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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.


A message to Quiet Australians®

Lies, corruption and incompetence are the new normal

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *


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

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

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


This article was originally published on Grump Geeser.

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The dear leader: FauxMo’s cult of personalities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Image from (Photo from Facebook)


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

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

God-botherer or grifter?

Prophets or profits?

Jim Jones or Tony Blair?

Saving souls or sandbagging marginal seats?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Image from


FauxMo quotes

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

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

Freedom has never worked without deeply ingrained moral beliefs.

* * * * *

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

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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Who am I? A quiz.

Have you been paying attention?

They seek to rule not to serve.

They presume to rule through divine indulgence.

They craft their deity in their own image.

Wealth is their measure of all worth.

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

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

Dissent is intolerable.

They are self-righteous yet they fear scrutiny.

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

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

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

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

Empathy must be funded.

Ethics and standards are impediments.

Integrity is for losers.

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

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

The biggest sin is being caught.

Egalitarianism is an impractical lefty abstraction.

For them to win someone else must lose.

For them to thrive others must be sacrificed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They indulge nutters and ratbags for political advantage.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

Who am I?

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

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

* * * * *

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

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



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With great power comes great avoidance of responsibility

Spinocchio skirts the issue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

The entropy continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



* * * * *

Porter has always enjoyed having his cake and eating it too

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

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

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

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

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

The also ran

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

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

Let’s move on.


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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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


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

Achievements Of The Coalition Government. Matthew Davis.

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

Inside the Canberra bubble – Four Corners

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

Malcolm Farr, political leaders and rumours

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

This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.

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We can’t exorcise RWFWery

The Bleach Boy’s douche coup has failed – it was a close call but the stale waft of fried chicken grease has now been steam cleaned from the Oval Office curtains, Junior’s crack spoons and coke stash have been crated off to Berghof Sur-la-Mer while Eric was last seen trying to negotiate a revolving door at the Tijuana franchise of the El Chapo Cosmetic Surgery chain. Frigid Bardot is scrutinising the LinkedIn profiles of Miami divorce lawyers and Ivanka has a wax job as an update to her CV in anticipation of an out-on-bail tilt at the 2024 Republican presidential nomination.

While BLOTUS contemplates his legacy – re-framing a rampant plague, the impoverishment of millions, graft, sedition and national humiliation as the “greatest presidency ever” his lawyer of last resort Rudi Giuliani is spending his time negotiating a finder’s fee with the Philadelphia Discount Dildo shop for shelf space to house the Trump presidential library.

Trump’s base (was there ever a more suitable noun?) of QAnon lead paint lickers, end of times religious cultists, Klansmen, Walmartians and cut lunch survivalists is fraught and confused. Their dream of protecting freedom and democracy by summarily executing Joe Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer and Mike Pence is shattered. Their discoloured dementarian had slunk from the field of battle leaving them to their fate and their country in the hands of a cabal of cannibalistic, radical left Democrat paedophiles.

The Trumpists’ common cause of white supremacy (the concept undermined somewhat by their florid, all-you-can-eat configurations, mullet-headed cluelessness, poor self esteem and low figure IQs) remains quite resilient however. They’re still out there, they’re just as batshit crazy and they are being courted by the likes of the S-bend residue of unconstrained Trumpist wanna-bes and wingnuts like Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley, Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert.




Trumpism is taking a breather and re-grouping. It hasn’t gone away.

Luckily, here in Australia…


Image from The Australian


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The Trumpists are thriving in Oz

“Facts sometimes are contentious, aren’t they? And what you may think is right, somebody else might think is completely untrue. And that’s part of living in a democratic country.” (Acting Prime Minister Michael McCormack, January 12, 2021).

A neat four years ago Antique Barbie and Trump flunky Kellyanne Conway set the tone for a post-truth Trumpworld when she defended the tangerine tyrant’s ludicrous claims of an outsized inauguration crowd by invoking the Orwellian notion of “alternative facts”(1).

Fast forward from Trump’s Year Zero to when the seditionists and rioters obeyed the command of the despotic, half-sucked mango seed by attempting to literally torch American democracy, aided and abetted from within by treasonous, mercenary GOP urgers and spivs. All the result of four years of accumulated alternative facts and “fake news” gaslighting.

Across the Trump years tens of millions of willing dupes, oiks, the useful idiotista, Qrackpots, slope-shouldered racists and stool samplers wallowed in a steady effluvium of post-truth ordure that megaphoned Trump’s self-aggrandising lies and whiney grievance mongering.

But, the introductory quote at the start of this rant is not from some Trump vassal pissing out of the tent, it is not an artefact from crazy-town nor is it from the toxic bile factory that trades as the Dirty Digger’s Fox News. It is Australia’s acting Prime Minister Mickey The Dip McCormack speaking mere days after an attempted coup that was fuelled by “contentious facts”.

Apart from its timing the context of the quote is two-fold. Firstly, Mickey has an intellect that would not challenge foliage. He’s as thick as a coal miner’s sandwich yet he’s apparently the best and brightest the National Party has to offer – i.e. the least worst option. Secondly, he was defending the Trumpist effluent of two of the most egregious examples of the far right dross that has infected our own politics – specifically the swivel-eyed, Pete Evans-level Covid quackery from failed furniture salesman Fatty Carbuncle and, by extension, the trumpetings of Gorgeous George the Manila back street trawler and blubbertigibbet.

The BMI of these two globular nongs is such that they affect weather patterns, but that is not particularly germaine other than that these self-proclaimed champions of free speech should not have any problem with the deployment of a gratuitous sledge, yeah? The hypocrisy and idiocies of their flatulent gibberings have, following Trump’s attempted democrocide, received wide exposure and deserved ridicule but the bigger picture is the refusal of their respective masters to either call them to heel or penalise their Trumpian fanboy distortion of pandemic science and their anti-democratic blatherings and what that says about the mindset of the Tory side of our politics. Trumpism is a dangerous psychosis but both Scooter Morrison and Mickey Mac have now acknowledged by default that it has a home in the L/NP.

As the Tories go about their routine tasks of shovelling public money and assets to themselves and their cronies their ideological slide to the loony right has developed a distinctly orange tinge.

When Josh Freudenberg and Call Me Dave Sharma, two prominent Jewish Tory MPs, one an ostensible Prime Minister-in-waiting, the other an ex-Ambassador to Israel, jump aboard the anti-Twitter “free speech” ruse that propagates Nazi rhetoric and promotes Proud Boys’ fascist merch then something is deeply, deeply awry.

Scooter himself, interrupting his holidaying lifestyle to spend a few days attending to photo ops, has pointedly refused to criticise Trump in any way. Perhaps that’s down to Trump’s bestowal upon him of the Legion of Merit – the Right does so appreciate shiny baubles, ostentatious trophies and grandiose titles. The absurdity of a cowardly draft dodger gifting a militarty honour to a bloke whose first instinct is to flee from a crisis is lost on Scooter of course. Coming from Trump that medal merely symbolises Morrison’s membership of the cult of the citrus clunge.

From birtherism to The Big Lie (“the election was rigged”) Trump has long signalled his character. His betrayal of America is not new despite which Scooter has gone beyond the protocols of relationships between national leaders. His embrace of Trumpism was always enthusiastic, unquestioning and compliant with Trump’s grotesque adulteration of accepted norms and institutions. As one example Scooter, champion of the economy-first neo-lib mindset, jeopardised Australia’s economic interests on the altar of Trumpism by leading with his chin at the orange one’s urging to openly and loudly insult China.

Two deluded non-entities shouting at clouds from the backbench should be an amusing sideshow, after all the Tory goat rodeo had Abbott and Joyce in the two top jobs for a time. But Carbuncle and Gorgeous G are symptoms not abberations. With one notable exception(2), and Morrison’s dissembling weasel words aside, no Tory MP has condemned the radical right insurrection in the US last week.

Across the board the self-proclaimed champions of free speech hypocritically loathe any free speech that is not their own. They always have. Scrutiny, questioning, dissent, alternative views, truth…they don’t like it. Parliament, journalists, unions, the ABC, judges, scientists, academics, environmentalists, whistleblowers, safe schools, you and me…we’re all existing or potential targets for their mendacity.

RWNJ opinion is now the news. The Tories all watched Trump, they all liked what they saw. All the little lies are useful and the Big Lie almost worked.

What most citizens of Oz are not watching is our own Trumpist, post-truth creep to far right shitfuckery and that suits the Tories just fine.

(1) “The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” George Orwell. 1984.

(2) Matt Keane, NSW Minister For The Environment


Image from


Image from (Photographer: Marco Bello/Bloomberg via Getty Images)


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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.



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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



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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.


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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.

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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