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


The 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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Malice in Blunderland

’The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you can make words mean so many different things.’

In a local take on a post-truth Trumpian world of alternative facts Smirko Morrison’s BS centrifuge has been revved up to desperation level on the spin cycle. Election timing options have become constrained by circumstances beyond the limited capacities of our prevaricator-in-chief and Tory polling numbers have taken a promising downward trajectory.

Smirko’s omnifiascos have accumulated into an Abbottesque fustering of clucks and the panic is starting to show but you’ve gotta admire his chutzpah:

Framing an anti-corruption body as the bad guys is Orange Donnie-level gaslighting. The capo dei capi of the most corrupt federal government in our history is cashing in on the martydom of St Gladys d’Berejiklian, seeing a chance to sell his omertà as a virtue. Gladdy, his “very good friend“*, had been persecuted by ICAC, she was a victim – he would not be distracted from his good works by such unjust scrutiny.

*not his very good friend

Ever the opportunist who trades on punching down Smirko shortly thereafter took a populist dig at social media with some performative outrage at anonymous trolls, some of whom besmirch the reputations of the alleged rapists, the sex pests and stalkers, the sousers and spivs whose presence he relies upon to stay in power.

Smirko’s been selling farts as rainbows since his brief gig as a child actor. In spruiking NSW’s rampant Delta outbreak as the gold standard that is leading the way out of the pandemic he’s betting the house that the born-every-minute schmucks are as thick as the curtains in a ground floor bordello and that they outnumber those voters with either a conscience or a functioning cerebrum. The problem is that he may be right – the gushing over St Gladys has no doubt chuffed the PMO’s Goebbels-Riefenstahlists and their RWNJ pamphleteer chums from the Murdoch sewers.

Image: Charles Dodgson, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Gladdy was down not just on Daryl Maguire but also with the BAU Tory grift; rortin’ and rootin’ – you’re darn tootin’ (if the Libs wanna use that as a slogan there’s gonna be a small fee). Dirty Dazza was upbeat, feeling Glad all over 😎 with the scheming for detouring some lazy millions down Wagga Wagga way but so many sympathetic Aussie mums undermined the March4Justice sisterhood by allowing that Gladys, a senior politician blooded in the fight club of Tory politics, had no agency over her own decisions because of a dud boyfriend. FFS! Nice way to feed the ‘women are too emotional’ self-fellating misogynist set.

Let us not forget St Gladys’s direction of bushfire relief funds to Tory electorates and donors while ignoring badly affected Labor-held LGAs. Let us not forget either the shredding of the paperwork after ICAC revelations of the rorted Stronger Communities slush fund and Gladys’s “too bad, so sad” response. Her new squeeze is a senior counsel familiar with the workings of ICAC yet Gladys threw in the towel at the prospect of further please explains. Do ya think she may know what’s coming? Joan of Arc my pink, wrinkled arse! The Canberra Tories’ delight that the Gladys experience was validating their normalisation of corruption may have a short shelf life if Gladdy is proven to be a baddy.

That gaunt apparition now haunting the federal backbenches, looking less a Tory blue-blood Prime Minister-in-waiting than a corpse disinterred from a shallow bush grave is Christian Blue Balls Porter. It was Blue Balls who was initially tasked with drafting an Avoiding Answerability bill in the time he could spare between persecuting whistleblowers in secret trials and trawling for knee-tremblers in the bars of Manuka and Kingston. Nothing says integrity like a bloke who blames his 2 year old for wiping his iPhone, who refuses any testing of his vociferously professed innocence of rape allegations and who sits on a $1M legal fund the donors of which he will not reveal.

That Shroedinger integrity bill is now in the hands of a woman who was passed over for the job of North Korean news reader lady because she was too shrill. Michaelia has form – refusing an interview with the AFP over a choreographed police raid on a union. Her credentials as Smirko’s AG are impeccable.

Smirko also wants us to overlook that his 2IC is a babbler of incoherent hayseed homilies that pass for insights in whatever addled processes pass for his remaining brain function. Barmy Barnaby did what Barmy does – saying the quiet bit out loud by complaining that he couldn’t do his thing if he was to be held to account.

It would be useful if a Barnaby colour chart could be produced to warn observers of his current state: embarrassed pink, fully munted magenta, blotto burgundy, hungover vermillion, priapic purple or befuddled violet. There’s one thing to be said in Barnaby’s defence though – his pub tests always have the biggest sample size.

I am not crazy; my reality is just different from yours.” The Cheshire Cat, Alice in Wonderland.

Barmy is as miffed at social media as Smirko:

From my own personal experience of recent times, you have got to get to a point where you say enough is enough” said Barmy with a straight albeit florid face.

Sure, social media has its virtues and its values and enables us to connect with people in ways we’ve never had before, but those weapons can also be used by the evil one and we need to call that out.” Scott Morrison, Australian Christian Churches conference March 2021.

Image from Twitter

Smirko may claim to see the work of Beelzebub, perhaps in the user comments posted to his own social media calling him a duplicitous turd. He hates that he has little control over it but he fears an integrity commission. His ranting about social media is one of his go-to ‘look, squirrel’ distractions but nothing shouts guilty more loudly than a politician dodging anti-corruption scrutiny. He wants us to forget his pattern of failure but he is desperate to escape accountability for rampant corruption. A perp walk is not good look for post-politics sinecures even in the boardrooms and ambassadorships of the Tory ecosystem.

The connection between integrity commissions and social media is the Lying Nasty Parties’ dislike of both because they hold the sleazy bastards to account and call out the fuck ups being sold as triumphs when the mainstream media is largely complicit. The Tories will frame any legislation as being targeted at the nasty trolls but the net will be wide. Scrutiny, truth and dissent are their true targets and bullying and harassment is a practice they would prefer to monopolise.



The Morrison government is facing a battle over an integrity commission it doesn’t really want. ABC

Liberal MP Andrew Laming created dozens of Facebook pages to promote LNP and attack opponents. The Guardian

Bushfire Rorts: Coalition targets bushfire recovery funds for Coalition seats. Michael West Media

Win for Collaery derails Porter’s attempt to cover up Timor-Leste bugging. Crikey

Since 2012 Australia has slid 8 points in Transparency International’s global corruption ranking. Transparency International Australia


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Gold standard Gladys – the shine is fading

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

Warning: This post contains mixed metaphors.

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

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

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

Image from Twitter (@TwoEyeHead)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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


Image from Twitter (@philmupp1)


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Happy anniversary, ScoMo

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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


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

* * * * *

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

A dossier of lies and falsehoods. Crikey.

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

Achievements Of The Coalition Government.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Crème de la crème bun (from Twitter)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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What’s next from Scomb-over?

What’s next from Scomb-over von Skidmark?

The Daggy Dad routine has been put on hold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun with Schadenfreude

Not all is doom and gloom:

Christian Porter will never be Prime Minister.

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

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

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

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Sophist’s choice

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

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

Sydney, 26th June 2021…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you spot the musical reference?

Not my job:



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

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

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The Nationals have re-tooled

New England recaptures the title of Dope Capital of Australia.

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

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

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

Image from Twitter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *


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

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

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

An outline of

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


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A message to Quiet Australians®

Lies, corruption and incompetence are the new normal

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *


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

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

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


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The dear leader: FauxMo’s cult of personalities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Image from (Photo from Facebook)


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

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

God-botherer or grifter?

Prophets or profits?

Jim Jones or Tony Blair?

Saving souls or sandbagging marginal seats?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Image from


FauxMo quotes

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

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

Freedom has never worked without deeply ingrained moral beliefs.

* * * * *

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

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Who am I? A quiz.

Have you been paying attention?

They seek to rule not to serve.

They presume to rule through divine indulgence.

They craft their deity in their own image.

Wealth is their measure of all worth.

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

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

Dissent is intolerable.

They are self-righteous yet they fear scrutiny.

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

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

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

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

Empathy must be funded.

Ethics and standards are impediments.

Integrity is for losers.

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

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

The biggest sin is being caught.

Egalitarianism is an impractical lefty abstraction.

For them to win someone else must lose.

For them to thrive others must be sacrificed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They indulge nutters and ratbags for political advantage.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

Who am I?

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

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

* * * * *

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

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



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With great power comes great avoidance of responsibility

Spinocchio skirts the issue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

The entropy continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



* * * * *

Porter has always enjoyed having his cake and eating it too

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

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

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

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

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

The also ran

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

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

Let’s move on.


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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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


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

Achievements Of The Coalition Government. Matthew Davis.

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

Inside the Canberra bubble – Four Corners

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

Malcolm Farr, political leaders and rumours

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

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