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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.
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