It’s time. Don’t humiliate yourself any further; gather the tattered remnants of what remains of your dignity and go. Whatever vestige of credibility you may have ever had is long gone. You’re a figure of fun, a delusional buffoon with an introspection-free self-regard that has been resistant to public derision, your serial failures or any wise counsel. You embarrass yourself, and far worse, you embarrass our country. Your time, the mid 1800s, has gone to never return and so should you.
Frightened by a girl you’ve surrendered your archaic signature doctrine of withdrawing from the Paris Agreement on climate change in a pathetically transparent dodge to rescue your unhinged ambition of a return to the big, green swivel chair. You’ve been shirt-fronted by Zali Steggall and you pissed your pants. Is it your narcissism that prevents you from considering a return to the limbo of your pre-infamy days as a nobody? Is that a scarier prospect than the ignominy of being taken down by a woman? Is that worse than the very real prospect of further humiliation – a Howard-scale rejection by a rusted-on Liberal Party base in your Tory heartland electorate?
Pause for a moment, Tones and reflect upon your résumé.
Your only achievements have been ones of destruction and wreckage. Free of imagination, ideas or insight you have sought to level the playing field by bringing down the accomplishments of others. Negativism is your forté, capriciousness is your modus operandi, slander and bullying are your tools of trade. Hamstrung by religious conceits and weighed down by insecurity you seek validation from your antiquated certainties – the unquestionable authority of a medieval belief system and its dogma, the hereditary supremacy of born-to-rule elites, the worship of privilege, power and wealth. You’re lost in a world of ritualised voo-doo and dog-eat-dog Randesque ideology where we serfs know our place and democratic institutions are an inconvenience to be sabotaged or manipulated.
Jonathan Swift wrote in 1721: Reasoning will never make a man correct an ill opinion, which by reasoning he never acquired.
Reasoning is not one of your strong points, Tones. You’re a man of flexible principles but rigid opinions. You sought affirmation from a convicted child rapist yet dismissed the expertise of scientists. For you the mysticism of be-jewelled, robed necromancers swathed in incense and claiming to have the ear of an omnipotent yet vindictive deity always trumped proof, evidence and facts.
You were always widely loathed and so it remains. The evidence supports popular opinion: you are a leering, winking, creepy sexist, you are a self-confessed homophobe, a mendacious, cowardly bully, a crank and a weirdo with a propensity for licking the faces of babies and kissing the back of women’s heads.
Despite your image management – the macho man in red sluggos, the lycra-clad warrior, the hero with a hose, it is obvious to all except the gormless and callow that you are phoney, Tony. The staccato cackle, the clammy, tight-skinned visage of a carp wrapped in cling film, the sleazy smile, the ludicrous bow-legged affectation bringing to mind a rodeo cowboy leaving a port-a-loo; it’s all counter-productive Chuckle Head and subliminally reminds us of your ape-like swaggering approach to unsuspecting victims – the lunatic grin and manic chuckle, the far-too-close, double-handed deathgrip cutting off easy escape. We could read the minds of the hapless recipients of this faux chuminess, Tones, we could see it in their eyes – “Fuck, I want to turn away but if I do he may kiss the back of my head. But if I don’t he may go for the mouth.”
You’re King Midas in reverse, Tones – everything you touch turns to shit. For your own self-respect, it’s not too late, give it away.
This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.
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