When too much RWFWittery is not enough

How to succinctly describe Australia’s worst ever Prime Minister? A miasma, an effluvium, a whiff of eau de low tide… a funk that clings to clothes and hair long after his departure? The unlamented ScoMo’s™ awfulness was so all-encompassing that no one pejorative was sufficient to capture the spectrum of his deficiencies. Scotty From Marketing, Scummo, Smirk & Mirrors, Scooter, Sooty, Skiddy, Liar from the Shire, Diddley Scott, the Great Schmo, Scurry, Shirko and more were all wryly derived from his own facile marketing contrivance and thrown back in his face as a “no way, get fucked, fuck off” chorus from the sentients in the crowd.

Phone in hand as he scrolls through Seek while languishing on a nose-bleed seat on the backbenches, his calls going unreturned, he’ll be struggling to reconcile his current status as unburied landfill with his self-image as God’s emissary. But really, who gives a fuck? Now he’s nothing more than a phantasm representing Tory decline into neo-fascist bigotry and wretchedness; a benchmark for whether they can go subterranean in their search for the ultimate in nasty. Turns out Scooter was no outlier; he was a symptom. Enter Bubba and Squeak – a lumpen tuber with the head and attitude of a copper’s truncheon with the befuddled Suss as the Lib’s no.2 slot showcasing her sad loser pique, her misplaced ambition and a lack of self-awareness that, in comparison, promotes Liz Truss to icon of perspicacity.

“Conservative, Dutton-supporting MPs said that Ley had been taking soundings from the backbench for weeks, but they rubbished the prospect of the Liberal moderate becoming the party’s leader.” (James Massola, SMH, 31/3/23).

If you’re the Tories’ Leader Of The Opposition yet also Labor’s best weapon, when your own party hides you away from electors in favour of defrosting the cadaverous John Winston Howard to waddle the streets quacking at startled passers-by, when you’re a hard-right head-kicker in a party abandoned by once conservative, heirloom electorates as the entire country rejects your antediluvian, divisive manifesto then a prudent politician would indulge in some considered introspection. Such sissy reflections are not for our potato-headed hard man Herr Shickltuber – he’s doubling down on the nasty (“I yam what I yam”).

Spud has marked his territory – Abbottesque blanket negativity, culture wars, fear and division, accusing opponents of that for which they themselves are guilty and that old Tory favourite of nurturing resentment by demonising those least able to fight back – cultivating suspicion of the gay folks, blatant transphobia and not so much dog-whistling their racism as broadcasting it by loudspeaker from the back of a truck.

People in outer suburban areas were “very worked up” about trans rights claims Spud, the Libs lost Aston because Labor was mean to them, there’s no need for him or the Coalition to change their brand, they just have to wait for electors to come to their senses. All very amusing given that in a party of roadside dumpers, shrunken intellects, onanists, P76ers, pelvic thrusters, doggers, Trumpers, pimps, Nut Bush lip synchers and shout absconders he’s the best the unelectable Tories have to offer.

What is not amusing is Spud’s response to the proposed referendum for an Indigenous Voice To Parliament. Just as Donald Trump gave permission for the worst of American society to be open and proud about how stupid and ugly, they really were Spud’s “No” campaign has given permission for the racists to be openly racist – albeit clothed in the pretense that they actually give a fuck about the welfare of our Indigenous fellow citizens.

The referendum will be a pivotal moment in our history – an opportunity to capture a mutual generosity of spirit, to give a voice to the longest surviving culture on the planet, for Aboriginal Australians to no longer be marginalised in their own unceded land. It’s a time for empathy and good will, for inclusiveness, and for leaders to show themselves. And it’s only that very last bit that applies to the loathsome Dutton.

His dishonest framing of “the Canberra Voice” or “Albanese’s Voice”, the dishonesty of claimed Voice interference in everything from the Reserve Bank to tying up the High Court in endless litigation, never ending calls for “more details”, a fantastical Aboriginal veto on ANZAC day. The whole No case rests on misinformation, deceit and lies.

Alice Springs revealed Dutton’s true, vile character. Recent images of street crime has been represented as a new phenomenon, except it is evidence of institutionalised, generational failure – failure that Spud cared not one whit for when he was in power. However, exploiting child sexual abuse to paint a picture of undeserving Blacks to score opportunistic political points for his “No” campaign is a new low for a bloke who has form when it comes to demonising those of a darkish hue.

Dutton is as stupid as he is odious. If the “Yes” vote succeeds in the referendum he’s toast – a minor footnote in political history. If “No” prevails his reputation as a naysayer and wrecker will challenge that of Tony Sluggos Abbott but with racist overtones.

But he will never take Scooter’s crown as our worst ever only because he will never be PM.

References

The gravedigger. Rachel Withers, The Monthly.

‘Dog act’: NT police minister reacts angrily to Peter Dutton’s claims of Alice Springs child sexual abuse. Peter Dutton’s claims that “young Indigenous kids are being sexually assaulted on a regular basis” in Alice Springs. Lorena Allam Indigenous affairs editor, The Guardian.

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

Australians all lettuce rejoice

They may have dropped the constant, asinine, look-at-moi dress-ups of the moronic galoot but they’ve not abandoned the concept entirely. It’s now band camp for the miffed – the smirking, one man band in hi-viz has morphed into collective, performative outrage to feed to a conflict-hungry media pack.

Their chutzpah is admirable – their acting skills not so much.

High dudgeon from the scolds seems to be the key theme for the Tories right now, filling the void of their miserable, ideas-free existence. The entitled, senior girls’ hockey team from St Salubrious School for Pretentious Mingers’ rampage through the lolly shop ended at the check-out when the electorate, insufficiently whelmed, refused their credit cards. And they’re not happy.

Proving that awfulness is no longer gendered in the “natural party of government” the ladies ga-ga is a rich pallette of Prus and Trudes, trolley ragers, flabbagers and dimwits.

Whine sommelier Sussan Ley, taking advantage of her natural expression of perpetual bewilderment is the ladies’ team captain – sooking and sulking and blowing snot bubbles at her media displays of disaffection. Rather than gravitas her performances convey a tone of ‘a few too many slides down the banisters’. LeyZ has assumed the mantle of national whinger from the bright red dipstick from Queensland, deciding that constant complaint is an easier gig than regaining credibility through, here’s an idea, actual thought and effort.

 

I see dud people (Haley Joel Osment from The Sixth Sense)

 

The Tories have two major problems (well, that is apart from their record of corruption, incompetence and depravity). Bullying and misogyny is their brand. Their game plan so far is to accuse the dog of farting – pointing the finger at Labor for their own failings, where their every accusation is a confession. Their latest, rather too obvious ploy was to accuse Albo of shouting at one of their own. These are the crumb maidens from the Ditch The Witchers, the party that believes it is owed some gratitude for not shooting women protesters, the party of accused rapists, up-skirters, sexual harrassers and desk-jizzers. Their <eye roll> faux indignation </eye roll> is at a pantomime level of authenticity.

The Team Karen line up is a dial-up modem in a broadband world – squawky, slow, unreliable and not fit for purpose:

While not present at Operation Finger Albo it was good to see a return to form of Michaelia Blah Stupenda Cash who’s fully invested in her own well-paid ‘kick-the-workers-in-the-nuts’ persona, complaining loudly (obv.) that any concession to those worst off would “broing Astroiya to its knoise“.

Bam Bam McKenzie always looks as if she’s been dragged from storage in a cardboard box under George Christensen’s bed. Changing gears without using the clutch has loosened Bam Bam’s grasp on reality, or perhaps it’s her Trumpian version of alternative facts when complaining of the kyboshing of her sport rorts (i.e. theft of public money) followed her declaration that “Australians have no tolerance for corruption in sport”.

Holly Hughes – a Joan of snark and what a UTI would look like if a bag of flour blew up in its face, is a self-righteous windbag of no identifiable achievements beyond complaints that Labor has not yet fixed nine years of Tory theft and incompetence.

Jane Hume, with the obsequious eagerness of a head prefect, would happily serve the canapés at a puppy drowning if directed to do so by the Big Swinging Dicks club. Linda Reynolds of “lying cow” infamy is as suspect as a scoutmaster’s lolly bag when it comes to credibility on bullying. Sarah Henderson, Anne Ruston, Melissa Price, Nola Marino and the anonymous et als of the backbench were all complicit in the illegal hounding of Centrelink recipients that went far beyond bullying. None has any credibility nor a sense of shame.

Meanwhile in the UK, thick Lizzie’s 4.1 Scaramuccis as PM, outlasted by a leafy vegetable, you’d think would have set a low water mark for Tories. A neoliberal dogmatist crashing the world’s 6th largest economy in just one day with her Hayekian brain farts had the Tory press rapidly dropping Truss from their Christmas card list.

Here in Oz within a global conservative shift to crazy we can be grateful our RWFW vegie patch is now no more than bubble and squeak; left-overs pushed to the side and largely ignored. Our version of Liz Truss is reduced to bleating her whinges to an audience that has lost interest <cue sad trombone>.

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Good read: UK’s Tory papers call it: it’s Boris! No, wait… Crikey

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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.

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.

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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.

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Interesting reads:

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

Mercurynews.com

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

The rehabilitation of Spudkins Dutton

The success of Rupert’s exercise in spraying cologne on a chum bucket is yet to be proven but it is off to a bad start. Leave aside for the moment that Spud, sorry…Cuddles, is a 20 metre swimmer in a 50 metre pool who thinks shit takes are Japanese mushrooms and Feng Shui is a Chinese tennis player – in his first press conference as Lib leader Spuddley Too-right said; “I want to give you this assurance, we’ve heard loud and clear from the [partisanship-weary] Australian public” to be qualified a short time later with “Our job is to make things difficult for the Government“… so, lessons learnt, eh? Back to an obstructionist, Abbottesque future where after only three weeks Cuddles’ troops are laying the blame for nine years of Tory corruption, incompetence and wreckage at Labor’s feet.

I think Peter Dutton described it best 2 nights ago in an interview with Peta Credlin where he stated in a nutshell that "Our job is to make things difficult for the Government".

So EVERY idea and comment they make should be seen through that lens; National interest be buggered.

— Brubaker 🚩 🇺🇦 (@brubaker64) June 8, 2022