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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.

Website: https://www.geezerspot.com/

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 Change.org

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 independentaustralia.net (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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2021 – Good bits and bad bits

Could 2022 see the end of the Tory virus?

2021 wasn’t all bad. Sure, Shitaro and his sidekick Tombei The Pissed still have their jobs, the Tory grift emporium is re-open for business and expecting a brisk trade in the lead up to the election, and a weird mix of Tony Abbott, the Grim Reaper and an oil rig has assumed the mantle of NSW premier but there is hope as we segue into 2022.

The polls are showing a move away from the Tories. The panic from moderate (sic) Liberals facing challenges from viable independents in their tree-lined, Toorak-tractored enclaves and the fear from the journeymen party spivs horrified at the possibility of being held to account has brought some tidings of comfort and joy for many of us watching from the side-lines. It has also boosted traffic on LinkedIn and Trip Advisor as this effluvium considers their post-election prospects or checks the star ratings for top bunk vs bottom bunk at various of Her Majesty’s homes for the habitually shady.

There is no accusation here of criminality by any specific politicians (Heaven and lawyers forbid), it’s just my febrile musings about the consequences of blatant corruption, the stench of which permeates the clothes of anyone within a paper bag’s throw of these shysters.

Any mirth stemming from the notion of the Beetrorter being ordered to spread his cheeks and lift his sack upon sign-in at the Glen Innes Correctional Centre balances the dry-retching resulting from the mental imagery that that idea may raise.

Then there’s Miss Appropriation 2020, Bridget McKenzie, whose perpetually waxy visage may be symptomatic of her dread that Sports Rorts could be re-visited. Bridge’s only strategy for avoiding come-uppance is likely to be to play dead. Our Bridge is short a pylon or two.

And did I see Minister for Monetising Carbon Pollution Fidel d’Figueres developing a facial tic at the prospect of a few rounds with counsel assisting? All pure conjecture of course. But pleasing nevertheless as Fidel will be high on the persons-of-interest listing of a future federal integrity body.

These are random wishes on my note to Santa; these dodgy operators are just the crust on the entire fetid spittoon that considers itself to be free from consequences, answerable to no-one bar an eagle painting and a cabal of billionaire oligarchs.

In contrast Josh the work experience guy seems nice. Ha! That crafted image of a rosy-cheeked cherub with a rapidly disappearing Friar Tuck tonsorial has slipped. Whether shrilly undermining Victoria’s Covid efforts or calling up critics’ employers to have them silenced or fired he’s revealed himself to be the standard Tory nasty that many suspected he always was. Our chubby exchequer is well out of his depth as Treasurer so he can always plead stupidity if facing the beak to explain the repurposing of billions of our dollars to favoured Tory sponsors and electorates, letting the criminals in the banks off the hook or secretly deleting ASIC corruption findings. Josh’s discomfort is obvious from his red-faced histrionics so it’s been an enjoyable past-time to measure his panic on the Shouty-O-Meter whenever he’s not applying oily schmooze to his increasingly sceptical constituents.

While on the subject of those who see themselves as Prime Minister in waiting the best news of 2021 is that Xtian Porter will never be an occupant of The Lodge. In underlining his law suit victory and vindication by ignominiously resigning before a Labor government can initiate some formal enquiries into his behaviour, Blue Balls the born-to-rule, big swinging dick has shown himself as nothing more than a whiney little bitch. This output from a turd distillery can at least be reassured that should he ever be up before the courts they will be open to the public in contrast to his secret persecutions of Bernard Collaery and Witness K.

More good news was announced this year by party balloons Tweedledumb and Tweedledumberer. Groomed at a carwash and nourished by Krispy Kreme, Gorgeous George Christensen has pulled out while Cray Cray Kelly has signed up to fellow zeppelin Clive Creosote Palmer’s UAP. Cray Cray is marketing himself as the by-product of a threesome between Nigel Farage, Chef Pete Evans and a channel marker (UAP party slogan: Craig’s our buoy). Cray Cray’s brilliant career is about to go down in flames. Oh the humanity! Guffaw!

Glad tidings also arrived in March from the western end of our wide, brown land from whence news of a massacre was despatched to a joyful public in the east. The Tories were all but obliterated in the state election courtesy of the actions of those two cleverest of political minds Clive and the Dud (i.e. Scooter Morrison) who jointly thought it a brilliant move to threaten WA with a law suit mid-pandemic and just prior to the voting. Scooter hides his marketing genius behind the facade of a smart-arsed maitre d at the smug and over-sold Bros, Lecce (Bros., Lecce: We Eat at The Worst Michelin Starred Restaurant, Ever – The Everywhereist).

The other good news at the end of 2021 is that Rupert Murdoch is one year nearer his funeral.





Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

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Spud, Godwin’s Law and the Streisand Effect

Who needs a truncheon when you’ve got expensive lawyers?

Adolf Kipfler, das Gruppenfritter, Herr Shickltuber, the Gestapotato, Dick Tater, Spudley Too-Right, Dutton dressed as yam, J. Edgar Tuber – these are all droll mockings of a rabid autocrat and all-round nasty piece of work whose head has an unfortunate resemblance to a popular starchy staple. At least while satire is still legal such sledging is beyond the reach of Spud’s defamation lawyer, the splendidly named Nick Ferrett, a tag that no clever pun could improve upon.

Führer-flavoured name calling, potato-themed as it may be, introduces the principle referred to as Godwin’s law that asserts when a Hitler comparison is made, whoever made the comparison loses whatever debate is in progress. Godwin clarified that “its purpose has always been rhetorical and pedagogical: I wanted folks who glibly compared someone else to Hitler to think a bit harder about the Holocaust“. Fair call. After all, Spud as Minister for Immigration & Refugee Degradation had merely adopted an apathetic approach to the slow mental torment of his konzentrationslager internees.

Nazi potato analogies included, lampooning politicians is everyone’s right in a free country and it’s been a long tradition in this one. When an indolent, flailing government reeking of corruption seeks all potential means to hide its incompetence and protect its criminality then scorn and ridicule become obligations. But this bin juice distillery t/a the Morrsion-Joyce grift shop gets beyond tetchy when their many shortcomings are pointed out. The ‘champions of free speech’ toss that concept onto their disposable principles binfire along with accountability, integrity, equality and other troublesome inconveniences.

A recent taste of their discomfort with challenges to their decency is from the Spud himself with a thinly disguised threat to “dirty lefties”. Spud has accumulated an impressive property portfolio and is the Minister for Defence – he’s a member of the wealthy power elite, a big cheese, the Potato au Gratin of the L/NP. In contrast Shane Bazzi is an obscure, arse-out-of-his-trousers refugee advocate. It turns out the Tubernator, a man whose idea of foreplay is to lock his pitbull in the wardrobe, has a sensitive side, taking offence from a Bazzi tweet calling him a rape apologist. A wise man would’ve let it go – to let it be lost in the noise of general social media heckling at a corrupted regime. Not the Spud. He invoked the Streisand Effect by persecuting Bazzi via a defamation suit thereby drawing attention anew to his “he-said-she-said” shrug at the in-house rape of a Lib staffer and the Tories’ general indifference to bullying, harassment and sexual assault.

The $35k in awarded damages would barely cover Spud’s head waxing bill – but, never get between a Tory and a dollar. Perhaps though it was his hurt feelings? Yeah but nah; the empathy deficit is strong in this one who could never be happier than when he’s pureeing kittens in his Kitchen Wizz. Feelings are weaknesses to be exploited. One of those feelings is people’s attachment to their house, and lawyered-up, paranoid grifters and predators on the government benches are catching on – Dutton’s message to the proles is ‘shut up or you’ll be out on the street’.

Scooter Morrison, possibly re-energised by the law suits from Spud, Laming and Barilaro has once more trotted out his cynical and routine attack on social media:

“Social media can too often be a cowards’ palace where the anonymous can bully, harass and ruin lives without consequence.”

Sounds reasonable. But the Tories harbour their own trolls, sockpuppets, social media stalkers and backgrounders and feigned indignation is a Scooter specialty, wrapped in hypocrisy, tied with a bow of shameless fabrications and delivered in a hectoring tone of dissembling twaddle. His genuine indignation is reserved for being challenged or held to account. Every utterance from this charlatan is misleading, obfuscating or blatant lying; every announcement is calculated from the perspective of political advantage – policing people’s social media is a handy distraction from their panicked avoidance of an integrity commission.

Social media users commonly have genuine reasons for anonymity including safety from the bullies and harassers Scooter pretends to be so offended by. Given the Tories’ disdain for scrutiny and intolerance of dissent it’s not a huge leap to suspect that anti-troll legislation is intended to be a trojan horse for regulations designed to silence critics through libel proceedings.

Average Australians could not afford to sue for defamation and any potential costs awarded would be swallowed by legal fees. Rather, the Tories’ ambitions will help the powerful to silence critics or to retaliate should that fail. Spud even had the front to suggest a fund from tax payers be established to cover the legal costs of the pursuit of their adversaries because even rich guys need our money to pay expensive silks to sue us and to intimidate inquisitive journalists.

First they came for the ABC. Then they came for journalists and whistle-blowers. Now they’re coming for the tweeters.

None of this is meant to imply that Spud is an actual Nazi or a sympathiser of the Stasi, Oprichnina, Geheime Staatspolizei, NKVD, DINA, the Bureau for the Repression of Communist Activities or any other secret police organisation or goon squad for any repressive regime whatsoever. His resemblance to a versatile root vegetable is however indisputable.





Image from Twitter.


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Scott Morrison lies here

Porky pies – St Gladys leaves the field to Scotty Two Thumbs

That clanging sound you heard was St Gladys d’Berejiklian’s halo dropping round her ankles like a cheap pair of drawers. Please know that Our Glad has completed the porcine trifecta – telling ‘porky-pies’ is now written in under the ‘skills and experience’ dot points on her CV with pork barrelling and porking Dirty Dazza. In so doing she’s gazumped the liar and rorter exceptional, Two Thumbs himself, given that as far as we know, TwoT has limited his own mountings to heavy machinery photo-ops and handsy interference with oblivious bystanders. Turns out that in addition to the rortin’ and the rootin’ Glad had been flogging whoppers at her COVID pressers.

When Gladys said that locking down only Labor-oriented LGAs was on public health advice she was lying. The advice was the exact opposite.

“Gladys Berejiklian repeatedly said during the outbreak that all decisions were based on health advice”. Rather, Gold Standard Glady’s priorities were wedging Victoria, punching down on Labor LGAs and coddling her fan base of ladies-who-lunch from the leafy ‘burbs. Gladys’s delight at the prospect of Delta leaking to Melbourne had the chutzpah of a small boy peeing through someone’s letter box, then ringing the doorbell to ask how far it went (Maureen Lipman).

ICAC’s determination of Gladys’s fitness for office is a ways off yet and moot given she’s fleeing the field for, no doubt, some well remunerated sinecures in the banking industry where dodgy practice is a credential not a crime. Two Thumbs’ title as the most prolific liar in Oz politics can remain unchallenged.

Morrison finds himself the chameleon on a tartan rug; he and his image wranglers will be confused about where to turn. The carefully crafted personas that are on scheduled rotation now all come with a clear warning label – this man is a duplicitous liar and a fraud. It took Emmanuel Macron to bell the cat – “I don’t think, I know“. Our own sycophantic media, too cowed, compliant or complicit to bother with their KPI of holding power to account could not ignore the president of France calling out our Liar-In-Chief. Joe Biden sunk the slipper with his less than subtle dig at the deceit of his orange predecessor’s number 1 fanboy. The Riefenstahlists of the Kunkel/Finkelstein/Gaetjens lumpy carpet collective would’ve white-boarded dead cat scenarios through the wee small hours as their planned narrative of Brave Sir Scotty fighting for our freedoms is lost to the reality of a shouty Crusader Rabid – our own Trumpy Try-hard.

Being anointed by god makes him impervious to self-reflection or to accept that he is accountable to anyone real. Shouty, petulant man-baby is the real Scott Morrison. Under pressure he floats to the top of the borscht of his confected characters whose purpose it is to hide the real Scott Morrison from public scrutiny. Now the accumulated mistrust of a serial liar has permeated his own troops. Whenever he announces his latest position on an issue they all know he says whatever is convenient at the time regardless of the facts.

His lies are going fractal – each lie covered by another lie. Morrison’s liar tag will become a tattoo, his defining characteristic. The smarm will be replaced by the jutted jaw, shouted accusations, panicked, flatulant gibberings, and desperate sloganeering as the drain hole of a prospective Labor-initiated federal integrity commission draws nearer. “Who can you trust?” is an interesting election pitch from a bloke now widely tagged as a consummate deceiver, a nasty bully with a pathological fear of scrutiny.

The slow yet satisfying unravelling of the most loathsome toad to ever infect our politics is coming. Enjoy!



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Elderberries and hamsters, dead cats and climate crimes

Pantalons de merde’s Maccers reprise

Remember being embarrassed on behalf of Americans when their corpulent, carrot-coloured BLOTUS attended international forums to gibber his inanities about buying Greenland and relocating Seoul? With his puckered sphincter pout evoking an image of an orangutan bent over to tie its shoes The Donald was a global objet d’ridicule and a national stigma for those Americans with principles and active brain functions.

Karma. Now it’s our turn.

DiddleyScott Morrison showed early form when it comes to mortifying Australia on an international stage. Diddley’s 2019 spooning of Trump on the lawns of the White House was Obadiah Slope-level cringeworthy but he went even further with a reach around, earlobe-nibble and dismount. Half the nation turned red at the discomforting visuals of Diddley’s metaphorical fondling of the orange scrotum.

Such allusion was reinforced at June’s G7 in Cornwall. Invited as the waterboy Diddley capered around the ankles of Boris Johnson like a rescue puppy looking for a scratch behind the ear. BoJo is a man resembling a fright wig thrown onto an abandoned construction site, but his office signifies inherent if unrealised gravitas which had Diddley wobbly of knee and moist of crotch, his ever-present smirk stretching into a look-at-me, shit-eating grin but apart from aghast Aussies no-one knew who he was.



This is characteristic of a bully – sucking up and punching down. Another defining characteristic is, of course, cowardice.

Never one to forego an opportunity to big note himself Diddley was nevertheless a reluctant starter for the G20 and COP26. A fresh pack of Depends was broken out as our head coprolite pondered the prospect of fronting irate world leaders who are immune to his climate denialist lies and obfuscations.

The desire for him to attend by those who would be most embarrassed that this odious slug represented our country was puzzling. Perhaps this was a case of outing that creepy vicar you caught in the vestry with his dick in the hoover and a feather duster up his clacker by flinging the door open and saying to the congregation “See, I told yers!”.

In readiness for Diddley’s participation in COP his minders and crime scene cleansers from Wolfe, Crosby, Textor & Co. dug up a dead cat – internet trolls, groomers and cat fishers. “The plan was to stir up alarm about people being nasty on Facebook to divert from any inconvenient language presaging a phase-out of coal in the final communique” but it only resulted in government politicians deleting their browser histories. It had zero affect on the frosty reception that awaited Diddley and his cooker of the books Black Angus Taylor, infamous for various #gates and known to gas executives and Cayman Island bankers as Fidel deFigueres.

At the COP the visuals of presidents and prime ministers suddenly finding an interest in their shoes or the wallpaper upon Morrison’s approach was hugely amusing as was his hectoring speech to an empty hall – the delegates having bolted for the door, a ciggy in the freezing carpark having greater appeal. The highlight was Emmanuel Macron throwing stink eye Morrison’s way upon being subject to one of Mossion’s signature laying on of hands for a slime-by photo-op.

From national joke and hide and seek champion to duplicitous international charlatan is quite the achievement even for the most blatant of dodgy operators. Fully equipped with a spectrum of his own off-putting personality tics supplemented with disturbing Trumpian tendencies there is, to quote Julian Hill MP, something seriously wrong with this bloke. “This bloke” has taken his expertise in double dealing beyond our borders to the world stage.

Called out for being a liar by Macron he lied to the press about the press he was lying to, accusing them of posing for selfies with the French president. Pulled up on it he reflexively blamed someone else – “I must have been misinformed.

“There has been lying, duplicity, a major breach of trust and contempt” French Foreign Minister Jean-Yves Le Drian

Diddley no doubt thought he could pull off ‘global statesman’ as his latest persona, a Churchillian defender of “the Australian way” added to his palette of pre-fab personalities – an enlargement of his evolving grand narrative of Brave Sir Scotty*, guardian of our sovereignty, a grateful nation turning its eyes to its beneficent saviour. All he achieved was adding the entire French nation to all those sentient Aussies who already know what a shallow, duplicitous prick he really is.

He’s shat himself in front of the world. Embarrassed? I sure am.

*Hat tip to @RonniSalt




* * * * *

“We voted for Scott but most of us hate him” said an MP to me, when I quit – Julia Banks

Malcolm Turnbull’s Address to the National Press Club – September 2021

‘The Lord wants me to be prime minister’ — how Scott Morrison foretold his destiny. Crikey.


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The bastards from the bush

The rustic oiks bent Scooter over a pork barrel

The Bastard From The Bush – selected extracts

So they took him to their hide-out, that Bastard from the Bush, And they gave him all the privileges belonging to the Push; But soon they found his little ways were more than they could stand, And finally the Captain thus addressed his little band:

“Now listen here you buggers, we’ve caught a f’ing tartar; At every kind of bludgin’ that bastard’s got the starter, At poker and at two-up he shook our f’ing rules, He swipes our f’ing liquor and he knobs our f’ing girls.”

They sprang upon him in a bunch, but one by one they fell, With crack of bone, unearthly groan and agonizing yell, Till the sorely battered Captain, spitting teeth and coughing blood, Held an ear all torn and bleeding in a hand bedaubed with mud.

“You low polluted bastard,” snarled the Captain of the Push, “Get back to where you come from, that’s somewhere in the bush, And I hope that vile misfortune may tumble down on you, May some lousy harlot dose you, till your bollocks turn sky blue.

Attributed by some to Henry Lawson.

Nice re-election campaign you’re planning. Shame if anything happened to it‘ said the Bastard from the Bush to the Captain of the Push. With a head made from a long-abandoned jack-o’-lantern, teeth like leper’s toes and the breath of a brewhouse spittoon the florid fornicator’s threats to shoot himself in the head carried a tone of crazed believability. Captain Scooter caved. After all it was just the extortion of billions more of other people’s money – National Party tradition and Liberal Party habit. An easy price to pay for a veneer of coalition unity. The great carbon con was agreed – taxpayers would fund more carbon, energy inefficiency and obsolescence and it’d be sold back to them as rainbows while Scooter printed the brochures to hand out at his stall at COP26.

The ‘hic’ from the sticks Barking Barmy Joyce struggles to keep under .05 – net zero is a concept that defeats his limited capacities. The economic, environmental and social opportunities of clean energy are beyond the sales skills of the country’s “best retail politician”. But pork and grift speak to Barmy, the spin could be finessed by more gifted charlatans while he and his fellow Nat trogs performed for their climate criminal sponsors and donors.

Selling the past as the future has fallen to a select few within Barmy’s circle jerk:

Gorgeous George Christensen is a big-talking nobody, yet with a wide profile to maintain – hence the intake of pies, cream buns and conspiracy theories. George’s CV has every RWNJ grievance and fringe lunacy that he plans to develop for his pending post-politics career as Australia’s Alex Jones. George expects to convert his voter niche of toolies, roadside dumpers and persons-of-interest into subscribers to his web site.

Climate denial is easy clicks for Gorgeous for that time when freed from scrutiny he can fund a revisit to Manila to redeem his unused frequent perver points. Gorgeous’s weight loss regime of a shit and a haircut has not paid off but one benefit of retaining his panoramic profile is that he’s eligible for the 2-for-1 full English breakfast at Tiffany’s Titty Bar & Grill in Angeles City. I’m looking forward to his reviews being posted.

In contrast George’s spindly chum Matt King Coal Canavan is all prick and toenails. He could pass for George’s left-overs. He’s a Mr Squiggle look-alike in blackface whose schtick is suckering enough of his constituency into believing that he’s on the tools so that he can keep his shiny bum planted on air-conditioned parliamentary senate leather.

Matty’s a man of convictions:

Matt Canavan:Where I’m from there’s not a lot of roads or airports.”

Narrator: He was born on the Gold Coast and grew up in Brisbane. His white collar office is located in the city of Rockhampton. Rockhampton Airport is a major Australian airport with flights to Brisbane, Mackay, Townsville and Cairns and transports approximately 580,000 passengers each year.



His physical presence reminds me of Michelangelo’s statue of David – if you chipped away the marble and just left the dick.

Shotgun Bridget McKenzie is a pin-up girl for all types. Her particular brand of smarm may be the product of her role as chair of the Parliamentary Friends of Shooting (that’s a real thing) and her award of Ivan Milat Achiever Of The Year (that’s not). Her vibe is ‘don’t cross the Bridget mixed with sweaty inflatable girlfriend. Her rationale for supporting the end of a habitable planet is likely just ‘cos I can’ ego wanking.

Contributing to the log jam in the gerbil maze that passes for coherence in the National Party is Keith ‘Cec’ Pitt whose grasp of economics is not so much Friedrich Hayek as John Frum. Cec’s input to the list of demands was $250B of taxpayers’ monies to invest in rustic carbon-generating boondoggles that even the corporate spiv mates avoided like an invite to Bridget’s hymen restoration.

Striving for ordinariness and failing to achieve even that modest goal¹ – ‘who is Keith Pitt’ you may ask. Fair enough – his most lasting impression was when he faceplanted into a snow drift. (¹I can’t attribute that wonderful quote as I can’t find who came up with it.)

Can I say to the honourable member, find me a solar panel that works in the dark.” – wait til he finds out than EVs can run at night, that windfarms don’t slow the rotation of the earth, or that guacamole is not a country in Central America.

A measure of Barking Barmy’s genius is that included in his list of demands was the return of Cec to cabinet – the very role that Barking fired him from just 4 months earlier. Please form an orderly queue to bang your head in the nearest door.

Watching Barking at a presser is a lesson in platinum grade self-delusion. He fronts the media with his hands clasped over his paunch, spouting yokel homilies and reciting the names of country towns he’s managed to memorise like a puce Geoff Mack rendition of I’ve Been Everywhere and showing off his greatest feat of self-discipline by not vomiting on his shoes while the cameras are rolling.

Barking is Gina Rinehart’s biggest deposit. The occupant of the second highest office in the land is serving as the coal and gas industries’ gofer. Barmy will deride the science from the back of a ute, dressed as a hay bail and shouting at clouds to play to his constituency of Kickatinalong town mayors, clay pigeon shooters, PornHub bingers and water thieves. While Scooter is in Glasgow avoiding Emmanuel Macron and pimping his pamphlets this disturbed souser will be acting Prime Minister.

“These academics have got to bugger off.”

David Littleproud, nominative determinist and Nat’s deputy.


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Rule by the Divine Right

The Christian coalifate and crime cartel is running rampant

The NSW Lib’s sanctification as Premier of the Brylcreemed Li’l Dabble Dooya, better known as Dominic Perrottet, a man resembling a pelican emerging from an oil spill, has re-animated conjecture about the capture of the conservative parties by religious nutters.

It’s yet to be made clear whether Opus Dei Dom has crossed the line from Tarago driving old school Catholic to hard core nutter. He’s a pro-Trump, feral friar replicant – a skinny version of Tony Abbott but sans the dementia pugilistica or as yet any obvious urge to smite and destroy and who thankfully forgoes Abbott’s comical, bow-legged, rodeo-cowboy-who-shat-his-chaps machismo but he’s tipping the scales further to the hard-right of the less-government-more-God American Goppers.

“Some have argued that social security replaces the role of children in old age by socialising the traditional duties of the family.” (Dom Perrottet, The Guardian, July 1, 2015).

During his brief stint in the big chair Abbott’s wisdom suppository was removed from its receptacle and waved in our faces on a regular basis. Captain Catholic held the missionary position of old school biblical sexism and he wasn’t shy with his proselytising on the proper place for women. I strongly suspect Dom with his 6 kids (+1 pending) also sees women as simply life support systems for wombs.

Dom’s a professed champion of the protection of the confidentiality of paedophiles, an anti-abortion/anti-voluntary assisted dying/every sperm is sacred but the economy comes first dichotomist whose ‘go forth and multiply’ convictions are at least not as free-lance as is his co-religionist Barnaby the purple, priapic procreant. The steady infiltration of Dom-alikes in the Tory parties has moved the needle on who qualifies as a nutter vs who’s merely a mainstream Jesuser. A rabid Abbott as PM and Barking Barmy Joyce as deputy blurred the distinctions.

The various tribes of nasty, Old Testament sanctimonious hypocrites, whakkadoodle creationists and Mammonites have morphed the Protestant sectarianism of Robert Menzies’ Liberal Party into a hybrid tent revival, fascist book burning club and Jesus Wants You To Be Rich symposium.

The Tories are infested by Taliban-lite, by incurious simpletons for whom a deity is a handy excuse for disengaging the brain, bronze-ager God squaddies, the zealots inside of whom is a little Torquemada craving to be let out and the self-righteous worshippers of the filthy lucre – all purporting to represent the wishes of a spectral Santa Claus for grown ups whose interests seem to always align with their own. None are there to serve our interests, they’re there to impose their punitive morality and rigid dogma and to top up their property portfolios as a measure of their merit pending the End Times.

Should they dress in goat skins and smear themselves with the ashes of long dead relatives to dance naked around golden images of Donald Trump questions would be asked. They’re not that obvious but they are plenty blatant.


Alex Hawke – SchMo’s prayer buddy and advocate for a business class Jesus


Evolution determined that through climate change a branch of hominids would descend from the trees and thereby develop the bipedalism that led to the opposable thumb, a big brain and language. Various versions spread through large parts of the planet but only Homo sapiens made it past the beta test phase to flatter itself that rather than being the accidental result of a long series of unlikely events we are the sole representation in the entirety of the universe of a spectral creator.

The people who deny science to favour angels and demons and talking eagle paintings are running our country and the one at the pointy end believes that a white, bearded ethereal male* has tasked him personally with carrying out a paranormal plan that accommodates the imminent destruction of a 6,000 year old earth and all it contains, with the enrichment of cronies in the interim as a sub-project to confirm their worthiness in the eyes of his god.

*God is a man apparently which raises the question of why an omnipotent deity who created a universe from nothing is equipped with meat and 2 veg.

Scott Morrison is beyond doubt a genuine, fully blown religious nutter. Beelzebub is as real to Morrison as the tooth fairy is to a toddler. Inane superstitions and an ABN-equipped Jesus inform his sheltered world view. He claims to be on a mission from God with whom he has a personal relationship and he flatters himself with the title of ‘leader’ yet he’s inert in all but the facilitation of a culture of consequence-free grift and Armageddonist planetary destruction. A man defined by what he’s against and by the limitations of a small mind informed by bronze age mysticism. To quote Albo he; “doesn’t hold a hose on bushfires; it isn’t a race on vaccines; and isn’t even in the room on climate change talks.” Not a prophet, not a leader, not God’s emissary – a deluded incompetent who needs to keep a long list of the things he doesn’t know about so that he can deny all accountability and a catalogue of personas to disguise who he really is.



Descriptions of Morrison have included that he is a creep, a spiv and a weirdo but I am wondering what sort of deity it is that he has conjured up in his fabulist imaginings that tolerates the alleged crimes of the cabal that he purports to lead. Dom Perrottet is a worry but he’s got a long way to go to meet ScoMoses’ level of egregiousness.


Some good reading:

God in the Lodge. Crikey. A comprehensive analysis of Morrison’s fantasyland beliefs and his supporting ecosystem of godliness. A highly recommended read.

For God and Country. Religious Dynamics in Australian. Federal Politics. Dr Marion Maddox. A long but worthy read from 2001.


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