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

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

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

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

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

Cartoon by Alan Moir (moir.com.au)

And lo, another miracle.

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

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

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

Image from fablesfairytalesandsocialjustice.weebly.com/

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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

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

Agent Orange: Putin’s mandarin candidate

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

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

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

Nonces-R-Us

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

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

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

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

BroSco’s creeping theocracy and authoritarianism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eugenicists

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

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

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

Comedy relief

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

References:

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

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

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

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

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

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

Tory 1

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

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

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

Tory 2

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

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

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

Tory 3

Self image: Urbane entrepreneur and future PM.

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

Tory 4

Self image: Maverick jet-setter, chick magnet.

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

Tory 5

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

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

Tory 6

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

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

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

Tory 7

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

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

Tory 8

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

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

Tory 9

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

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

Tory 10

Self Image: Sophia Loren from Wollongong and proud homophobe.

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

* * * * *

Answers

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

Tory 2: Craig Sausage Rolls Kelly. 5 points

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

Tory 4: Gorgeous George Chistensen. 5 points.

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

Tory 6: Eric-Otto Abetz. 5 points.

Tory 7. Tinfoil titfer Malcolm Roberts. 10 points.

Tory 8. Little Jimmy Paterson. 10 points.

Tory 9. Tim Freedom Boy Wilson. 10 points.

Tory 10. Concetta Ferrari-Wheels. 10 points.

Scoring

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

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

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

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

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

(1) Paraphrasing Winston Churchill

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

Even taking into account the brown paper bag kakocracies of Johannes Bjelke-Petersen and Robert Askin or the dodgy brothers operations of Fast Eddie Obeid, Joe Tripodi and Sir Lunchalot McDonald of Terrigals infamy there can be little doubt that we are now experiencing the most rancid regime in our history.

It has become apparent via the post-election rorting scandals that Brother Scott Morrison did not leave his electoral fortunes entirely in the hands of the Infinite Spirit. Perhaps ScoBro felt that the Big Guy could not be totally relied upon to deliver the much coveted miraculous election win despite his fervent swaying and praying being topped-up with his salary sacrificing to Jesus via the Horizon Church (sic) retail showrooms.

Holy payola was obviously seen as no guarantee of favours to be repaid so a backup plan must’ve been thought necessary – the bribing of mere mortals within at-risk and marginal electorates with hundreds of millions of re-purposed tax payer dollars. It was a risk mitigation strategy – after all if the celestial CEO had spent 6 days of hard slog creationing and you’re intent on salting the earth at the centre of it all then you need to hedge your bets. (Backing off the Big Guy with the Mosman Rowing Club and its ilk seems a tad blasphemous to me, but then I’m no theologian; but ScoBro’s deity will be across all of the nuances of religious-based commercial transactions I’m sure).

It seems that Jehovah & Co. were cool with all of that – delivering the requested miracle, albeit caveated by a tiny 2 seat majority. Perhaps with the blatant lies, the fraudulent election posters, Greasy Palmer’s $80M down payment for future favours and their 6 year track record of deceit, incompetence and graft the Big Guy was not convinced enough to give his full endorsement.

Regardless, we are stuck with these criminals for another 2 years – a frontbench that reminds me of Halloween trick or treaters from the burns ward and a backbench the like of which you’d expect to find under a serial killer’s floorboards.

We have a dysfunctional ragtag collection of misfits and spivs led, for the moment, by a smirking, incompetent and incontinent space invader from The Shire and a bobble-headed nonentity from Wagga Wagga, the Talking Thumb, who’s clearly been snacking on the Clag. As awful as this pair are they are both under threat from within by even worse alternatives. Kommondant Herr Spud-Dutton, the sadistic, neo-fascist rhizome from Dickson and Tamworth’s Barking Barmy, a purple-headed poster boy for a campaign warning women not to leave their drinks unattended and who has the coherence of a drunk on a bus shaken awake by a pot hole.

This L/NP is a coagulation of weirdos and shonks that is not so much a party as a death-of-democracy wake attended by flatulent aunts, uncle pervys, bagmen, corporate apple polishers, onanists, loose stools, Dogger’s Guidebook subscribers, sky pilots and scorched earthers.

Their grifters would not think twice about selling shares in a Rolf Harris Child Care Centre franchise to the befuddled in the nation’s raisin farms.

The autocrats within would happily taser widows and set fire to homeless people.

The door rattlers would steal from disabled kiddies’ Christmas stockings.

They have a bell-bottomed, helmet-haired harridan with a pebble-creted vajazzle who remains in AFP witness protection. There’s a bloated Filippino slum tourist whose oft-threatened crossing of the floor has been limited to-date to getting from the pole dancing to the titty bar and whose weight loss regime consists of taking a shit and having a haircut. There are water thieves and grass poisoners; there’s a Treasurer who provides us with all of the confidence of a recalled airbag; there’s an automatronic Finance Minister who’s as empathetic as a proctologist’s forefinger and a nut farm escapee who conjectures that a greenie conspiracy set the country ablaze to … wait for it … save the trees.

In short, we have weirdos, freaks and dullards; but their primary, shared characteristic is that they are all liars and thieves.

They’ve tried and tested a range of methods to avoid scrutiny – showing at least they had some small sense of shame. But now their deviousness has morphed into chutzpah; they’re playing the Trump card – “what are you going to do about it?”

So it is, unbelievably, getting worse. I feel a little bit of sick in the back of my throat. God save us.

(Thx to Frankie Boyle for a few of those insults).

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

The Department of Home Affairs is the Australian Government’s interior ministry with responsibilities that include emergency management. Emergency management is the organisation and management of the resources and responsibilities for dealing with all humanitarian aspects of emergencies. The Minister for Home Affairs is Peter Dutton.

Scotty from Marketing’s covert desertion of an incinerating Australia in favour of a sun lounge and mai tais on a Waikiki beach during the bushfire crisis was an inevitable PR disaster, exacerbated by Where’s Wally’s subsequent behaviour that underlined his couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude and tin-eared incompetence.

Other Tory rats abandoning both the burning ship and their responsibilities included Linda Reynolds, yawning donkey impersonator and Minister for Defence, who apparently thought that the beer swilling sousers and yobs found in abundance in Bali would conveniently camouflage her presence.

Bloated gourmand and NSW Minister for Emergency Services David Elliot‘s European holiday le grand repas français was of such monumental imbecility that it’s hard to imagine that it was anything other than a calculated distraction from Morrison’s own l’storm de merde.

John Barilaro, NSW Deputy Premier and member for the now-charcoaled seat of Monaro sought holiday solace in London where a flute of Laurent-Perrier and a poached pear and frangipane tart at Claridges is a snip at £90 per.

The good ship Australia was left in the hands of Michael the bobble-headed Whatsisname, a gormless rube of such stupifaction that sheep have been seen falling asleep in his presence; a man who thinks exploding cow pats cause the bush fires that “we’ve always had” and that any concern is the “ravings of some pure, enlightened and woke capital-city greenies”.

The ‘blame the trees’ schtick was taken up by VB sommelier and orthodontics before-shot model Barking Barmy Joyce. The purple pontificator is happy to leave our fate in the hands of the big man in the sky while in the same breath blaming greenies for a lack of hazard reduction. Self-contradiction is a Barking speciality.

Various other non-entities, hacks, flying monkeys and gagas have proferred their own obfuscations, distractions and conspiracy theories such as the never-was that is Craig Kelly, a bibulous blob with the physique of a half-deflated dinghy and an intellect that is challenged by crayons and a colouring book.

While all this ducking and weaving and finger-pointing was going on there has been one notable absence.

Dutton dressed as yam©, the potato-headed Her Kipfler and Minister for Home Affairs never shies away from an opportunity to fear-monger or the possibility of a good progrom or the chance to demonise. There’ll be protestors to pepper spray, greenies to arrest, dissent to quash, so, where’s Poida? He’s supposed to manage emergencies, he should be up the front.

Those sounds you hear are the clicking of boot heels, the jubilant clapping of hands and delighted chuckles from a Machiavellian assassin taking pleasure at Scotty From Marketing’s travails. You can be certain that Poida From Security has been making a list and checking it twice, he’s been honing the cutlery and practising his underarm, he’s been sowing discontent amongst the Tory quizzlings and quaverers. The only question is the timing of the great potato strike.

(I’ve got a slab riding on this, Poida. Don’t let me down).

Image from static.wixstatic.com

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.

There can be little doubt that Brother ScoMo believes that he will one day recoup his happy clapper tithes by literally ascending the gold pass holders’ escalators to his members only, prayers-by-the-spa, gay-free heaven. I, however, am eagerly awaiting his earthly due.

* * * * *

“Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice.” (William Jennings Bryan)

“My destiny was to be PM. Jesus chose me.” (Scott Morrison). OK, I made that up, but we know he believes it.

This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.