Going for gold in the Bastard Olympics

Australia likes to think of itself as punching above its weight, particularly in the sporting realm. Hence, the tortured metaphor of this sledge.

There’s plenty of international competition for the top of the medal count for outstanding achievement in bastardry so how does our own contingent of awfulness stack up against the might of Team USA led by a ludicrous, tangerine blowhard and Team UK who’s grooming a dishevelled, bloated smurf as their Chef de Mission?

The cheer squad

Firstly, our team’s support crew needs to be acknowledged. We wouldn’t be as competitive without the toadies, leg-humpers and bag-carriers in the media and on the parliamentary backbenches who have put so much effort into bolstering those hucksters and bag snatchers who have a legit claim to a place on the podium.

Paul Kelly. Editor at large and point man for the e.coli orchestra of News Corpse bloviators – Bolt, Devine, Albrechtesen et al without whom the Lying Nasty Party could not have fielded a full team.

Alan Gloria Jones. An over-stayer in London public facilities whose impending damnation to lakes of eternal fire has not quietened his flatulent blatherings in support of bigots and homophobes. Alan will keep a close eye on the team.

Mathias Corman. Turned out like a pox doctor’s clerk the dapper Vibble Vobble would enjoy nothing more than taxing the discount lunch vouchers at a home for orphaned waifs.

The prolapsed palindrome Erik Otto Abetz, a Tasmanian Uriah Heep whose descent into irrelevance has not yet taken full effect.

Craig Barge Arse Kelly, a resident of the $1Shop discount bin. With speaking notes provided to him in crayon and monosyllables and with free sausage rolls to hand Barge Arse’s ruddy-faced, sideline cheering for neo-con dogma will remain enthusiastically incoherent.

While boosting a dodgy Indian mining billionaire as a Little Aussie Battler, Matt King Coal Canavan still found time to push his own mother under a bus when his lack of compliance with paperwork came under scrutiny. That level of committed nastiness requires acknowledgement.

Gorgeous George Christensen whose study of the demographics of shady Filipino neighbourhoods has contributed to the cultural exchange with our northern neighbour. Gorgeous George’s ten pin shaped presence on the back-bench bleachers provides an incentive for the A Team, reminding them of the talent available should they drop their game.

The Standbys

Barnaby Barnyard Juice Joyce. The slowest tadpole pulled a Bradbury when barmy Barnyard was conceived.

With his purple majesty tucked back into his trousers for the time being, Barny thinks he’s match fit but he lacks the required intellect to go about milking a portfolio for personal profit without being noticed. BJ is likely to remain on the sidelines for a while yet.

Black Angus Taylor (the “g” is silent). A rampaging free-marketeer nevertheless with a knack for attracting government grants. Black Angus has a fondness for the public coin underwriting his commercial endeavours*.

The Ginger Whinger, so dense that time stands still in her presence, Pauline Hanson’s control of her mental faculties is a tad looser than that exercised over her self-interests.

The A team

Someone has peed in our gene pool.

George Pell. Self-righteous, elitist kiddy-fiddler and felon who, deservedly, has a reach-around from Bubba awaiting his assignment of a cell buddy. This most egregious of shoe scrapings is held to be a fine man by two Liberal Party ex-PMs – one their exalted role model, the other their best ever Leader Of The Opposition. Nothing more need be said about the standards and ethos of the Lying Nasties.

Israel Falau. Supplementing his millions with donations diverted from sick kids, Falau is a fellow traveller of the prosperity-gospelling hypocrites camouflaging their greed and selfishness with customised godliness.

Spud-Dutton. A limited repertoire from Spud, but he’s reliable with his set piece of “murderous, raping refugees”. His deadpan delivery flatfoots the opposition every time.

Mike Pezzulo. Head goon at the Despot Depot, no one can pen a threatening letter to an elected member of parliament in lyrical prose quite like our very own swarthy bard. Pezzulo is a putsch in search of a beer hall.

Rupert Murdoch. Evil incarnate, a hobgoblin with a face like a melted wellie. This risible, two-legged, flange-headed, dead-souled sinkhole of all things decent has the fetid stench of his putrefaction poisoning everything within its waft. It’s no coincidence that the two English speaking countries that are outside his malevolent reach, NZ and Canada, are now the only two with a sense of decency in their governments.

Rupert Murdoch! Gold! Gold for Australia!

He may have American citizenship but the Dirty Digger is one of ours.

This is the team you barracked for Australia; you pay the price of admission. I’m going out the back to hide in the shed.

This article was originally published on geezerspot.com.

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