

He sought power for power’s sake, refusing to exercise it (“… that’s not my job”), choosing indifference and invisibility in times of crisis while defaulting to his failed travel agent’s propensity for self-aggrandisement whenever opportunity arose. Why did he think his God wanted him in the job? To abandon those covered in ash, smoke and mud as being unworthy? To treat climate change and a rampant pandemic as his God’s will and not to be interfered with? To leave it to his disaster capitalists cronies to find profit in misfortune in line with the dogma of his weird prosperity cult?

“Getting government out of people’s lives” to leave them at the mercy of can-do fossil fuel oligarchs, party chums and Jesus retailers who, it must be said, have an admirable creative portfolio of schemes to transform public money and resources into super yachts, family trusts and property portfolios – the trickle-down of our money to their mates – Skiddy’s small government free-marketeer chums who subsidised their friends and regulated their enemies.

At last there is one government that is out of our lives – the most incompetent and corrupt in our history.

Morrison’s greatest contribution to high office was being removed from it.


Scooter surveys the results of 3 years of his government. Photo: AAP, Dave Hunt



Hidden detail in Scott Morrison’s Instagram post sparks outrage. Yahoo News.

The pattern is that if you attack Scott Morrison… he will lash out and background against you in the most vicious of ways.” Samantha Maiden, The Drum

“Morrison always presents himself as the answer to the problems he creates.”

“… the extraordinary reframing of abject failure as courageous leadership.

An administrator not a leader; The reason why he’s behind on issues is because he waits for the polling before acting.” The New Daily

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

Morrison’s whole career has been based on the ability to leave jobs unfinished while getting himself promoted out of trouble.” Richard Dennis, The Saturday Paper

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Dear Lord

An email in reply – from Scotty to his God

From: ScoMoses (Scooter)

To: The Lord

Cc: Pastor Brian, Brother Stuie

Subject: Your email

Nǐ hǎo oh Lord,

(See what I did there? Phil Gaetjens suggested I leave that out but what’s wrong with a bit of levity between old friends?)

I trust this finds You well. How good’s God, eh? 👍👍

I got Jen to read Your email to me as soon as I got back from the ophthalmologists – my eyesight is still a tad blurry. I am writing in response to said email wherein Thou hasn’t suggested that Your arrangement with me as Your “Chosen One in the great southern land of the Holy Spirit” was in need of review.

I had picked up a vibe that Thou was not happy when my nightly solicitations went unanswered.

Strictly between You and me, I will admit there have been some errors of judgement. Welding that woman’s head to the flat-pack chook pen was a staffer’s idea, and it was my CoS who didn’t clear any of the slogans through your office first (to be blunt I’m not sure he believes You really exist). Don’t get me started on Greg Hunt’s stuff ups on vaccines and RAT kits. Most of the other problems are the Labor premiers’ fault. I have passed your issues on to Phil G for investigation. No, seriously.

I was wondering if perhaps Emmanuel Macron had been in Your ear. Don’t believe a word he says – he’s a bit fond of the Beaujolais if You follow my drift.

Based on the transactional nature of our relationship i feel there is room for negotiation.

We’ve got $16 billion stashed away for “discretionary” use and we look after our mates 😉. If You provide me with a coded spreadsheet of Your favoured wealthy institutions I will ensure the appropriate disbursements are made from what’s left after Angus and Barnaby have had access to it.

Rupert has confirmed he and his flying monkeys are still on board. They may be evil incarnate but as we both know that’s no barrier to doing business.

If we keep poking the godless Chinese it could keep my arse in the big, green chair or even bring on the great end times a bit earlier. It hits on some of our shared values – fear, war, mass death, racism.

Are we good?

Your humble servant and good friend,


PS: Is my Rapture gold pass still valid?

PPS: Jen says ‘hi’.


* * *

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Dear Scotty (an email from his God)

To: Scooter

From: The Heavenly Father

Cc: the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Eagle painting

Hi Scoot,

Apologies for the delay in responding to your prayers, it’s been a bit frantic what with My latest round of global misanthropy and Beelzebub’s interference wrt Ukraine; not to mention the two new galaxies I have on the drawing board. I did leave a couple of messages as per the Lad’s face in your cheese toasties – whilst I am infallible that was a tad ambiguous I must confess, so thank Heavens (LOL) for modern technology where we can avoid any confusion.

You want Me to save your arse, yeah? There has been a bit of a misunderstanding, My son. Drought, fires, floods, pestilence, the mouse plague, the Canberra convoy – do you see the theme? I gave you the top job as a warning to humanity for what I had planned and as a do-nothing PM that job was also to not interfere in My malevolence. You’re familiar with My genocidal track record so I was expecting you’d readily pick up on this and the early signs were promising (kudos for Hawaii, quarantine and the old folks homes) but you then fucked up everything you touched and then hinted at My involvement … you’ve taken things too far. While blaming everyone else is a nice touch, putting Me in the frame with all of your public announcements of our supposed collaboration is not on. I’m good with the angry God routine (obvs) but you’re on your own with the constant fails – after all, My brand is ‘all powerful deity’, dude. When the time comes for Me to claim credit for something I’ll distribute a weeping statue or two and chuck in another miracle (note though that not even My omnipotence could get persona au gratin Gorgeous George laid; I tried as per your request but he has to negotiate that for himself. Please note that Brother Stuie has dibs on the stigmata – did he let you know? Sobering Barnaby up is a future option perhaps. (Thoughts?).

Regardless, there’s bad news: It’s over

I like to throw positive stuff into the mix – you know, carrot and stick, loaves and fishes, water into wine (or as I now call it, the reverse Barnaby. ROFL). Junior claims credit for those but they’re mine. Old school sure, but I don’t want a despondent, fuck-up weary flock pulling a Jim Jones – I weep on mass murder and suicide’s a no-no. My people are My greatest creation (blackholes aside – I’m pretty chuffed with those) and they need an occasional upside and I am not seeing any from you. To be frank, you’ve become an embarrassment to yourself and to Me.

I could overlook the rather tragic self-applied nickname, the risible curry cooking and the wholly invented daggy DIY dad routine, after all, the exploitation of a gullible public is the business model for My franchisees but the panicked, shrill tantrums, throwing Jen under the bus, the ukelele, the washing of a stranger’s head (I noted the baptismal undertones on that one so thank fuck you didn’t do her feet) and now the facile “reds under the beds” faux outrage – I don’t want people thinking I am advising you on this shit.

If it’s any consolation it’s not just you; it’s your entire cabal of incompetence, sleaze, grift, cruelty and planetary destruction. I’ve borrowed the résumés of the entire LNP gene puddle from Old Nick and what a disheartening read!

I once had some hope for Joshy, a nice Jewish boy, but in digging down he’s a nasty little shit, isn’t he? And innumerate to boot. Spud, as is obvious, is the anti-Christ in a human skin suit. And what’s with Fingers Taylor? I created this fucking planet and I’ll be the one to destroy it – so tell that pyromaniacal eco-maniac to back the fuck off. Spotty dick Jimmy Paterson’s Hitler Youth of the Month persona makes Me uncomfortable. I looked away first time round but questions were asked. Jimmy should focus on completing his Hitch-hikers Guide To State Forests.

The lady folk™ are no better. Michaelia (Blah Stupenda) has a future as a roof-top, active shooter alarm, Mandy Stoker gives off a Nazi doctor vibe, while Holly Hughes and Anne Ruston belong in a home for foundlings confiscating the orphans’ Christmas presents.

As for the Rustic Party, that souser BJ has the bladder control of a Wiggles concert mosh pit and an entirely misunderstood interpretation of the comfort to be derived from “thy rod and thy staff”. Sweaty Betty McKenzie, Miss Appropriation 2019 and the fastest drawers in the west would re-gift her nastiness yet she’s the best the rubes have to offer? FMD!

While it’s a good idea to assemble the worst possible people imaginable in one place that one place is not something I want My name associated with. That’s B.Bub’s domain.

You’re desperate and looking ridiculous so I say this more in sorrow than in anger. It’s time for you to get up off your knees and fuck off. If you could leave My name out of future stunts that will be most appreciated.

(Please acknowledge receipt via return email).


The G Dog


PS: Please ask Brian to forward the details of the tithe account so I can draw down on some of that lovely stash. My new Jag is a gas-guzzler and with the price of petrol lately my weekends are being ruined.


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Is it possible to feel sympathy for Smirko? Yeah, nah!

Spud pulling the wings off butterflies – “I think I will, I think I won’t…”.

You’ve got to feel for der Gruppenfritter. Well, no you don’t – the bloke’s what an arsehole would be if arseholes had an arsehole, or in kinder parlance he’s a fully cooked unit, so rather let’s just have a chuckle at his dilemma – will he deploy an IED or will he hold off hoping Scooter goes full Campbell Newman.

Spud can smell the blood in the water. Herr Shickletuber is no doubt delighted at Scooter’s travails; according to Bob Carr going so far as chucking a grenade down the hallway in the form of a public airing of a scathing text assessment of Scooter’s character as a “fraud” and “complete psycho”.

The potato wedge (someone had to say it).



Usually immune to embarrassment Scooter’s rapid-fire eyeblinks semaphored his discomfort at the National Press Club when publicly confronted with such an accusation originating from a member of his own cabinet and at his “good friend”* St Gladys’s contribution to same – “a horrible, horrible person more concerned with politics than people.”

*Author’s note: not his good friend.

I can imagine Spud’s excitement at these public humiliations of his foe – a facial tic, a slight flaring of the nostrils. If he possessed eyebrows perhaps he may have lifted one as another indication of his arousal. I’d never given any thought before to the notion of synchronised boners with Spud but in watching the opprobrium build on Scooter I displaced my hot Milo and Scotch Finger from my lap to the carpet due to a phenomenon that’s as rare as a Tory’s kept promise. I felt a fleeting bond with hairless Hitler. Chubby buddies!

Scooter’s messiah complex is evident in his smarmy arrogance and self-regard and his shamelessness but, like his deity, he’s got a vengeful, thin skin – those barbs would’ve stung. Scooter is incapable of introspection and is inclined to retribution but he’s powerless to act on his instincts to undermine his tuberous nemesis so as per the playbook his response was to deny and distract. A photo-op was called for.

In a desperate attempt to divert attention and recover some palatability with pissed off women in particular the self-styled marketing whizz concocted a bizarre mash-up of the shower scene from Psycho and Patrick Swayze’s reach around on Demi Moore in Ghost by washing an innocent woman’s hair.


Image: Some clever clogs on Twitter


Creepy yet hilarious; fondling an unknown woman’s head was Morrison’s attempt to offset his misogynist reputation FFS! Touchy pervy with the vibe of a subliminal baptism – surely a sign this bloke cannot read a room or that some in his inner-circle of image wranglers hate him. Perhaps both.

In watching the unravelling of the Tories as a whole and Morrison’s smirkathon in particular one is inclined to optimism that this unapologetically corrupt and shambolic regime is shortly to be assigned one-way tickets to Dignitas. The opinion polls are promising, independents are threatening once blue ribbon seats, their fuck-ups are affecting the politically disengaged and internal warfare is rife.

Tory cheersquadders Janet Albrechtson from Murdoch’s Daily Riefenstahl and the oleagenous Andrew Bolt on Melbourne’s Hun have both voided on Scooter. The scrotum squeezed through a shirt collar that is Rupert Murdoch does not like backing losers. Likely there’ll be Scomo+Jen hagiographies scheduled for regular release but if Murdoch’s faecal finger of fate points Scooter to the exit he’s in big strife.

We’re in for months of the worst behaviour possible from the desperate Tories. They can and will get dirtier – the prospect of a grilling by counsel assisting with consequent spooning from Bubba on the lower bunk lends itself to fear and panic. We can abhor the coming ugliness while enjoying the thought of their collective puckered sphincters.

Scooter’s god will be on speed-dial but his mendacious, genocidal deity requires careful handling. Tithing and prayer circle schmoozing of his celestial sponsor won’t keep the Tubermensch at bay. In the traditional, unambiguous sign that he’s circling Spud told morning TV he’s “100% behind” Morrison. He would’ve gained new friends if instead he’d said “Scooter is my Prime Minister and I’m ambitious for him.” Will there be a Spud spill? Doubtful, but the prospect is heartening.


Twitter again

* * * * * * *

When Morrison describes the aspirations of Australians, it’s like reading a Hallmark card. He never braves the harder stuff, the values a democracy depends on to function. Truth be told, I can’t work out what values excite him politically. Except winning. In some ways he’s the Liberal Party’s Kevin Rudd, only less annoying.” Janet Albrechtson – The Australian.

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Ode to a Rodent

John Howard – how this clusterfuck started

God save the queen

And bless all her palaces

Johnny was stuck in a time-warped paralysis

Back to the future is where we should be

Chaplains in schools and WorkChoices macht frei


Summers of cricket

And white picket fences

Bugging East Timor with no consequences

Men at the coal face and women in kitchens

God’s in his heaven; to hell with Chris Hitchens


The blacks should be grateful

There’ll be no notion of ‘sorry’

There’s just bin nights and bingo in his grand oratory

Mabo got land back but not on his watch

He’d rather die in a ditch, take a kick to the crotch


Then came the Tampa

Laden with distraught refugees

Said Little Johnny “they’re all killers and thieves”

FUD and dogwhistling and throw in a wedge

For the coming election brown folks were his best hedge


Planes into buildings

He couldn’t believe his good luck

At the bombing of children he would give not one fuck

He got out the atlas to locate Iraq

This was the keys to The Lodge to be handed him back


But the electorate awoke

And kicked his arse to the kerb

It was our national conscience he’d no longer perturb

Now his future’s uncertain, a little bit vague

But if karma’s a bitch he’s got a date at The Hague

* * * * *

Every election, without fail, the Tories turn on the heating in John Winston Howard’s crypt and trolly his defrosted, cadaverous presence around to jape and jolly for the cameras with their candidate du jour. To many this is not unlike exhuming a long-forgotten egg sandwich at the bottom of a pre-teen’s schoolbag. Or finding your weirdo old neighbour indulging in hand-to-gland combat on your nature strip. But for the posh north shore ladies and the Mercedied Toorak bankers and the Kings School born-to-rule old boys he’s Tory royalty.

John Winston’s a shrivelled little man with a petty little mind. In Paul Keating’s assessment he was “a shiver looking for a spine to run up” and he’s still Mungo MacCallum’s more earthy but equally on point “unflushable turd“. Or in the words of the Tories’ own – a “lying rodent” who’s “mean and tricky“. These apparently are the characteristics of Liberal Party iconography.

Our own diminutive Maggie Thatcher in drag Little Johnny didn’t want to keep things as they were. He wanted to send us back to the ’50s and beyond – a land of curtain twitchers and the cultural cringe, of portraits of Betty Battenberg hung in every classroom, church on Sundays (preferably Anglican), the missionary position, doffing of caps to our betters, busted unions, closeted gays and doclie, out-of-sight indigenous folks. It’s to the country’s credit that he failed at each.

Howard, like any die-hard conservative, sees the world through his own cozy lived experience and lacks the intellect to imagine anything outside of it. ‘Relaxed and comfortable’ was his grand ambition for the country; bland and beige as in his oxymoronic manifesto of 1950’s nostalgia – Future Directions.

“I would like to see them comfortable and relaxed about their history; I would like to see them comfortable and relaxed about the present and I’d also like to see them comfortable and relaxed about the future.”

This explains his appeal to the fogies, young and old, in the leafy surrounds of the Tory heartlands. When your biggest problem is your over-chlorinated pool then a new cabana boy is all the change you want. Howard’s achievement was to convince tradies and suburban travel agents and Jim’s Mowing franchisees that with him in office then they too could one day employ their own pool guy.

Howard’s legacy is two-fold.

Australia’s Big Lie. The highest taxing, highest spending government in our history was carried along by the Hawke/Keating reforms to spawn the enduring myth of the Tories as better economic managers. They dine out on it to this day.

And his awfulness laid the groundwork for two horrendous successors – a badly shaved yowie in red sluggos and a failed marketing spiv who gets career advice from an eagle painting. Abbott’s style was to burn everything down, Morrison’s is to watch it burn.

To be fair to Little Johnny there were other accomplishments:

  • The lie-detecor destruction test of core and non-core promises
  • Entrenched middle class welfare
  • Punitive industrial relations
  • The move further right – flushing any talent down the drain should they give any hint of less than enthusiastic endorsement of RWFWittery
  • His AWB wheat for oil crimes
  • His East Timor bugging crimes
  • He killed the republic referendum
  • He finessed dog whistle politics
  • He’s was a dedicated practitioner of propaganda not persuasion – “stir emotion, scapegoat the innocent, enforce group identity and arouse suspicion without evidence*”
  • He provided a character reference for George Pell.

When you see him wheeled out round the Tory fundraisers and media it will confirm an election date is imminent.

*How Trump, Elon Musk and Gwyneth Paltrow short circuit your ability to think rationally. Business Week.


Image from (Photo via Twitter: David Marler / ‏@Qldaah)

Related readings wherein he hasn’t been called a c***:

if we judge Howard by his own standards as a reformer, there isn’t a great deal to show for his lengthy period in office“. John Winston Howard: The Biography. Wayne Errington and Peter van Onselen

John Howard. A study in policy consistency. M.L.Murry. A long read of 355 pages. But interesting.

Where ‘mutual obligation’ began: John Howard’s paradigm shift on welfare. The Guardian

In truth, Labor is the superior economic manager. Craig Emerson Economics

John Howard. A study in policy consistency. M.L.Murry. A long read of 355 pages. But interesting.

Where ‘mutual obligation’ began: John Howard’s paradigm shift on welfare. The Guardian


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Scott Morrison makes me sick

Assume an angry mood before reading; it’ll save time.

I’m sick of his spin. I’m sick of his lies. I’m sick of his dissembling and I’m sick of his dumb arrogance and his ever-present, self-satisfied smirk. I’m sick of his partisan politicking on every single issue. I’m sick of his inane slogans and his flatulent blatherings, as if he’s retrieved Scrabble tiles from a blender to form random words.

I’m sick of the relentless photo ops. I’m sick of the contrived personas – Spakfilla for a lack of personality cult. I’m sick of Daggy Dad and Scotty Takes Charge and Brave Sir Scotty and Sporty Scotty and Curry Cook Scotty and I’m sick of every hi-vizzed, hard-hatted mounting of machinery and his performative helping hand at flood clean ups and charity kitchens that stops the moment the cameras are packed away. My gag reflex is triggered whenever this vacuous poseur exploits front line workers, volunteers and grannies getting vaxxed as props for his media machine and who are then wiped from his mind the moment their immediate Instagram value has passed.

I felt a bit of sick in the back of my throat when he confessed to furtive, non-consensual feel-ups of disaster victims as some sort of subliminal Pentecostal conversion therapy – behaviour that should see him arrested and charged along with the coagulation of staff fondlers and upskirters and drink spikers who infest the government benches.

I’m tired of his disposable principles and transactional loyalties and least effort compliance with the proprieties of ethical governance. I’m angered by the vapidity of this piffler of modest abilities and questionable achievements, his general uselessness, his drain on our collective wellbeing. He’s a sinkhole for our national aspirations. I’m horrified that his only talent is to finagle avoidance of accountability and duck repercussions from his idiocies and neglect but then flagrantly claim credit for any incidental success.

I’m tired of his cowardice and his intimidation of the powerless. Impervious to self-reflection, comfortable in the belief he is the chosen one he’s a creepy, nasty and spiteful bully who will lash out and background against anyone challenging his authority or questioning his artfully crafted ‘authenticity’.

I’m bemused by his casual sexism – the confusion on his face at the notion that women are his equals and I’m aghast at the calculated misogyny of his suggesting he’s due some gratitude for the uppity ones not being shot.

I’m appalled at his facilitation of corruption, his suffocating incompetence, his abrogation of any responsibility (that’s not my job™) and his laughable claims to leadership when he flees the country or disappears behind the curtains when confronted with real-world challenges.


Cartoon and verse courtesy of Mark David


Truth is an entirely dispensable frippery whenever it doesn’t serve his purposes, which is often. Announcements and promises delivered with gish-galloped smugness in a condescending tone and without a thought as to implementation will be contradicted or denied in short order. All evidence that the shite is coming out his ears right there in front of everybody is disdainfully dismissed as if he travels between dimensions where reality is subjective and he gets to choose the version that applies to the moment.

I snort derisively that this Nigel No Friends had to invent his own tragic nickname. ‘ScoMo’ – the $50 note he’s pinned to the lapel of his unpleasant presence; a spiv raffling past-expiry-date rissoles at the local boozer, backslapping the punters and pretending he gives a fuck. I’m embarrassed that someone occupying the highest office in the land appends such an asinine moniker to official communications.

I hate that no freak fringe is off-limits for grooming as he chases the preference votes of the clunge farm escapees. He nods and winks to the arse-wash of sovereign citizens, freedumbing anti-maskers, red-pilled conspiracy wingnuts, horse-punchers, the self-righteous ACL homophobes who are obsessed with what the gays do with their pink bits and the UAP and One Notion over-spill that have me reaching for a puke bag.

I’m sick of his pandering to the wealth interests of an avaricious cohort of cardboard box billionaires, fridge magnates and private-schooled sybarites for whom too much is never enough. I’m disgusted at his punching down and victimisation of those least able to fight back and his denigration of those who show that they might.

I don’t like his stooges, I abhor his cronies, I detest his enablers and I’m dispirited by the appeal of his facile schtick – the pre-fab chook pen and cubby house, the bloke-next-door affectations of a transactional, calculating spruiker of the virtues of apathy and unquestioning acceptance of this superficial drivel.

I’m appalled at his Jesus-with-an-ABN sect that celebrates self interest and licences disdain for the disadvantaged. It makes me nauseous that he is OK with the destruction of the environment as his expected end times make our liveable planet an expendable, temporary stop-over on his way to his imaginary celestial forever-holiday resort, sharing beers and jokes about the povvos with his good mate Jebus down by the VIP pool.

His smarm makes me cringe, his voice makes me gag, his presence on the telly makes me feel defiled. His bloviating hypocrisy bubbles away in my colon like a bad oyster awaiting a projectile vomit of bile and loathing into the smug bastard’s face.

I’m ashamed that this grinning, vacuous opportunist connived and lied and inveigled his way into our country’s top job. Watching Morrison’s rise was like watching a fish climb a ladder – such things are difficult to comprehend. The way he gained office defines his character, or more accurately, his lack thereof. His behaviour during the fires disaster revealed his true useless, craven self. Given his surrender in adversity and his admissions of impotence in the face of real world challenges his delusional self-belief is staggering. A serial failure but for the intervention of grim happenstance this low-flying dullard reminds me that somewhere there’s a flushing toilet missing his head. He’s a void, a vacuum sucking the hopes and aspirations from all but the gullible, the toadies, grifters and subscribers to his disturbing talking-in-tongues prosperity cult.

He claims the imprimatur of his deity yet nonetheless fears all scrutiny, defaults to habitual lies and deception and depends upon his cabal of bag carriers and crime scene cleansers and the complicit Murdochrities and media specials to cultivate a dumbed-down audience for whom the news is only entertainment and entertainment is the only news.

He’s a squatter who fills in the time between elections by electioneering and buck passing. There is no nuance, no subtlety, no 3D chess in his behaviour – no intellect at all, no vision, no insight, nothing beyond the full time sales pitch of a tent revivalist. He’s a charlatan and a grifter to whom ethics is an English county and whose god-ordained tasks remain a mystery after 3 long, depressing years of this fuckwit cosplaying at PM.

Always late to the party he awaits poll results to form his opinions, scapegoating his cockups and disappearing until his minions can spin a means to lay claim to any upside or, failing that, to dig up another dead cat. For Scooter Morrison it’s the triumph of cheap politics over the national interest every time. Under this imbecilic galoot we are experiencing the erosion of our values and the sacrifice of our national integrity. Our transformation from a progressive, liberal democracy to Ayn Rand World in Pentecostal Disneyland is well under way.

I am gobsmacked that after Howard and Abbott the Libs somehow found someone who’s worse.

This bloviating pecksniff was scraped from the filter after an incontinents’ pool party. Our country will be vastly improved from the very moment this fatuous twat and his smirk are thrown out onto the street.


Image from Twitter



“The plot is that once you make government a pay-for-play operation, you forget how to govern when there’s no one paying. Required to act in the public interest rather than deliver what his donors want, Scott Morrison and his government are all at sea.” Crikey

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 … laying hands on them and praying in various situations,” Scooter Morrison, April 2021

“Joel, I really feel like this is what the Lord wants … He wants me to become prime minister.” Scooter to his chum Joel A’Bell

Scott Morrison and the women’s movement. The Saturday Paper


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