Australians all lettuce rejoice
They may have dropped the constant, asinine, look-at-moi dress-ups of the moronic galoot but they’ve not abandoned the concept entirely. It’s now band camp for the miffed – the smirking, one man band in hi-viz has morphed into collective, performative outrage to feed to a conflict-hungry media pack.
Their chutzpah is admirable – their acting skills not so much.
High dudgeon from the scolds seems to be the key theme for the Tories right now, filling the void of their miserable, ideas-free existence. The entitled, senior girls’ hockey team from St Salubrious School for Pretentious Mingers’ rampage through the lolly shop ended at the check-out when the electorate, insufficiently whelmed, refused their credit cards. And they’re not happy.
Proving that awfulness is no longer gendered in the “natural party of government” the ladies ga-ga is a rich pallette of Prus and Trudes, trolley ragers, flabbagers and dimwits.
Whine sommelier Sussan Ley, taking advantage of her natural expression of perpetual bewilderment is the ladies’ team captain – sooking and sulking and blowing snot bubbles at her media displays of disaffection. Rather than gravitas her performances convey a tone of ‘a few too many slides down the banisters’. LeyZ has assumed the mantle of national whinger from the bright red dipstick from Queensland, deciding that constant complaint is an easier gig than regaining credibility through, here’s an idea, actual thought and effort.
The Tories have two major problems (well, that is apart from their record of corruption, incompetence and depravity). Bullying and misogyny is their brand. Their game plan so far is to accuse the dog of farting – pointing the finger at Labor for their own failings, where their every accusation is a confession. Their latest, rather too obvious ploy was to accuse Albo of shouting at one of their own. These are the crumb maidens from the Ditch The Witchers, the party that believes it is owed some gratitude for not shooting women protesters, the party of accused rapists, up-skirters, sexual harrassers and desk-jizzers. Their <eye roll> faux indignation </eye roll> is at a pantomime level of authenticity.
The Team Karen line up is a dial-up modem in a broadband world – squawky, slow, unreliable and not fit for purpose:
While not present at Operation Finger Albo it was good to see a return to form of Michaelia Blah Stupenda Cash who’s fully invested in her own well-paid ‘kick-the-workers-in-the-nuts’ persona, complaining loudly (obv.) that any concession to those worst off would “broing Astroiya to its knoise“.
Bam Bam McKenzie always looks as if she’s been dragged from storage in a cardboard box under George Christensen’s bed. Changing gears without using the clutch has loosened Bam Bam’s grasp on reality, or perhaps it’s her Trumpian version of alternative facts when complaining of the kyboshing of her sport rorts (i.e. theft of public money) followed her declaration that “Australians have no tolerance for corruption in sport”.
Holly Hughes – a Joan of snark and what a UTI would look like if a bag of flour blew up in its face, is a self-righteous windbag of no identifiable achievements beyond complaints that Labor has not yet fixed nine years of Tory theft and incompetence.
Jane Hume, with the obsequious eagerness of a head prefect, would happily serve the canapés at a puppy drowning if directed to do so by the Big Swinging Dicks club. Linda Reynolds of “lying cow” infamy is as suspect as a scoutmaster’s lolly bag when it comes to credibility on bullying. Sarah Henderson, Anne Ruston, Melissa Price, Nola Marino and the anonymous et als of the backbench were all complicit in the illegal hounding of Centrelink recipients that went far beyond bullying. None has any credibility nor a sense of shame.
Meanwhile in the UK, thick Lizzie’s 4.1 Scaramuccis as PM, outlasted by a leafy vegetable, you’d think would have set a low water mark for Tories. A neoliberal dogmatist crashing the world’s 6th largest economy in just one day with her Hayekian brain farts had the Tory press rapidly dropping Truss from their Christmas card list.
Here in Oz within a global conservative shift to crazy we can be grateful our RWFW vegie patch is now no more than bubble and squeak; left-overs pushed to the side and largely ignored. Our version of Liz Truss is reduced to bleating her whinges to an audience that has lost interest <cue sad trombone>.
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Good read: UK’s Tory papers call it: it’s Boris! No, wait… Crikey
This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.
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