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

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

2020 and the anus horribilis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Image from Twitter (creator unknown)

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

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



This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Downfall. Bunker Boy starts his run for the big house.

No grace, no dignity, no humility, no magnanimity, no class, no morals, no empathy, no soul.

He has no friends, not even a dog.

His wife can’t bear his touch, his daughter can’t avoid it.

Devoid of humour he doesn’t make jokes, he doesn’t laugh. Not ever. An occasional dismal rictus, a necrotic gash in his ochre-lacquered face-bladder signifies nothing more than his satisfaction in transacting another con.

He’s a loathsome coagulation of every human failing with no compensating virtues.

A craven coward.

A sociopath.

A serial rapist.

A racist.

A quisling.

An opportunistic grifter.

An inveterate cheat.

A deceitful toad.

A chronic liar.

A shameless braggart.

An ignoramus who lacks curiosity. He doesn’t read, he doesn’t care.

Trump is a ridiculous, combed-over cartoon villain, a deranged clown with a face sprayed the colour of hang-over piss and toilet paper stuck to his shoe whose wits are defeated by an open umbrella. Rake the forests, nuke the hurricanes, inject the bleach, waterbomb Notre Dame cathedral, trade Greenland for Puerto Rico. Trump’s pompous idiocies are exceeded only by his appalling ignorance.

Crediting the British with the foresight to build airstrips in the war of independence 110 years before the Wright Brothers first took flight, revealing the hitherto unknown Himalayan countries of Nipple and Button, accusing Baltic leaders of starting Balkans wars! This clueless buffoon brags that he was able to keep the crayon inside the lines on his dementia test. Accusing Trump of a lack of self-awareness is like accusing Myra Hindley of poor child care standards.

The Grand Fubar of dysfunction, the maestro of petty vindictiveness, of malice and resentful belligerence is testing coup options yet America flatters itself as being “the world’s greatest democracy” much to the bemusement of observers here in Oz. It’s beyond our imagining that we’d ever have a bloated braggart, a liar, a hypocrite, a lazy shirker, a crony-stacking blame shifter at the helm filtering Murdoch’s kidney stones through his teeth while monetising a pandemic for the benefit of rich mates. Oh… what?

Trump, if he’d had the imagination, would’ve considered handing out small-pox infected blankets in Democrat-leaning districts but it’s too late now. A majority of Americans have said enough is enough. After 4 years of what-the-fuck-has-he-done-now, 46,123 tweets and 20,000 documented lies while in office to 9th July 2020 he’s been reduced to pathetic whimperings from his puckered-sphincter pout, playing his invisible accordion to an audience of gormless dullards, fellow hucksters and his retinue of fawning toadies, thralls, invertebrate lickspittles and hangers-on whose fealty is demanded but never reciprocated and who had neither the self-respect nor the courage to call out the capture of the US by an amoral, moronic lunatic.

We cannot know what tipped the scales against Trump.

No lie has been too outrageous, bragging about sexual assault was just locker-room talk, five bankruptcies are apparently indicative of an astute businessman, stealing from a children’s cancer charity is fake news. Being laughed at by foreign leaders – meh, because y’all – “Merica!” Throwing meat to Boogaloos, Proud Boys, Klansmen and Call Of Duty cos-players was addressing his base. Perhaps it was inciting violence from uniformed goon squads sooled onto lawful BLM protesters that crossed the line. Perhaps it was the denigration of war dead and veterans as losers and suckers by a draft-dodging, yellow, mangy dog that did it.

More likely it was 11 million Covid-infected Americans, a quarter of a million who died while the orange blobulator ignored it, denied it, played it down, finger-pointed and then looked for ways to exploit it for his own advantage.

There is no excusing Trump, there is no sympathy that should be wasted on this pathetic parasite. History should not record him as some sort of tragic King Lear but as an effluvium, a discharge from the bowels of a diseased system; a funk that has now been sharted.

He had always exhibited the narcissistic and antisocial personality disorders of a lack of empathy, grandiosity, lying and deceit, indifference to conventional laws or rules or morality that characterise a despot. But he possessed none of the cunning, artifice, commitment to a cause beyond himself, the political skills of a Stalin or the oratory of a Mussolini. He had no ambition beyond the grift and the trappings – palaces awash with potentate kitsch, a yearning for military parades, a pneumatic wife and his narcissistic cult of personality. He has no talent beyond the con, he’s a schmuck with the dumb luck to be born into wealth that mestasised B-grade celebrity into A-grade larceny.

Fittingly, he’s spending his last days shaping his own humiliation. It’s an Armando Iannucci script playing out in real life. If Trump was to be found drooling in a pool of his own piss ala Stalin or dragged Sadam-like from his bolt-hole it would be the most metaphorically noteworthy achievement of his time in office.

Gone too will be his dreadful spawn. Ivanka’s in-it-up-to-her-nose-job reputation may limit her future career prospects to hand-job supervisor at a New York sperm bank while Uday and Qusay* could end up in Ryker’s Island trading sexual favours for lines. Jared Kushner may get a gig at a Madame Tussaud exhibit of automatronic rent boys. Melania, no doubt, would enjoy the embrace of a Justin Trudeau look-alike cabana boy, chuckling at the thought that Trump has only Rudi Guiliani left to go through the pre-nup looking for loopholes.

The end of America’s nightmare is near. However it plays out over the next two months Trump is finished.

The irrelevant man.

A loser.


*Nod to Marina Hyde in the UK Guardian



This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.


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Ol’ Yeller turns orange

In September of last year images emerged from the White House of a doe-eyed Scott Morrison licking the pumpkin-coloured ear-lobe of Donny T the deranged narcissist-in-residence which filtered Australia’s traditional obsequience to the U.S. through a distinctly different prism. The personal rapport between our incontinent crotch-stain and their bloated, venal spiv was built on an obvious shared value – they both adore Donald J. Trump.

Let’s get beyond the optics. (Yes… please).

He’s always trying to see what he can get away with and, as I have seen through the course of his life, he’s always got away with everything. No one holds him accountable. He constantly gets rewarded for failing.” Mary Trump on her uncle.

Every president takes politics into account but with Trump it’s qualitatively different. It’s not just a factor. It’s the factor.” John Bolton.

Tweak those 2 quotes and they align nicely with any rational assessment of our own corpulent blowhard. Did Smuggo go the full Raquel Squelch at Trump because he saw a reflection of his own character?

Smuggo’s fan-girl admiration of Trump cannot be based on the latter’s towering intellect, his mastery of oratory, his incisive wit, his devoted family man reputation or his fondness for puppies. Perhaps it could be Morrison’s Audis-R-Us Jesus Inc. veneration of the ostentatious trappings of wealth but I’m more inclined to believe it’s motivated by Trump’s disregard for institutions, norms, oversight or decency, his narcissistic self-aggrandisement and his pursuit of unfettered power and personal financial benefit.

Smuggo the marketing man and his spin-minions have no doubt watched Trump and his GOP enablers closely for ideas on how far they may be able to adopt and mould the orange one’s brand of blatantly opportunistic, self-serving plundering and abuses for local deployment.

Ratbags and robber barons

Politics is a dirty game, and the Labor ranks are not squeaky clean but the right-wingers are awash with dodgy operators, wideboys, touts and chancers, and they’re the ones in power.

Disregard the moon units of the looney right such as One Nation’s chippie Pauline Hanson, a beached flounder of incoherent glibberings shadowed by a diminutive blind mullet of a sidekick Two-Bob-Short Roberts. Grievance mongering is a nice little earner for Bubblehead and Pipsqueak but they’re just Morris dancers in the corner of the big grifters’ ballroom.

Ignore also fringe-dwellers like Craig Flaccido Domingo Kelly and his fellow untethered bouncy castle Gorgeous George Christensen both of whom, when not touting the weight loss benefits of hydroxychloroquine and cream cheese sliders, are swiping right on Tinder profiles of Proud Boys, Boogaloos, MAGAs, QAnoners and heavily armed banjo strummers decked out in Walmart cammo pants covering the frilly knickers they’ve pinched from their sisters’ dirty laundry. The aim of our two fruits from the dullard orchard is to expand their profiles which, given their oblate spheroid physiques is quite the challenge as it’s hard to tell whether their Instagram pics are in landscape or portrait.

Forklift hitch-hiker Clive Greasy Palmer further feeds the fat fuck theme (pun intended). With his private jumbo-passenger jet and Smuggo’s $80 million IOU in his pocket he likes to think of himself as a big wheel. But Clive’s relationship with the levers of power is purely transactional – if he runs out of funds with which to steal elections on the Tories’ behalf or should justice prevail and he ends up giving reach-arounds in cell block D’s showers he’ll be binned like a ruptured inflatable girlfriend.

The freaks and the developmentally challenged are on the periphery. The main game is centred on the PMO (the Wriggle Room) and its lumpy carpet. The nasty is developed, distributed and driven from the top by the SchMo Bros. And their pin-up boy and role model is the porcine prisoner-in-waiting Big Donny.

The differences between the GOP oligarchs and our Tory big swinging dickheads is one of packaging more than substance. They both have the same aim of shovelling wealth upwards, clipping the ticket on the way through, by pillaging national assets at the cost of our collective well-being.

But even Smuggo the twice-sacked tourism spruiker recognises that the persona of a discoloured psycopath is a hard sell in the local market. One Abbott was more than enough thanks and so the Daggy Dad routine was contrived to hoodwink the complacent, the forgetful and the easily led.

Integrity and competence MIA

Regardless of their position on the moderate left-right political scale I suspect most punters would agree that the two basic characteristics of a legitimate government are integrity and competence. What non-partisan, clear-headed observer would conclude that the Republicans or the L/NP (or the UK Tories) possess either?

We are at the point now where we have ineptitude, unadulterated bastardry and blatant criminality enabled by complicity, obedience or apathy.

Smuggo’s marketing temperament leads him to try to disguise his Trumpian inner bully, his disdain for proprieties and his hammock ballast laziness. He’s as subtle as a drunk uncle at a Christmas lunch but he’s not quite so stupid as to replicate Trump’s juvenile sales pitches. His palette of focus-grouped personal brands has more colours than Donny’s trademark putrescent-carrot tinge.

The schmooze of curries, cubbies and chook pens is Daggy Dad V2.0. Further refinements are expected after beta testing by fully-funded empathy consultants Ploy & Gambitt.

Fatuous slogans substitute for substance, such as Smuggo’s JWH-inspired dog-whistles – “If you have a go you’ll get a go” and “If you’re good at a job you’ll get a job” meaning if you’re unemployed it’s your own fault.

“Look over there, a squirrel” is a dodge deployed each time a Squizzy Taylor or a Barmy Joyce or an Alan Todger or a Stuart “My Bad” Robert spills another of their turds on the carpet.

Then there’s the Gunnadoo ruse. The purpose of announcement upon announcement is to put them back in the drawer for re-announcement after a suitable time lapse to re-use as another announcement of a pending announcement. Any dates for delivery will be suitably long – stretching into the next election cycle and beyond.

And of course they lie, lie, lie. When caught out on camera lying about lying Smuggo just lies that he hadn’t lied. They all lie so habitually that it’s shrugged off as BAU. Good tip, Donald.

The “Labor, Labor, Labor” feint doesn’t get traction after eight years of Tory fusterclucks. Now Smuggo’s under-the-bus road spatter includes anybody up to and including Jen and the girls serving as his human shields. Such a nice man. “I don’t hold a hose, mate” was not a throw-away line, it’s a Smuggo character trait.

The soup nazi gambit (“vote as you’re told or no soup for you”) is their big play. It’s thievery and malfeasance on a grand scale. $100 million in Sports Rorts and $1.126 billion in community development grants used as L/NP election slush funds. Tory shameless fuckery is so ingrained it was replicated at a state level when St Gladys of Berejiklean approved more than $100 million in local council grants in Coalition-held electorates in the lead-up to the NSW election.

And Murdoch’s man bites dog “journalism” will, as always, provide covering fire.

FatuousMan and Boob-boy

Tories have an in-built belief in their status as the natural party of government. Elections are an inconvenience, Parliament a hindrance and Labor governments are an aberration – a failing of the governed to know their place and acknowledge their betters.

Their arrogance shines through, personified by Smuggo’s ever-present smirk and his shameless deputy douche Micky The Dip McCormack, a man so soporifically uninspiring that funeral homes do stocktakes whenever he appears on the telly.

But autocrats are thin skinned. When questioned in parliament Smuggo goes postal, his head explosions reveal his little man in a fat suit insecurities. Behind that smarm and practised theatrics lurks the same space-invading, hand-grabbing creep of bush-fire infamy. He dreads exposure, his corruptocracy fears an integrity commission.


AAP Image/Mick Tsikas


It’s been said that Trump is not the cause of America’s travails but a symptom of it, whereas Morrison and Abbott and Howard before him are the cause of ours.

The Americans may dump Trump soon but it will take them years to shed Trumpism.

We have to wait awhile for our next election – we need a federal ICAC now!

* * * * *

BAU. Business As Usual. In Toryland that means enriching the mates and the cronies while demonising the unfortunate.

JWH. John Winston Howard. The unlamented architect of Australian stagnation. Other uses – a dog turd. “Look out, don’t tread in the JWH.” With thanks to @KleinRevd.

PMO. Prime Minister’s Office. Aka the Leni Riefenstahl suite.

* * * * *

Fun with anagrams Part 2

Morrison, Taylor – Moron Tory Liars. (from reader Chris.)

Christian Porter – Arthritic Person, Prehistoric Rant.

Alan Tudge – Dale Gaunt, Dual Agent.

Stuart Robert – Bert’s rat tour.

John Barliaro – Bro John, a liar.

Gladys Berejiklean – Genially beds a Jerk.

Angus Taylor – Anal Yogurts, Grant A Lousy, Stay = Gaol. Run

Barnaby Joyce – Cab nearby, joy.


This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Murdoch and Morrison – partners in grime

If asked to nominate a politician with a penchant for titty bars I suspect most people could name the distended Member for Manila and ping-pong ball fieldsman Gorgeous George Christensen. Gorgeous G, a devout Christian, is somewhat sensitive about the curiosity aroused by his frequent perver points at iffy Filipino dives where the sticky carpets are not solely a consequence of spilled beer. Press reports of his 28 trips and almost 300 days spent hanging out in the Philippines were vile smears according to our travelling vagophile. To be fair there should be some sympathy reserved for a bloke who can’t see his own genitals without the use of a mirror on a selfie stick – there’s the deprivation factor to consider. And we should stop fat shaming Jiggle-O George. He already has enough on his plate.

Then there’s Kevin Rudd, the heedless man in topless bar and another conspicuously pious Christian who famously detoured into a Manhattan “gentlemen’s’ club” that traded in overpriced booze and the display of ladies’ pink bits. Apparently Kev was taken by surprise when confronted by a pert pair of areolae and a freshly-shaved flange and legged it for the exit. (After surviving FBI raids and ex-Mayor Rudy Giuliani’s crusade against smut, Scores nightclub is now closed. foxnews.com.)

Kev, a practicing, purse-lipped Miss Prissy was duly mortified after the local Murdoch mulch fortuitously published the story when, as Opposition leader the bible-toting Rudd was favoured to win the 2007 election. What Kev and News failed to anticipate was his popularity increasing as a consequence. What Kev also seemingly failed to realise at the time was that the bloke who’d steered him into the strip joint was not his pal.

Col Allan was Murdoch’s New York Post’s editor, the longest-serving editor at News Corp and a “Dubbo boy with a fondness for beer, women” and peeing into the office sink. Rudd was then Opposition foreign affairs spokesman. Whatever bonhomie that may have existed between the two at the time was not to last.

The scrotum squeezed through a shirt collar that is Rupert Murdoch lauded Allan as “one of the most outstanding editors of his generation.” Murdoch also stated, without irony or the hint of a piss-take that “Col has sought…to hold the powerful accountable, to assail corruption and to have a positive impact in New York and beyond.” Integrity, truth and decency earning Rupert’s respect? Apparently it’s revenue that does it. “I’ll get fired not because Rupert doesn’t like the stories I put in the paper. I’ll get fired because we don’t sell newspapers” Allan told Lloyd Grove in a 2007 New York magazine profile.

Allen is the Murdoch myrmidon responsible for the crude front page splashes and blatant propaganda in News Corp’s Daily Guano denigrating Rudd and the Labor government. You have to question the standards of sleazy New York nudie bars when this is the type of trough snorkeler they allow onto the premises.



Murdoch is the price we pay for a free press. The dullards, bigots, RWNJs, offence seekers, non-registrants on the IQ bell curve, the perpetually confused, car crash spectators, the venal and the lazy have a right to have their opinions formed for them. The Murdoch manure machine’s usefulness is otherwise limited to teaching dogs to read or for prepatory hygiene in proctologists’ waiting rooms. Unless of course you’re an otherwise unemployable hack or a Tory politician.

The bile and merde produced by the monkey’s typing pool of Murdoch wazzocks, pizzle ninjas, racists, planks and coprophiliacs could be mostly ignored if it wasn’t for its ubiquity and dominance and it’s hands-down-each-others’-trousers relationship with an outrageously corrupt, punitive L/NP kakocracy.

This is taking liberties with the concept of a free press. It is not holding power to account – it’s a protection racket for gangsters and their cronies.

Criminals don’t like scrutiny. SchMo’s tactics for avoiding a federal integrity commission include everything short of calling in a bomb threat – it’s a guilty plea by default. After exposing Sports Rorts the national audit office had its budget cut at a time when unprecedented government largesse is being distributed. SchMo’s national cabinet is run in secret with fossil fuel mates being granted open slather to salt the earth and poison the atmosphere regardless of dodgy return on investment or a rooted planet. Tertiary education is being dumbed down and kept out of financial reach of enquiring minds. Various #gates bubble away. Promised millions in disaster relief goes undistributed while a bloated, smirking practitioner of POETS day cooks curries and assembles flat-pack cubbies and chook pens for the cameras.

The list is long, ignored or spun by the Goebbels and Riefenstahls of News Corp.

Prominant amongst Murdoch’s bilious minions we have the Queen of confected outrage, Alan Jones, safely isolated in his Southern Highlands luxury estate from whence he broadcasts for Sky News and writes columns for News Corp, telling us now there is no pandemic despite earlier stating that “We are living in the world of coronavirus and the most repeated statement we hear is, we must listen to the experts”. When you’re an opinionated blow-hard consistency is entirely dispensable and hypocrisy a tool of trade.

Miranda Devine (aka Marge – I can’t believe she’s not better) piled on Quaden Bayles, the Indigenous kid with achondroplasia dwarfism who was being bullied at school, claiming it was a scam to make money. What sort of broken individual does that? Apparently it’s OK with the Rupester, as she’s now spewing her poison for his New York Post. If hacking a dead kid’s voicemail is OK then…meh!

The Cruella DeVile of politics, Peta Credlin, found herself at a loose end after steering feral friar Abbott’s government into the blackhole of public opprobrium. Apparently self-immolation sits well on a CV when submitted to News Corp, so long as you’ve acquired the requisite RWFW credentials where Pete scores an A+, offsetting the F she received at a road-side breath test. Pete’s now desperately trying to raise her miserable ratings on Sky News by grandstanding at Dan Andrews’ Covid press conferences where, much to her chagrin, she simply comes across as a tragic, look-at-me shrew.

Melbourne’s village idiot Andrew Bolt has the coherence of a drunk on a bus shaken awake by a pot hole and when Ivan Milat died Bolt’s position on the list of Australia’s worst people went up one place. In a battle of ideas he’s holding the beers.

Murdoch himself was deemed not a fit person to run an international company following the UK’s Leveson enquiry. The stench goes all the way to the top and sets a standard for the bag carriers and apple polishers such as Rita Panahi, Rowan Dean, Chris Kenny and their fellow bloviating detritus who work for the wizened old bastard.

Murdoch apologists suggest that his political influence is over-stated. It’s surely coincidence that three western democracies being pillaged by governments-by-brown-paper-bag are Murdoch’s markets.

King Conkers, the apricot nut in hi-viz makeup of orange spackle topped by mangy, yellowed road kill can retain office only because of the Fox News cheer squad of blonde barbies who’ve discovered that pneumatic boobs and good teeth can get them a better paying gig than blowing quarterbacks under the bleachers ever could.

The UK has a wardrobe malfunction as Prime Minister – who let the boob out? A bloke who sees a challenge in outdoing Trump in the I’m so incompetent I’ll kill thousands of my constituents stakes. Murdoch boosted Boris’s Brexit because, in his own words, 10 Downing St does as he tells them while Brussels tells him to fuck off.

SchMo and Co will ignore Kevin Rudd’s petition for a Royal Commission into Australian media diversity even though it has 368,000+ signatures.

Big Big George and the Reverend Kev both found out that Rupert will throw anybody under the bus. In George’s case it was for titillation, in Rudd’s it was mendacity and self-interest – Abbott could be trusted to obey orders and blow up the NBN to protect FoxTel’s revenues. Morrison will be aware that Murdoch can turn, so pending a heart attack or Jerry speeding up the inheritance by sitting on his face a tad too long, there will be no Royal Commission.

* * * * *

Supplement – Fun with anagrams

Bridget McKenzie – begrimed neck zit

Peter Spud Dutton – doped nut sputter

Scomo Morrison – SOS micro-moron

Michael McCormack – Cecil Cram-Hammock, chemical crack mom, Micmac – clam choker.

Josh Friedenberg – John Beefgirders, John Edger-Fibres, Jib Dogfreshner, Jobs Fingeredher

* * * * *


Col Pot’s war on Rudd: how the tabloids turned under Allan. Crikey.

Col Allan is back to help figure out the post-Trump coverage – Vanity Fair

News Corp editor Col Allan retires – The Guardian

Kick this mob out’: The Murdoch media and the Australian Labor Government (2007 to 2013) – Global Media Journal


This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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After a brief interlude the Tories are reverting to type

Was it a concupiscent affect of the smell of burning koalas that aroused the stumpy leader of the NSW Nationals Porky Barrels, the Neopolitan Bonaparte of MacQuarie Street, to re-gel his coxcomb, puff out his chest and challenge Gladdy Berejiklian to a punch-up in the car park if he wasn’t given licence to accelerate the extinction of our cuddly national icon?

To be fair to Porky he did qualify that he didn’t want to exterminate koalas – just their habitats. Regardless, as per historical precedent, he was encouraged into exile after it was revealed that the only submission Barilaro had received promoting such ecocide was from a clear-felling developer mate and party donor.

Dungowan Estate is Barrels’ personal Elba – a sprawling, bucolic pile in the favoured Southern Highlands retreat of Sydney’s negatively-geared glitterati and Range Rovered, cos-play country squires where he’s no doubt pondering the workings of rorting from home.

The most surprising thing about Barrels’ posturing is not that it exposed his grifting or that he openly endorses the monetisation of species extinction, it is that he got nailed by Gladdy when all he’s been guilty of is adhering to the Tory’s pre-pandemic playbook. In Barrels’ absence his stand-in, the nominative deterministic Paul Toole has refused to explain if the National Party is accepting donations from property developers and then lobbying on their behalf.

Porky, it should be noted, is a protégé of the voice from the bush, our $80 million water boy Barking Barmy Joyce. He’s the master’s apprentice. Barking has been in the dog house (unavoidable pun) ever since his tendency to file his junk in other people’s spam folders became public knowledge but you can’t keep a good sex pest down – his subsequent public appearances have the subtlety of an outboard motor in a grease trap. He may be a corrupted idiot but at least he’s entertaining. Less can be said of his L/NP partners in crime.

Porky and Barking Barmy are the clowns in the L/NP goat rodeo, distracting the punters from the criminality that is the new normal under this tainted regime. Australia Pty Ltd is a wholly-owned subsidiary of the fossil fuel industry and the L/NP is its marketing department, reverting to type now that they’ve worked out their tactics for implementing their disaster capitalism agenda.

Nev Power’s spokesman SchMo McCacky keeps at smarm’s length from any and all accountability, relying on plausible deniability and blame deflection as his primary defences should he ever have to front the beak to explain his behaviour; and he’s betting that a cowed, complicit and conned media will continue to meekly suck his toes.

Bridget Bam Bam McKenzie (the Devine Brown of politics – she can blow a huge grant) and the sports rorts imbroglio have demonstrated to SchMo that he can brazen out the transgressions Trump-style. Let’s call it herd impunity – there are so many Tories with their fingers in the till, the rort-a-thon is so widespread and the lies so prolific that scrutiny is fleeting – some dogs may bark but the caravan of corruption moves on.

SchMo’s shovel-ready smirk, his curries, cubbies and chook pens is Looney Tunes does Goebbel’s performative propaganda from the PMO’s PR machine. They’re waving their contempt for us punters in our faces; distracting us with balloon tricks while rummaging through our silverware.

The arrival of COVID briefly interrupted the Tories’ festival of felonies. Treasurer and $60 billion man Mibrane Hertz wore the expression of a punched quiche when it dawned upon him that he’d been left with a warehouse of Back In Black coffee mugs – now going at 3 for $2 on Gumtree. The tunnel-visioned Tories, after being caught with their pants down, have quickly pivoted via the Hertz smash and grab budget, back to their dirty deeds of shovelling largesse to mates, donors and Tory electorates.

The Tories’ coagulation of corruption, incompetence and malice is their business model, their arrogance and disdain being fronted by a vapid solipsist, a believer in both miracles and a punitive deity on whose behalf he seeks to persecute the undeserving – those who are not in on the game of mates.

Minister for Population, Cities and Urban Infrastructure Norbert Bellende, a man accused by a Federal Court judge of indulging in criminal activities continues to sit uncontrite in Cabinet, the judge’s accusation dismissed as “commentary” by Attorney General and chief law officer Duncan Stool.

Fidel daFigueres, Minister For Monetisation of Emissions, Caymans Islands’ aficionado and water entrepreneur uses his number juggling skills to demonstrate how spewing extra carbon into the atmosphere is really a reduction. The rest of the world will be unamused as they slap penalties on our exports in retaliation and pay for clean energy produced elsewhere. Australia’s promised technology roadmap will be a guidebook of stranded assets.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Deputy PM Forgetful Jones extols the virtues of a $30M purchase of land valued at $3M, leased back to the party donor mate at the lower valuation with a $10M cow under-pass thrown in. The best that the Nationals can come up with as their party leader is a man who can be hypnotised by a chook and who’d struggle to keep the crayons inside the lines of the pictures in his autobiography – Elvis Parsley, Return to Sender.

These are a small sample; soon to be forgotten road signs to the endemic corruption of a crime cartel whose diversity program has cultivated spivs, stand-over merchants, water thieves and neo-con cultists led by a smarmy narcissist who’s failed upwards his entire career, a man who dodges responsibility for the 676 aged care deaths that occurred under his watch, a right to life, anti-euthanasia ayatollah who will nevertheless happily toe-tag your granny to boost the share dividends of Maserati-driving old folks home investors.

“All tip and no iceberg”, “You choke on your Weeties”, “What we have got is a dead carcass, swinging in the breeze…”, “Like being flogged with a warm lettuce.” PJK quotes, aimed at the Tories and now could be applicable to the ALP, an Opposition in name only. How good’s getting a free run?

At least in his Budget reply Albo showed signs that he’s re-discovered his mojo. Keep it up please, Albo – these are dark days getting darker.

* * * * *

Bruz – fruendlyjordies examines John Barilaro’s track record.


This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.


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The Great SchMo – Duck Dodgers in the 21st Century

Imagine fronting up to a hedonistic university toga party in brown corduroy trousers that have been ironed by your mum, carrying a bottle of Cold Duck and a plate of devon roll-ups. The ‘phht, phht, phht’ of retreating chubby thighs rubbing together as the tragic party crasher bolted for the exit daubed with luncheon meat and potato mash would just add to the humiliation. It might leave scars or it might teach a valuable lesson.

Such a whimsical scenario came to mind in January when, on the NSW south coast a smarmy, moobed, slope-shouldered try-hard in photo-op chinos was cold-shouldered by exhausted firies and subjected to jeers and taunts from burned-out Cobargoans. Clearly, as he fled to the safety of his government motorcade the man from marketing twigged that he needed to revisit his ScoMo personal brand. The glib schmooze of a daggy dad is not a suitable routine when the country is on fire.

“If you have a go you’ll get a go” doesn’t quite work as a catch phrase when you’ve been sprung sipping mai tais in Waikiki while the ash from incinerated koalas, forests and homes settles over half of the eastern seaboard. The fineprint under SchMo’s “I’ll burn for you” twaddle was being noticed: “no I fucking won’t”. The brown corduroy trousers of a FIFO PM were showing.

Selling the dubious palatability of a manspreading mansplainer with a condescending delivery and a trademark smirk is a tough gig, testing the limited talents of a failed marketing man with his grab bag of facile slogans.

The job of the spads (1) and spin merchants in the PMO was made even harder when images appeared of Schmo emerging from the Bronte surf looking like bycatch from the nets of a deep-sea trawler. The hoots of derision hit home like hurled devon roll-ups.

Face-palming PMO minders, peeking out between their fingers, would’ve let out a collective “FFS!” Manboobs like Salvador Dali clocks drooping over uncle pervy sluggos do not convey an image of gravitas and authority (2).

Front and centre at grand announcements and monopolising any accolades Schmo will also reliably pull a Hawaiian when the going gets rough. Regardless of any lessons learned Schmo has retained his Where’s Wally instincts to dodge scrutiny and accountability.

  • He slyly hid in plain sight, right next to Malcolm Turnbull, professing loyalty as his henchmen sharpened the shiv, setting the tone for his Prime Ministership. Watching from afar Michael Towke probably experienced a twinge in his ribs.
  • Snowballing rorts scandals? Shut down parliament using the pandemic as scamouflage for the graft, thievery and shifty manouverings that are design features of the Morrison kleptocracy.
  • Accountability for the geronticide at old folks’ homes? Go missing for a week while you plan for having a plan to claim there was a plan. Finger the states (the Victorian virus) and season with a pinch of sophistry – “We’re all in this together”.
  • Special Commission of Inquiry into the Ruby Princess debacle? Bar officlals from attending and deny responsibility.
  • Subjected to the occasional tough question? Reject the premise of the question, pass to a tame “journalist” then Gish gallop to a Harold Holt through the exit doors. Ignore the public broadcaster, as cowed as it may be, while backgrounding your preferred propaganda organs 2BS FM and Murdoch’s Daily Manure.
  • Quietly pay down $80M worth of favours rendered by an alledged fraudster by backing the re-opening of WA’s borders then remove your name when hit by the blowback and pretend it was just a bit of a lark.
  • No plans for the future, no excuses for the past? “I’m focused on today and doing what’s best for all Australians” serves as cover.
  • Hide your connivance with the ecocidal maniacs from the fossil fuel lobby behind a Cabinet-In-Confidence schtik, stack tribunals with cronies and silence the public service.

Tony Abbott, a Captain Action gummy figure rolled in barbershop floor sweepings had a political style that made lighting farts in a fireworks factory seem like a harmless recreational option for pyromaniacs on work release. But Abbott served a purpose as test case for macho neo-con malignancy. It didn’t play well so the pitch has been modified but the product remains the same.

A lackadaisical bushfire response, Angus Taylor’s dodgy practices, sports rorts, the Community Development Grants rort, the Robodebt fiasco, a growing pool of unemployed, and grannie killers driving Lamborginis – the Corona virus could not provide cover indefinitely. The Tories needed to back up their man with suitable decoys and bogeymen.

Skiddy’s number 2, ersatz Treasurer Ruprecht Freidenberg misread the room with his misty-eyed nostalgia for the survival of the wealthiest days of Maggie Thatcher and Ronnie Reagan. Happy days with Freidenberg as Ponzi.

Ruprecht was joined by several spivs and urgers in his endeavours to showboat with feigned outrage at the injustices of the Victorian virus lockdown and distract from the Libs’ omnishambles.

Member for Goldstein Quim Wilson, a stereotypical entitled Tory twat whose self-regard is exceeded only by his self-promotion, is never one to let an opportunity for aggrandisement pass him by as his career prospects have. When you’re the party errand boy then bovver boy is a promotion. A competent, well-regarded Labor leader is anathema to a born-to-rule Tory. Dan Andrews, despite a quarantine stuff-up was popular so Quim was in, boots and all.

Fellow Victorian Tim Smith MP, a big swinging dickhead with delusions of adequacy who has somehow managed to be both bejowelled codger and callow youth at the same time eagerly joined the sniping. Dim Tim has all of the integrity of a custard trifle thrown into a ceiling fan and has used the skills he learned in turning his Tory enclave of Kew into a marginal seat to also attack Andrews thereby increasing Dan’s popularity.

“We’re all in this together” was Schmo code for “I’ll play good cop, you guys go for the jugular.”

Cue the IPA. The Ayn Rand puppy farm of wanna-be corporate leghumpers dutifully rolled out frat boy Giddy Rozner as their spokes-dweeb from their production line of brylcreemed young fogies who, while not promoting the sacrifice of virgins given he looks like he is one, instead favoured the Burking (1) of our grannies to stimulate the value of his franking credits. A useful testing of the waters on behalf of “herd immunity” Morrison or a true believer in profiteering from a quick churn of past-their-use-by-date wrinklies?

Some informal participation from the periphery of handrail lickers, QAnoners, anti-vaxxers and spoonbenders was not to be discouraged either – “it’s a free country”.

The Great SchMo, laughingly labelled by a sycophant as the father of the country in a Trumpian inversion of reality is no hero. He’s a scheming serial avoider of accountability – a Duck Dodgers in a footy scarf.


* * * * *

(1) Spad – special advisor. A British term that we should embrace.

(2) Belittling someone’s appearance is usually cheap and nasty. However, if the target is a shape-shifting Machiavelian conman and bully who hides behind focus-grouped personas then the rule does not apply. The same goes for his cronies.

(3) Bloody Code, the Judgement of Death Act 1823 saw the number of crimes punishable by death in Britain drop dramatically. Good news in theory, but since medical and anatomical schools were only legally allowed to dissect the bodies, or cadavers, of those who had been condemned to death, this led to an extreme shortage of dead bodies available and a business opportunity for the notorious Burke and Hare. The Story of Burke and Hare Historic UK.

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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Sooty unveils RortKeeper

Sooty Morrison’s $8.1 billion RortSeeker program of shovelling public money to enclaves of Lib privilege and marginal electorates bought the Tories a two seat majority in the 2019 election – a net gain of one seat. That’s $8,000,000,000+ for a single seat increase. That’s the self-trumpeted “superior economic management” of the born-to-rule touts in action. They can’t even do grift cost effectively.

But for the Tories it was other people’s money well spent.

Blatant lies, FUD, fraudulent election posters, the excrement from Murdoch’s propaganda apparatus, an appeal to greed and self-interest and an $80M nod & wink distraction campaign from the flabulous accused fraudster Clive Palmer all helped of course. But in the game of mates that is Tory government the success of RortSeeker in the federal election has seen it morph into RortKeeper in office.

Sooty’s disappointment at his failure to win the Eden-Monaro by-election was palpable. After weeks of shoving his candidate aside to mug to the cameras he reverted to his where’s the wally routine and went AWOL. He had marketed himself as the product but the electorate didn’t buy it, even though Eden-Monaro was bribed with twice as much funding as the average seat under SportsRorts. Clearly the rorts program would require re-modelling given that the voters cannot be trusted.

You can’t prise traditional venal practices from a dead Tory’s fingers – what’s different now is that a pandemic and a bushfire-charred environment provide new opportunities for the monetisation of other peoples’ misfortune. The crisis also conveniently provides cover for and distraction from their odious and incompetent behaviour and so RortKeeper was rolled out.

Few sentient beings were surprised when it was revealed that Stu Robert’s latest fuck-up in a series of fuck-ups(1) the COVIDSafe e.placebo cost circa $68M without tracing a single case of infection. Snafu Stu is the type of guy who could wear a sombrero the wrong way round so of course this one man tech-wreck is the Tories’ preferred I.T. geek. If Stuie can’t break it, it’s unbreakable.

The rorts dimension to this incompetence is found, as always, if you follow the money. The CEO of the development company DELV is the spouse of a Liberal Party candidate. Purely coincidentally no doubt, his company hosted government grants enthusiast Angus Fingers Taylor MP at business events(2). Fingers’ talent for accessing tax payers’ funds to subsidise the entrepreneurial endeavours of chums and family is the stuff of legend(3).

Another Hayekian champion of free markets who nevertheless is ever eager to indulge in tax-payer funded largesse to support his own enterprises is the billionaire cockroach king and hacker of dead children’s phones Rupert Murdoch.

Murdoch the undead and Keith Richards are the only two people guaranteed to survive a nuclear war but pending such a possibility Sooty wants to secure his own tithe-enabled availability for the rapture by keeping the old monster on side. A $10M top up to a previous $40M donation to Newscorpse, friendly tax treatment and the dismemberment of the ABC is a small price to pay to faciliate Sooty’s 1st class boarding pass to the last flight to heavenly reward. (Jen and the girls will be down the back.)

The COVIDSafe farce and the protection money to Murdoch are but two examples of the early roll-out of RortKeeper.

How are lurk merchant extraordinaire Fingers Taylor and his old #Watergate mate Barking Barmy Joyce faring in the updated model? These two grifters could sniff out a dollar in the skat of a Werribee duck.

Hot out of the blocks Fingers has appointed one of his former advisers and a prominent critic of renewable and carbon policies to the board of the Australian Renewable Energy Agency. And $4M to Shine Energy for a feasibility study for a coal-fired power station despite them having no energy sector experience and having never completed a project. Good job, well done Angus!

Angus’s stuntman partner in grime, the Evel Knievel of provincial politics Barking Barmy Joyce vacated his front seat on the gravy train after he fell into the gland canyon of one of his staffers. Barmy was compensated with a $600,000 gig to send unread text messages from the front bar of country pubs.

Now that he has been able to settle his VB tab, organ donor Barmy will no doubt be pondering further opportunities to fund his designated drivers and Playboy subscriptions while plotting the demise of his bête noire and boss, the Wagga Wagga chook magnet Mickey Mac McCormack.

While Fingers and Barmy are free-styling our PM and his flustered Treasurer are focusing on retro-fitting their neo-con ideology into their forced framework of capitalist socialism. Morrison’s SkidMarx manifesto is a work-in-progress but a key feature will be RortKeeper as evidenced by the shelving of requirements for the banks to change their criminal behaviours.

We may all be up to our collective armpits in ordure but there is something deeply satisfying in watching Bubble and Squeak at the podium, blustering in red-faced embarrassment at being forced to adopt and sell a Keynesian response to an economic crisis. It worked after WW2, it worked during the GFC but it’s anathema to the Tories’ discredited dogma of punitive austerity and look-after-the-wealthy trickle-down voodoo.

Morrison’s discomfort at having to sell the biggest deficit in our history after decades of snakeoil about surpluses, the Lib’s denigration of government stimulus spending and their failed experiment in time travel (“we’ve brought the budget back to surplus next year”) may finally wipe that repulsive smirk from Sooty’s pie hole. But the smarmy yahoo’s boondoggles, rorts and normalising of blatant corruption will continue so I suspect not. Plus he’s got the rapture to fall back on.


(1) COVIDSafe, RoboDebt, MyGov non-existant DDos attack, $38,000 home internet bill

(2) Coronavirus: Government’s COVIDSafe app could have cost ‘tens of millions’ for zero tracing results – Nine News.

(3) The adventures of Angus Taylor – Michael West Media

Close to the wind: the trials of Liberal Money-Man Stuart Robert – Michael West Media

The Angus Taylor story: from the Liberals’ golden boy to a man on the edge – The Guardian


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Bye bye, Mathias. Is Spud next?

Senator Mathias Pubert Cormann has chucked his car keys into the trifle and announced his pending retirement from politics after 7 continuous years of rogering the country as Grand Fubar of Finance.

Pubert’s track record includes doubling all debt accumulated by all governments since 1854, while:

“Through the past six years of the global recovery Australia has tumbled from near the top of OECD rankings to among the losers on unemployment, underemployment, wages growth, productivity, income per person, median wealth, retail sales, infrastructure development, interest rates and the value of the Aussie dollar.”

Apart from innumeracy Cormann’s other skill is said to be that of Senate looney-whisperer – surrendering any pretence of ethics by horse-trading with broomstick pilot Pauline Hanson and her strap-on Malcolm The Dwarf Tosser Roberts.

Despite, or perhaps because of his appalling record, his shifty deals and his Hayekian world view Pubert is held in high regard by the Tories which says much about the lack of principles and depth of talent in the Liberal Party wading pool. The net result is that Cormann’s departure is a plus for the country and it has animated the pundits with speculation on a reshuffle.

It has been conjectured that Spud Dutton, Pubert’s best bro and his co-conspirator in the shivving of Truffles Turnbull, is to be removed from despot depot at Home Affairs and its beloved ranks of dark-uniformed goons and door-breakers and shunted to Defence.

The prospect of Aldo Fitler being handed the keys to the ADF barracks, munitions stores and troop carriers is a nightmare of Trumpian proportions. Yet those in the know suggest that the Defence portfolio is a departure lounge for pollies on the outer, and Spud is not one of Smirko’s favourite people.

“Scott didn’t trust Dutton at all and regarded him as deficient in all respects – character, intellect and political nous.” Malcolm Turnbull – A Bigger Picture.

The sentiments are apparently returned:

“Of course, if Mathias had a poor opinion of Scott, Dutton’s dislike of him was even stronger.” Also from Malcolm’s book,

Agreeing with any of Spud’s opinions is a bit like enjoying the same picnic spots as Ivan Milat. Spud’s the type who’d buy his kids a 15 year old cat for Christmas so he wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of abandoning it by Easter, his personality attracts cadaver dogs from afar and he picked up his inter-personal skills at an abattoir.

However, Spud’s dislike of Smirko is rational, if lacking in self-awareness. They both revel in the mistreatment of the 2 Biloela kiddies locked away in the Kinderlager on Christmas Island and the demonising of minorities. They’re both authoritarian bullies and cowards who hate scrutiny and accountability. Their mutual loathing is understandable; it’s as if each sees his own reflection in the other and seeks to deny the reality of their own awfulness by projecting it onto the other.

The departure of Cormann and possible sidelining of Dutton in a reshuffle would be welcome news should there be any capable, principled alternatives to take their places – keeping in mind that the Reprehensibles rule in the squalid kakocracy of Tory politics.

Where in the L/NP effluvium are the curious minds, the talented, the ethical or those who see politics as serving the public interests rather than their own? Where are the idealists rather than the ideologues, the creatives vs the creationists, the thinkers not the cultists, dogmatists and evangelicals?

Trust in the government is essential to a healthy democracy, it’s not just an option where spin is a suitable substitute for truth. In a crisis it is indispensable yet Morrison sees it as a PR opportunity. Cormann may be going and Dutton may be headed for the wood-chipper but we are stuck with the opportunistic Morrison and his fellow cultists, disaster capitalists, grifters and incompetents.

Cartoon by Alan Moir (moir.com.au)

Tories and pandemics

Tim Smith, Tory member for the Victorian state seat of Kew, a man of bovine intellect and the presence of a lasagne thrown from a speeding car has been desperately trying to raise his profile, in true Tory style, by politicising the pandemic.

Smith’s great-grandfather founded Ferguson’s Cakes in 1901. The family sold their shares in the business but Timmy seems to have retained some familial fondness for confectionery – this once dedicated rower’s spreading deportment suggests he may have simply served as skiff ballast.

During his tenure as MP Dim Tim has overseen two consecutive 5% swings against the Libs in what was a blue-ribbon Tory enclave.

While Premier Dan Andrews slogs his guts out and Bill Shorten volunteers his labour on the front lines Albo-style this douchebaguette tweets his bile and hypocrisy and Smirko, again using “Jen and the girls” as human shields takes time out to go to the footy. We have a crisis and Smirko continues to screw Australia. Daggy style.

Image from Twitter (via @jodilee_7)

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Will Smirko jump the shark?

Will it be the 100,000th U.S. death from corona virus, their 44 million unemployed, the jackbooted response to the BLM protests following George Floyd’s murder or a plummeting Dow Jones that historians will mark as the tipping point for the orange globule who infests 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?

After a continuous, four year stream of outrages from the sickbag residue of Dr Evil mixed with Sideshow Bob and sprinkled with Papa Doc Duvalier that is Donald J. Trumplethinskin it has become apparent that the depths of his depravity are bottomless, that no immorality is beyond his embrace; none of which has deterred his enablers, sycophants and collaborators.

With an appalling track record of corruption and incompetence is it possible to point to any one circumstance as the beginning of the end for him, his demon spawn and their crime syndicate?

Perhaps it is his reported cowering in trembling, pee-stained fear in the panic room at the White House, that icon of American presidential power and prestige, that is the most appropriate symbolic moment.

But the tipping point could be the immediate aftermath of that humiliation when he had peaceful citizens tear-gassed and clubbed to stage-manage a cowardly photo-op where he looked as natural as a orangutan on a unicycle when with witless silence and vacant expression he held aloft an upside-down bible, the contents of which are as unread by him as they are by the metaphorical orangutan.

Image from usatoday.com

In comparison, how good is Australia? A prime minister does not have the powers of a U.S. president, nor do we suffer such an imbecilic, syphilitic madman at the helm. We had an idiot in charge two Prime Ministers ago after which farcical fuckwittery was removed from the Tory’s list of essential skills for high office.

Our man is not insane. Smirko Morrison’s messaging is not Trump-like, off-the-cuff, incoherent ramblings. His forté is market-tested, focus-grouped propaganda and glib slogans that camouflage rather than amplify the mendacity and grift that is at the core of the us-&-them RWNJ mindset – “unfunded empathy”, “a fair go for those who have a go”, “separation of church and state was set up to protect the church from the state, not the other way around.” Smirko doesn’t do nuance – he does the dog-whistle.

Smirko does not sexually assault women, he doesn’t party with high profile paedophiles, he doesn’t brag about his own wealth, he doesn’t sport a ridiculous, yellow merkin on his head, he doesn’t suggest sticking a lava lamp up your arse as a virus cure. Trump has had multiple wife-changing experiences, Smirko has stuck by his first. Morrison’s not Trump-like. But he is Trump-lite.

Morrison’s standards may be higher than Trump’s but then Trump does set a very, very low bar. Smirko’s eye-fluttering, fan-girl crush on Trump means not just that his staff need to towel-dry his chair after a phone call from the tangerine ballsack but also that his morals are quite flexible, and that in line with his prosperity gospelling principles, wealth is the measure for his mangina-frothing admiration.

Unlike Trump, Smirko attacks the media by stealth not by megaphone – raiding journalists, defunding the ABC and using his tame propaganda outlets 2GB, Sky News (sic) and, primarily, the Murdoch muckers where many millions of our dollars are shovelled to bolster the withered billionaire’s empire of sleaze and disinformation, no questions asked.

As with the Republicans, the L/NP modus operandi is the game of mates and as with the Republicans it has become shamelessly blatant. They duck and weave and smirk and giggle at their cleverness in dodging accountability.

Sports rorts, regional swimming pools, the Regional Growth Fund, Building Better Regions Fund, government advertising on the tax-payers’ dime, Climate Solutions Fund, Urban Congestion Fund, Drought Communities Program, Regional Jobs and Investment Package – an eye watering $8 billion in nods and winks to Tory and marginal electorates in an asymmetric war against those electorates that do not meet the qualification criteria of contributing to the Tories’ hold on power.

(See Michael Pascoe goes back over the maths on government grant rorts – The New Daily).

But it doesn’t stop there – the Tories are nothing if not shockingly avaricious. Shadenfraud is the arousal a Tory politician experiences from gaming the system. Barking Barmy Joyce’s legover-of-the-moment must’ve been apprehensive after Barmy’s $80 million buy-back of dehydrated water from Angus “Fingers” Taylor’s old outfit Eastern Australia Agriculture! What became known dryly (!) as Watergate is but one dodge in Fingers’ portfolio of #gates whereby a coincidentally high number of Taylor familial enterprises benefited from unknowing taxpayers’ contributions – “Speaking of rorts,” Kaye Lee, The AIMN.

Hand-in-hand with the Tories’ graft comes a paranoid fear of scrutiny. The prospect of a federal integrity commission puckers the sphincters of the pillaging Tory hordes. And so supplementing the standard dissembling and obfuscation comes the stacking of boards with cronies, the disenfranchising of the public service, the politicising of the AFP and the quashing of dissent.

When Trump’s time comes he will not go quietly. The notion of him getting four more years seems more outlandish with each outrage. Surely the underlying strengths of American democracy will see this abhorrent aberration dragged by the ankles, drooling and gibbering, from under his bed.

In contrast, Smirko’s demise will be more pedestrian. There is not likely to be a jump-the-shark moment for him as there was with the Mad Monk’s plan to knight Prince Philip. Morrison is simply reverting to type – a mean and tricky, belligerent marketer of ragged neo-liberal ideology. His recent brief reprieve will come to an end, the shine will fade from this buffed beige jobbie and he’ll be told by a disillusioned electorate to “get off my lawn.” I can’t wait.

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Slippery Scotty and the Corona agenda

Scott Morrison is not my favourite person. I’m not alone:

“Mathias (Cormann) regarded Scott (Morrison) as emotional, narcissistic and untrustworthy” – Malcolm Turnbull.

“An absolute arsehole” – former Justice Minister Michael Keenan describes Morrison.

* * * * *

One year after Scott Morrison’s purchase of the election with hundreds of millions of dollars of quietly-found money Australia’s COVID-19 death toll hit 100 when great-grandmother Fay Rendoth succumbed to the virus at the Newmarch Home For Sitting Ducks. Did any Tories celebrating the anniversary of Smuggo’s election artifice give Fay a second thought over their celebratory flutes of Pol Roger Brut and mascarpone sprout canapes with black truffles, smoked sesame seeds and wine salt? How many dead grannies and nurses does it take to dampen the self-congratulatory party mood of born-to-rule Tories? I suspect it is many, many multiples of 100.

Over in the RWNJ’s Randesque nirvana of neo-liberalism, the USA, the death toll is quickly heading to 100,000.

On a per capita basis that is:

Aus: 1 person in 260,000 has died.

USA: 1 person in 3,280 has died.

At this point in time an American resident has 80x the chance of dying from the virus as does a resident of Australia. Eighty times!

While Australia’s infection rate has trended downwards the rate of infection in the US continues to climb so that inevitably the contrast will become even starker.

There are, of course, many variables that account for the stunning contrast – not least being the bloated, syphilitic, dysfunctional, gibbering rapist and crime boss that is the US’s Individual 1 (Septic Tank 1, if you prefer).

Despite superficialities and our embrace of much of their culture we’re not like Americans, and so we’re not in thrall to a discoloured, deranged degenerate – a soulless sinkhole of avarice, a mangy, yellow cur, a cartoonish effluvium of every flaw and vice whose positives are limited to his syphilis test results, a globular travesty so ridiculous as to be unimaginable as a fictional life form.

In Oz we’re lucky that our government is merely corrupt, incompetent and ideologically bankrupt. Our own imbecilic madman Friar Abbott and his personal monkey trainer Cruella DeVil had their Trumpish attempts to fuck over the country rudely interrupted by the realisation that no, we are not as susceptible to blatant fuckwittery as are the Yanks. And so by happenstance we now find ourselves with a smug, Machiavelian liar and charlatan at the helm, someone who cannot default to an insanity plea should karma prevail and he finds himself fronting a corruption enquiry.

Smuggo’s standing on the shoulders of far more capable state leaders as he struggles with concepts that are typically anathema to himself, his party and their paymasters – the helping hand, social cohesion and looking after everybody is what has saved us from the worst affects of the contagion and the worst excesses of the herd-thinners. Could it be that while Flim Flam Man seeks to hide his true self from scrutiny he is capable of self-reflection and understands his own significant limitations and unpalatability after his contemptible behaviour during the fires? It seems that the public is prepared, so far, to give him a pass on that basis.

In the face of a crisis that cannot be dismissed with spin, a slogan or a smirk and that cannot be lamely blamed on Labor has Smuggo changed? Has the L/NP? The new and improved ScoMo, wartime leader? FFS! And lonely Jen, sans her self-pity coach, locked away in iso at The Lodge where the butlers and the maids can’t hand deliver the hot towels. Behind the media puffpieces they’re all still there – complaining about the bald kids in wheelchairs getting priority in the queue at SeaWorld, the seal clubbers, the granny killers, the grifters and the shonks.

The cult of the profit t/a the Coalition have been as busy as Barking Barmy Joyce’s designated driver – there’s a national crisis to monetise. The Tories are not returning to type. They never changed, as evidenced herewith.

* * * * *

The worthy unemployed and the unworthy unemployed – JobKeeper and JobFinder. Only the twisted brain of a Tory could conceive such punitive poppycock.

* * * * *

Snapback – the return to a trajectory that flew us into this building in the first place. “There’s not enough money – people will have to starve” so that the money can still be shovelled to the mates, the family interests and themselves. Why shouldn’t nurses cop a pay cut to cover the cost of the L/NP cronies’ lobster lunches?

* * * * *

CO2 is good for you. Senator Concertina Ferrari-Wheels is the homophobic Duttonista from Wollongong who uses her tits as a travel pillow and who was barred from her pilates class when the other members kept checking the velcro on their gym shoes every time she did a squat. But you can’t keep a good nutter down – Connie has been speculating on how more verdant her coriander, bok choi and lemon basil would be if we pumped even more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Perhaps she was chosen to be the champion of CO2 by her fellow vegetation.

* * * * *

It’s always a crowded field when it comes to nominating Tory whack-job of the month and always in contention are fellow yokels Barking Barmy Joyce and Gorgeous George Christensen, both opining on the appropriate ways to keep China in line. No doubt Gorgeous thinks that his familiarity with the seedy dives of dodgy Filipino neighbourhoods equips him with the diplomatic skills necessary to bloody the noses of the Chinese Communist Party but his belief that Lapland and Poland are S.E. Asian nudie bars probably disqualifies him from further consideration as our next Minister for Foreign Affairs.

* * * * *

The ability to fuck up everything you touch seems to be one of those Essential Skills on many a Tory MP’s job description. So, step forward Stuart Robert, Minister assisting the Pime Minister for fusterclucks. Robodebt fiasco – check. MyGov DDoS attack that wasn’t – check. Autistic kids waiting hundreds of days to access NDIS – check. Outrageous home internet bill – check. Shares in a trust linked to the mining company of a Liberal donor – check. Gold Rolex – check. Sacked from the ministry for dodgy Chinese trip – check.

Brother Smuggo: “Brother Stuart, praise the Lord – how’s the rollout of the BigBrother app going? Spud wants to know when he can get to insert a backdoor so he can track those lefty journalists and the 14 y.o. terrorists from Extinction Rebellion.”

Stuie: “FUBAR!” (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition).

What Stuie needs is a different app – let’s call it e.coli. To tell him how shit he is.

* * * * *

These are but random examples of recent Tory dysfunction and nastiness that come readily to mind. We could fill a book if we tracked every example – including such disasters as Greg Yorrick Hunt ordering huge batches of hydroxychloroquine as a COVID-19 treatment following Deranged Donny’s grasping at poisonous straws and the millions of wasted dollars paid to Lib pal Twiggy Forrest for useless PPE.

It’s the standard, expensive Tory farces from the “better managers.”

Cartoon by Alan Moir (moir.com.au)

Much of this will be forgotten, as Smuggo believes it will. The lumpy carpet in the PMO covers Fingers Taylor and his #grassgate, #watergate and the doctored documents scandal, Bam Bam McKenzie and the sports rorts scandal and the PMO’s piracy of Malcolm Turnbull’s book etc etc etc.

We’ve been lucky with the coronavirus so far and we’ve seen some sterling leadership from the state premiers. Smuggo is back to his smirking self, fronting the media with his freshly crafted persona of man-in-charge while stealing the limelight but pirouetting and exiting stage left when subjected to uncomfortable questions.

We are confronting a climate catastrophe of far greater consequences than COVID-19 yet we have a collection of disaster capitalists who seem determined to accelerate it. Smuggo hasn’t changed, the Tories haven’t changed and the RWFWs of the IPA monkey typing pool, the Murdoch propaganda machine, the MCA and the BCA haven’t changed. They are using the cover of COVID-19 to sneak through climate wrecking legislation, worker exploitation, evasion of scrutiny and accountability and erosions of our freedoms.

The main thing that is changing is the climate – polluted and vandalised and monetised by the Tories who are not a part of the cure. They are the disease.

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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Watchin’ Scotty Grow

The Lord – with miracles to perform – works in mysterious ways. So I’m told. I’ve never researched the source material and in the interests of full disclosure, I don’t give a fuck. But I do wonder how Brother Scotty Morrison rationalises his Sky Guy’s purpose in the creation and deployment of this latest virus .

A bigger question of course is the divine purpose for all previous pandemics. The Black Death, for instance, where the omnipotent creator of the universe and all the viruses contained therein decided that several million of his most precious creations should perish in a pestilential apocalypse. If the intent was to free the victims from their dreary, earthly lives with an early pass to the celestial first class lounge then OK, but what’s with the festering boils, pustules and rotting gums? Surely that’s unnecessary and a bit off-putting to the others who were already browsing the heavenly buffet – the stench of suppurating bowels would overpower the piquancy of the mustard and aioli dressing on the lamb rack in the Jospeh & Mary Carvery.

Why the gratuitous cruelty? Very puzzling. If there is a Big Guy then he shares some uncomfortable traits with domestic abusers – “look what you made me do!”

BroSco and the brethren from the Church of the Holy Profit & Yacht Club seem cool with this – even joining in with a slipper to the nuts of any down and outer whose fraught circumstances are simply a result of their own lack of righteousness. Scotty and the chosen ones do, however, have the sense to manage the risk of hanging out with their ethereal CEO with anger management issues – by paying protection money.

This tithing business (and i do mean business) may be paying off for BroSco. Ten per cent of the PM’s salary is more than 50 large p.a. (pre-tax). Scooter, up to his arse in rorting alligators, may believe that such contributions entitle him to an early, pre-Rapture return on his investment, i.e. ASAP.

Cartoon by Alan Moir (moir.com.au)

And lo, another miracle.

Mr 38%, the creepy uncle forcing handshakes on the unwilling, has shot up to Mr 68% according to Newspoll. It seems the country is relieved that SchMo didn’t entirely fuck up this time. I suspect expectations were low and people dreaded the prospect of a smarmy twat mugging to the cameras while pointing at maps, so by not being SchMo, SchMo’s ratings went up.

Does he perhaps see the mysterious workings of his deity in all of this? A god-given opportunity to redeem his image from that of an opportunistic grub, a man devoid of integrity whose talents have proven to be elusive beyond political assassination and pissing his trousers, now supposedly morphed into a bloke you might consider buying a Mr Whippy from (but still check the change).

Morrison may not suffer from the malignant narcissism of his covfefe confrere from Mar a Lago but he’s the same solopsist he always was, a believer in divine intervention that won an election for him. He’s said as much. If his god was prepared to engineer his return to office despite his misappropriation of $100M in sports rorts, his rent-an-MP business model and the racketeering infesting his party is he going to be inclined to change? Is he really handing out ice creams?

Image from fablesfairytalesandsocialjustice.weebly.com/

What we have is a scorpion and frog scenario (hint: we’re the frog). Morrison cannot resist his inclinations – with him on our backs we won’t reach the other side. He’ll try to sneak through his neo-liberal agenda under the cover of Covid, and yet again, an opportunity will be lost to zombi Tory ideology.

In his panic as the virus took a hold because of his initial apathy ScoBro floated the notion of herd immunity. But figuratively throwing grannie down the laundry chute as the Tory economy-first knee jerk response was not embraced beyond the typing monkeys of the IPA and Murdoch’s rabid eugenicists so a longer game is called for.

He’s already teed off with pending legislation to further erode workers’ rights, flagging the slashing of “red tape” to let loose the environmental vandals and tax breaks to non-tax paying corporations – all so predictable and all so self-defeating; a return to a “normal” that collapsed when faced with a stress test. When the next virus hits, perhaps just as virulent but more deadly, when the climate fights back even harder we will all be truly fucked. Despite Orange Donny’s advice, sticking a bug-zapper up your arse and sucking on your washing machine’s drain hose will be of no use, nor will Scotty’s god be getting us to the other side.

* * * * *

Tories stand by their convictions. Stupid, ignorant, world-destroying convictions based on disproven economic fantasies and ancient books full of primitive morality and magic people. But convictions, nonetheless. (Paraphrasing Bill Maher).

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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The Zoom Interviews

With Parliament suspended and many MPs in isolation (no, not the protection wing at Long Bay. Yet) there’s not been any coverage of how most of our government’s representatives are faring with no access to boozers, nudie bars, investment properties or other people’s water. What are they doing to justify their hefty, safe salaries; how do they while away the hours, what expenses are they rorting?

To find out our seasoned reporter Gnarley Gubbins, inspired by BroSco’s virtual PowerPoint prayer presentation set up a multi-party Zoom interview with those who were cleared as plausibly deniable by the L/NP’s corporate lawyer Lakov Morales from Trouser & Leggitt.

Following is the transcript. The muffled cries of grannies being suffocated with pillows have been edited out following legal threats.

* * * * * * *

The participants in this first of The Zoom Interviews were:

Jowels Flubbiter, taking up most of the backbench and aspiring Minsiter For Foreign Affairs.

Aldo Fittler. Goonsquad Spudführer. Dog whistling champion, kitten tormentor.

Otto Binleiner. Once thought to have died in a Berlin bunker but later found to be hiding in Hobart, cataloguing his collection of Tony Abbott bicycle seats.

Roger Thystaff. From Best Retail Politician to the remainders bin at the Tamworth second hand bookshop. Frontman for the Weatherboard Nine jug band.

Mibrain Hertz. Federal work experience Treasurer whose readily recognisable facial features resemble those of a bank robber who’s stocking is too tight.

Bobbity McFucknuckle. Promoted to Tory deputy from his previous role as a nodding dog on the dashboard of the National Party ute.

Edna Bucket. Helmet-haired air raid siren, AFP pin-up and Minister For Workplace De-skilling and Employee Exploitation.

* * * * * * *

Gnarley: Welcome all, and before we start, can I ask Jowels Flubbiter to cover his ankle bracelet with tin foil, the signal is generating interference. Yep, Jowels, use your hat, thanks.

We may as well start with you, Jowels. You’re well known for your largesse throughout the, um, let’s call them the “eclectic entertainment precincts” of S.E. Asia. Do you think your absence has affected their economies in what is the worst of circumstances?

Jowels: No doubt about it Gnarley. As you know I’ve spent a lot of time and money supporting the arts sector over there. It’s why they call me The Incredible Bulk. Given I can’t donate in person at the moment I’ve been throwing ping-pong balls at a schooner glass, with a GoFundMe page asking for a dollar for every time I score a ringer. $2 if it doesn’t touch the sides. I’ll be sending the money as soon as I can confirm its tax deductability.

Gnarley: Thanks, Jowels, that’s very big of you. Next, the Minister for Fear, Loathing and Scapegoating – Aldo Fittler. Aldo, you’ve been unusually quiet lately. Why is that?

Aldo: How did you find me?

Gnarley: You picked up your phone when I rang.

Aldo: Doh! I thought it might be that idiot Scotty wanting some more Hillsongers’ au pairs let off that bloody ship.

Otto Binleiner: Hi, Otto here. May I jump in?

Aldo: Otto! Shitty reception, mate; have you got the NBN down there in Tassie?

Otto: (Indignantly) I’m in your bunker. You said we’d see this out together.

Aldo: Take a pill, Otto. I’m in Brazil, an old farm house became available through connections. Pretty good internet they’ve got over here I must say. My guys at the airport let me through on the last flight out.

Roger Thystaff: Give it a rest, you blokes, we’re doing it tough up here in New England. The billy-lids are taking all my bog roll so I’ve had to resort to sliding down the banisters.

Gnarley: Errr … welcome, Roger. I think. Tell us, how have you been filling in your time?

Roger: Most mornings are the same. I get up at the crack of dawn and put my tooth in. But otherwise I’m running down my stockpile of VB and streaming PornHub. I miss my nights out in Fyshwick and the stress relief of a bit of rumpy-pumpy. So every night I jog a couple of laps around Che Barmy in wet flip-flops to keep the memories fresh.

Gnarley: Our Treasurer has been quite busy lately, so let’s cut to him. Mibrain Hertz, it’s been quite a leap for you with your adoption of Labor-like fiscal stimulus.

Mibrain: Not at all Gnarley. This has been the biggest challenge we’ve faced since Dunkirk. Shovelling money to our corporate pals under these new circumstances just needed some clever, new thinking. In lieu of wage theft employers are coming up with innovative ways to rort JobSeeker©, and corporations have used bail-out money to pay off staff leave on their balance sheets without having to touch their Cayman’s stashes and then still lay off their staff to be supported by Centrelink. Win-win!

Gnarley: Bobbity McFucknuckle, as Nationals leader (Roger snorts) you’re well practised in privatising profits and socialising losses. In a few words, what are your thoughts, if any?

Bobbity: (Nodding blankly) Yairs, Gnarley. A few billion thrown at those Middle Eastern owners of 72 Virgins Airlines will be money well-spent. We need to be able to fly in those Vanuatuan fruit pickers when this is all over and with none of that commie crap about taking equity thank you very much. You know Dickie Branson, the fella who looks like a disinterred Bee Gee? Well, Dickie was telling me that he thinks Wagga Wagga is an ideal location for a big, new Virgin Lounge.

I can see what you’re thinking, Roger and that’s not what he meant.

Gnarley: OoohKay then. On a related theme, the Minister For Employee Exploitation, Edna Bucket. Edna, you’d be thrilled at the huge new numbers of unemployed?

Edna: It’s wonderful, Gnarly. A big pool of desperate unemployed will provide the cheap labour needed to get our economy back on track.

Gnarley: What’s been your participation in the stimulus package?

Edna: Stimulus? (titter, giggle) Well, I slipped 350 large to that big hunk of spunk Scotty Scam to distract from our run down of trades education in favour of our mates in the … erm … ahhh … private training schemes (cough).

Gnarley: That got knocked in the head by the virus. What’s Scotty Scam doing now?

Edna: (Blushes) Well, I told Scotty that with time now on his hands, if he can sneak out he can come round to my place and check out my curtains.

Gnarley: Ahem, moving right along – Brunhilde Schotte-Gunn couldn’t join today’s session as she’s isolated in the dog house. Any thoughts on sports rorts?

Bobbity: As we move forward we’re looking forward, not at the behind.

SchMo’s been doing a great job. He’s assigned the Minister For Dead Native Grasslands, Forgetful Jones, to work with NSW Reichskommissar, Godfrey Strongarm to, as he calls it, “reconfigure the electronic records”. We want the L/NP legacy to be the virus and the fast tracking of disaster entrepeneurship rather than our generosity toward struggling polo stadiums. SchMo calls it New Horizon. That’s our marketing man, eh?

Gnarley: That seems like an appropriate note on which to end this session of The Zoom Interviews. Thank you all for your attendance.

Oh, and Roger – next time you might think about not facing your TV screen towards the camera.


This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.


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Malignant viruses go unchecked

As the world hunkers down in isolation many folk are filling their time by reading pandemic-themed literature from Defoe, Camus, Stephen King and others. However my mind has turned to classic villains, both real and imagined, comical and sinister by the behaviours of the RWFW crowd as their soulless, Randesque ideology is trashed, exposing them for what they are – footpads and cutpurses, nutclusters, pedo-protectors and herd-thinners.

What is apparent is that the real life lowlifes are just as appalling and obnoxious as any that can be created from the most fertile imagination. What follows is what I believe to be the best examples of the worst of humanity.

Agent Orange: Putin’s mandarin candidate

Heath Ledger’s take on the Joker in The Dark Knight, “a psychopathic, mass murdering, schizophrenic clown with zero empathy” is no more bizarre than the bloated, clap-addled, tangerine narcissist contaminating 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Donny Dumpster is globulated flotsam from a junk-food outlet’s greasetrap. This ludicrous poltroon is so lacking in self-awareness that he wears a merkin on his head, fashioned from strippers’ pubes that he found on the soap in a porn-shop’s washroom. His trademark pout is a tic he developed from years of inflating his pneumatic third wife and his puerile, two syllable vocabulary comes from a book used to teach sign language to gibbons. His aesthetics could best be described as Saddam Hussein-A-Lago and his incoherent rambling diatribes are as lucid as Muammar Gaddafi being dragged from a drain.

In fiction, he would be the product of a twisted mind – Hieronymus Bosch on an acid bender. The ginger raccoon is every single human flaw stewed into a gibbering, fetid dung pile, unseasoned by a single grain of decency or empathy. This cartoonish anti-hero puts a whole new spin on “American exceptionalism” as he drags his country to dystopian, failed state status.

Our local villains should be grateful to the mangoed bin jizzle as his behaviour distracts from their own malignancy. We have recently seen paedophile protectors, creeping religionists, disaster capitalists and the eugenicists sowing their odious notions of dispensable lives.


If Beelzebub was a reality then I imagine his best disguise as he moves amongst us would be a cassock and crucifix, swathed in incense and mystique with free access to a vast pool of the willingly duped who are transfixed by rituals and magic designed to discourage curiosity and suppress enquiry, where his devious works could be practised free from scrutiny or sanction.

The Catholic Church has provided perfect cover. A cornucopia for paedophiles, a predator’s buffet, its gilded, kiddy carousel is a sushi train for child molesters. Any priest who’s recaptured his lost youth is a man who has changed the locks on his cellar door.

In the absence of any extra-dimensional, demonic underworld ruled by a Bela Lugosi look-alike in a red, lycra body suit, the arrogant, elitist George Pell and his cloven-hoofed protectors, acolytes and cheer-squad have filled the void.

Pell’s release on a technicality was received with alacrity from the Pope to party-swapper and paedophile sibling Warren Mundine, a retromingent Andrew Bolt, Tory propagandist-in-chief and pedo aplogist Paul Kelly, the coprolytic Gerard Henderson, the ACL’s curtain twitching vile Lyle Shelton and the oxymoronic Miranda Devine with barely a word for the brutalised victims. Pell’s own statement upon his release included appalling hubris and sophistry – “I hold no ill will toward my accuser.”

BroSco’s creeping theocracy and authoritarianism

Anyone believing Brother FauxMo’s disingenuous claim that his membership of the Cult Of The Blessed Golden Beemer would not influence the exercise of his responsibilities as PM has over-dosed on gullible pills.

Footage of an eye-rolling, swaying and praying PM, arms raised, celebrating a selective deity and the righteousness of riches does not say to those more oriented to evidence and science, the poor or those whose faith lies elsewhere that “I’ve got your back.”

During the most dangerous period of the virus outbreak ScoBro found the time to indulge his superstitions by participating in a Zoom prayer session, one that included that sour-faced homophobe Margaret Court, resembling not so much a love-thy-neighbour Christian as more ET after a fiery re-entry to his home planet. Margaret is smug in her belief that the blood of Jesus will keep her safe from the coronavirus – the logistics of which remain unexplained.

Morrison offered a prayer that began “heavenly father, we just commit our nation to you in this terrible time of great need and suffering of so many people.” It’s the same appalling presumption as Mormons baptising the dead.

Morrison explains his faith gives him “enormous encouragement” in how to respond to the Corona virus crisis.

These are not the words of a bloke who separates his secular responsibilities from his miracle-driven voodoo.

Separation of church and state? I don’t think so.

BroSco’s fellow creationist ooga-boogas include his wingman Alex Hawke, Stuart Robert the gold medallist in the world incompetence Olympics, water cannons aficionado and legend in his own mind Tim Wilson, handsoff Andrew Hastie, Ian Not Quite Goodenough, Amanda Stoker and the Victorian Liberal Mormon putsch amongst many.

These people are dangerous believers that faith trumps science, that what they believe takes precedence over facts, that the earth has been gifted to them to exploit. They are bigots and elitists who want to dictate to you and me what we should think and how we should behave – in other words they favour a theocracy. They are the modern Ash’arites, jihadis who are infiltrating our government in front of our eyes.

The eugenicists

Your typical Tory would sell their granny for a fiver at a car-boot sale, but they generally don’t publicise such inclinations. The prospect of shrinking share dividends and franking credits has flushed their throw-nana-under-the-virus-bus proclivities into the open. From their hiding places in the monkeys’ typing pool that is the IPA, the Murdoch fishwrappers’ lavatorial suites and mansions and boardrooms of the tax-dodging lurk merchants they are showing the true colours.

Notable effluviums have come from IPA head prefect Gideon Rozner, a callow youth of no achievement whatsoever whose mum irons his jeans, and the likes of Gerry Harvey, Alexander Miss Prissy-Downer and that rubble without a cause Mark Latham.

These creeps have all hinted at their willingness to smother your gran with a pillow, shred her bucket list and scatter her ashes on the alter of Mammon. First they came for the grannies. Then it’ll be the handicapped, then the homeless and the unemployed. If you’ve ever wondered about the type of person who, in a previous life, could voluntarily shove others into a gas chamber then here they are. True evil.

Comedy relief

In fairness, and for balance, it should be acknowledged that the RWNJ freak show of contortionists, illusionists, card sharps, fire breathers and bearded ladies also throws in some light entertainment to distract the punters and we have the usual troupe of clowns and gormless sidekicks to lighten the mood.

Barking Barmy Joyce’s routine, the scarecrow from The Wizard Of Oz imitating a loaded Boris Yeltsin, is popular with both kids and adults. His latest one-liner about snakes being a greater threat than the Corona virus brought the house down.

The ginger-minged Natasha Fatale that is Pauline Hanson took to a paddock to protest the imposition of self-isolation – a gesture as punchline in her stand-up farce. Pauline’s diminutive straight man and carry-on luggage, Malcolm Roberts, is of such insignificance that Jeffrey Darma would use him as sandwich spread, so his recent absence has gone unnoticed.

The queen of confected outrage Alan Gloria Jones interrupted his schedule of public facilities inspections by taking his new toy-boy “butler” in hand (snicker, snerk) to withdraw to his Southern Highlands retreat from whence to broadcast his comedy classics in splendid isolation – ranting and raving about the imposition of the same protections onto the expendable struggle-streeters who make up his fan base. Gloria’s dark, droll humour is usually wasted on the octogenarian, virus-fodder that comprises his audience.

* * * * *

In the aftermath of the pandemic it will be fascinating to watch how brazen the nastiness becomes. The scale of the malfeasance will be measurable by the risks to wealth and privilege and it will get worse before it gets better.


Former Head of Aboriginal Catholic Ministry convicted of child sex crimes. NITV.

Scott Morrison prays for Australia and commits nation to God amid coronavirus crisis. The Guardian.

‘We’re protected’: Margaret Court slammed over ‘dangerous’ coronavirus claims. Yahoo Sports.


This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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Dud’s Army

The make-over of FauxMo, a disaster recovery project, has been overtaken by circumstance. After his facile daggy dad routine was found to be not fit for purpose in the face of a crisis a revised personal brand was no doubt being worked on by the empathy consultants and image managers.

But a comprehensive and coherent national response to a virulent pandemic leaves no time for a re-branding. Or does it?

Wait, there it is … the practised choke in the voice, the wiping away of a tear. Unfunded empathy, albeit feigned, has been plucked from the disposable principles bin to serve the greater good – the resurrection of Scotty PM, V5.0.

Unfair? Too cynical? If it was anybody but Morrison perhaps so, but we have here the master cynic and spinmeister, the leader of a cynical party that divides through invented fears to rule as they see fit. Now that we are confronted by a valid fear, one not of their own fabrication, FauxMo and the Tories were caught flat-footed. Weeks of denial, prevarication and incompetence left the country exposed.

Panicked into action, FauxMo and Co. have seen their beloved lifters-and-leaners feudalistic #Mefirst ideology founder, as useful as a concrete lifejacket. I won’t lie – the schadenfreude of watching the rampaging, free-marketeers scramble for the sanctuary of the socialist life boat has brightened the gloom a tad and there’s some small promise of a better society and a greener planet once the pandemic has passed.

But through it all Brother Scotty has maintained his Mammonite’s faith in his elitist god, the dispenser of wealth and privilege to the deserving. He’s spent time on his knees and on Zoom to check in with the Big Guy; he’s not surrendered his core beliefs. Is the Corona virus his god’s test for him and his like to rebuild new and improved means to serve the interests of the righteous rich?

Should this be so he’ll need a marketing strategy and Flim-Flam Man will need a new persona to pull it off. Chubby, pie-stained, smirking dickhead won’t cut the mustard.

There’s BroSco’s role model, Deranged Donny, who in his lucid moments is merely moronic. Mr Tangerine Man could blame syphilitic dementia or hairspray poisoning for his current psychopathy but his criminality and greed are life-long characteristics. Rumpled Thin Skin, a 150kg freezerpack of congealed hamburger grease with a spray-painted complexion applied from the exhaust fan of a Cheetos factory is a joyless, friendless, habitual liar and monosyllabic goon who, with his demon spawn, has never seen a grift he shouldn’t graft, a charity he shouldn’t steal from nor a child labour force he shouldn’t exploit.

Trump’s cloistered privilege manifests itself in a weakness for ostentatious, gold-plated, dictator kitsch as narcissistic displays of wealth and power, his fawning obsequiousness to despots is paired with a disdain for the disenfranchised and powerless yet there is a real prospect that, heart attack or criminal charges aside, he’ll get a second term. Fat Donny and his crime spree is looked upon admiringly by many of our RWNJs – they see a test case for their own proclivities. FauxMo sees a populist hero. Despite Morrison’s fawning even he will see the lack of appeal of a Trump-lite in the face of a crisis.

Boris Johnson, the rumpled defective currently squatting at 10 Downing Street, may get into knife fights for the cheap haircuts but he does have the toff background and scholarly knowledge to lend a jot of credibility to the Churchillian delusions he’d adopted with his treatment of Brexit as his Battle Of Britain, but it’s a bridge too far from The Shire to the war rooms of Whitehall for our second rate ad man. Gravitas to BroSco is what he puts on his chips at Maccas so the British Bulldog theme is not credible.

So, another bespoke personal brand is called for.

Serious, take charge leader seems like the appropriate option for FauxMo to recover from the poor look of his cowardly Hawaiian decamping holiday, his partying at Kirribilli to a backdrop of bushfire smoke and his embarrassingly risible photo ops amidst the charred remains of people’s lives.

Despite the new found, if belated, solemnity with the virus’s arrival, the real Morrison is still there. The facile slogans (“Australians being Australian”, “the Anzac spirit”), the hokey homilies, the condescending tone, the avoidance of scrutiny, the religiosity. The smirk still breaks through to remind us of the arrogance of this prick who’s more Captain Mainwaring than Winston Churchill.

FauxMo hasn’t changed, his elitist right-wing ideology has not changed and neither has that of the crime cartel working undercover as Tory MPs. Morrison’s capture by the mining lobby is complete with his call to Nev Power, ex-CEO of Fortescue Metals Group to head a Corona virus task force (“I said Nev, I said love, I said pet”). Nev has no knowledge of epidemiology; his expertise is digging huge holes in the ground and sacking people.

The institutions that underpin a fair and functioning democracy are still on their shit list – unions, the ABC, the CSIRO, Medicare and Centrelink have all demonstrated their value during the pandemic. The Tory attacks upon them will be resumed over time if we allow it – FauxMo has said he wants things to return things to “normal”. The Lib’s agenda has been put on hold, it will be resumed camouflaged as recovering from the crisis.

Climate change, a greater threat than the virus, will be sacrificed in the name of “economic recovery”. Mining will be accelerated, safeguards dispensed with, the environment will be exploited as never before. Democratic oversight will not be fully restored. Rules limiting the number of people allowed to gather will be used to silence dissent. The sports rorts crimes will be brushed aside as unimportant. Accountability for the Ruby Princess debacle will be dodged. The incompetence of Stewart Robert and the dodginess of Angus Taylor will be swept under the carpet. Franking credits and tax cuts have already been ruled as sacrosanct. The spivs and grifters are working on their disaster capitalism business plans as we speak.

The positive steps that have been taken have a lifespan of 6 months, yet the negative aspects have no sunset clauses. Drought, fires, the virus and next up … a plague of profiteering locusts.

I hope I’m wrong. I fear I’m not.

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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Name that Tory: A Quiz

The L/NP regime is hardly a model of diversity. It’s a conglomeration of toffs from private schools where sex education was limited to rumours about the sports master, entitled spawn of the squatocracy, sticky-fingered mining lobbyists, scorched earth cow cockies, suburban accountants and lack-of-life-experience political careerists. They have much in common – a flat earth religiosity and a disdain for facts, an authoritarian born-to-rule mentality, greed and mendacity. But they, and their fellow travellers on the loony fringe parties try to craft an image – their “personal brand”.

Some buff the ca-ca, others need to camouflage their unpalatable true selves ala FauxMo’s farcical daggy dad routine. All fool themselves more than they fool us.

Tory 1

Self image: astute retail politician, heroic champion of the Weatherboard Nine, speaker of truths, man of the land, author, sage.

Reality: A puce-hued, handsy lecher, gormless gofer for mining oligarchs, waterboy for big ag boondogglers and a rumpled bumpkin who parts his hair with a fence paling. If his charred remains ever need recovery from plane wreckage he will be identifiable from his tooth. He marks his territory with a lingering waft of Eau de Ugg Boot and gets his best ideas from a magazine he found in a hedge.

Familiar call: “carp, caaarp, caaaarp!” and “Another schooner please sweetcheeks.”

Tory 2

Self image: Champion of downtrodden coal mining magnates, chocolate eclair connoisseur.

Reality: He emerged like Tim Robbins escaping from Shawshank, and climbed from obscurity to the dizzy heights of irrelevance.

When he was a child his mother put blackout curtains on his humidicrib, as an adolescent his bed was put out on the nature strip in the hope he’d be taken away in a council clean up. Being an inadequate furniture salesman encouraged him to try his hand at being an inadequate politician, the only life goal he’s ever achieved.

Tory 3

Self image: Urbane entrepreneur and future PM.

Reality: Grifter with a talent for re-purposing tax payers’ money for familial gain. Wears the guilty expression of a spaniel caught mid-shit. Poisoner of endangered native flaura, born with a silver foot in his mouth. Modern day Don Quixote tilting at wind turbines.

Tory 4

Self image: Maverick jet-setter, chick magnet.

Reality: Ping pong ball fieldsman and used G-string collector. A voodoo doll could be made of this bloke by rolling a doughnut in a kitty-litter tray. The only time a woman ever saw him naked she screamed and ran out of the park.

Tory 5

Self image: Raconteur, leader of men, dam builder, the reincarnation of Elvis.

Reality: An empty Comcar pulled up to Parliament House and he got out(1). He puts “pull” labels on his desk drawers and formed a Rolf Harris tribute act to tour country child care centres. His head-nodding is symptomatic of the impenetrable dullness of an oratory so obtuse that he can send himself into a stupor mid-sentence.

Tory 6

Self image: A shiny-headed Fabio taking the salute, legs akimbo, from legions of brownshirts armed with flaming torches and housebricks goosestepping their vengeful way to MONA.

MONA is Hobart’s Museum of Old and New Art, a den of leftie degeneracy, that once had a wall display of plaster casts of ladies’ pink bits that Fabio mistook for an indoor climbing gym only to become entangled by his lederhosen halfway up (but he did appreciate the Gewürztraminer stocked by the gallery café).

Reality: With limited train services in Tassie to dictate should run on time he spends his days tracing his DNA back to Beowulf and machine gunning shepherds on his Playstation attack helicopter.

Tory 7

Self image: A crusading exposer of the conspiracy of the world’s scientists, academics, environmentalists, NASA, the CSIRO, the BoM, the EU and Boris Johnson to take over the world.

Reality: A ridiculous little homunculous who would fall through the hole in a massage table if it wasn’t for his oversized head; he resembles an unsold toffee apple. Thinks the spinning blades of wind turbines are slowing the earth’s rotation thereby causing bushfires.

Tory 8

Self image: Brylcreemed Jimmy Olsen with aspirations for the most Hitler Youth merit badges.

Reality: A graduate of the IPA masturbatorium whose daily schedule is provided to him in Alphabetti Spaghetti. So pale he’s translucent – he could get skin cancer from a crescent moon. Possibly he’s the outcome from Eric Abetz’s turkey baster getting jammed in a Howdy Doody doll.

Tory 9

Self image: Urbane sophisticate and man-about-town. Help yourself guru. PM material.

Reality: Smarmy elitist twat and preppy try-hard who’s his own biggest fan. A big, swinging dickhead, an enthusiast for free speech and public order by watercannon for those whose speech he disagrees with. An ideology for every occasion.

Tory 10

Self Image: Sophia Loren from Wollongong and proud homophobe.

Reality: Aunty Jack sans motorbike – a hard-to-starboard looney who is offended by the “right wing” component of the designation “right wing nut job”. A typically oblivious Tory dullard who thinks Sinai is the plural of sinus and that feng shui is arranging the sand bags around sinking Pacific islands. Like Kevin Andrews in drag she uses the back of a spoon to draw her eyebrows on with a lump of coal while her use of digital technology is limited to a dildo shaped like a thumb.

* * * * *


Tory 1: Too easy. Barking Barmy Joyce, aka The Beetrooter. 5 points

Tory 2: Craig Sausage Rolls Kelly. 5 points

Tory 3: Doctor Le Numbers, Black Angus Taylor. 5 points

Tory 4: Gorgeous George Chistensen. 5 points.

Tory 5: Michael McSomebody. 5 points. A bonus 5 points if you can recall his full name.

Tory 6: Eric-Otto Abetz. 5 points.

Tory 7. Tinfoil titfer Malcolm Roberts. 10 points.

Tory 8. Little Jimmy Paterson. 10 points.

Tory 9. Tim Freedom Boy Wilson. 10 points.

Tory 10. Concetta Ferrari-Wheels. 10 points.


60 – 75. You know your Tories and are consequently despondent at the the nation’s spiralling toward entrenched corruption, serfdom and international pariah status.

40 – 55. The headline acts in this circus – the Liar From The Shire, Spud, Fraudburger and the Conman are as much as you can handle without projectile vomiting so you tune out. Who can blame you?

20 – 35. You can smell the stench but you don’t know where it’s coming from.

0 – 15. Shouldn’t you be reading The Spectator?

How easily can you see through them? Take the quiz and find out – name that Tory.

(1) Paraphrasing Winston Churchill

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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