Assume an angry mood before reading; it’ll save time.
I’m sick of his spin. I’m sick of his lies. I’m sick of his dissembling and I’m sick of his dumb arrogance and his ever-present, self-satisfied smirk. I’m sick of his partisan politicking on every single issue. I’m sick of his inane slogans and his flatulent blatherings, as if he’s retrieved Scrabble tiles from a blender to form random words.
I’m sick of the relentless photo ops. I’m sick of the contrived personas – Spakfilla for a lack of personality cult. I’m sick of Daggy Dad and Scotty Takes Charge and Brave Sir Scotty and Sporty Scotty and Curry Cook Scotty and I’m sick of every hi-vizzed, hard-hatted mounting of machinery and his performative helping hand at flood clean ups and charity kitchens that stops the moment the cameras are packed away. My gag reflex is triggered whenever this vacuous poseur exploits front line workers, volunteers and grannies getting vaxxed as props for his media machine and who are then wiped from his mind the moment their immediate Instagram value has passed.
I felt a bit of sick in the back of my throat when he confessed to furtive, non-consensual feel-ups of disaster victims as some sort of subliminal Pentecostal conversion therapy – behaviour that should see him arrested and charged along with the coagulation of staff fondlers and upskirters and drink spikers who infest the government benches.
I’m tired of his disposable principles and transactional loyalties and least effort compliance with the proprieties of ethical governance. I’m angered by the vapidity of this piffler of modest abilities and questionable achievements, his general uselessness, his drain on our collective wellbeing. He’s a sinkhole for our national aspirations. I’m horrified that his only talent is to finagle avoidance of accountability and duck repercussions from his idiocies and neglect but then flagrantly claim credit for any incidental success.
I’m tired of his cowardice and his intimidation of the powerless. Impervious to self-reflection, comfortable in the belief he is the chosen one he’s a creepy, nasty and spiteful bully who will lash out and background against anyone challenging his authority or questioning his artfully crafted ‘authenticity’.
I’m bemused by his casual sexism – the confusion on his face at the notion that women are his equals and I’m aghast at the calculated misogyny of his suggesting he’s due some gratitude for the uppity ones not being shot.
I’m appalled at his facilitation of corruption, his suffocating incompetence, his abrogation of any responsibility (that’s not my job™) and his laughable claims to leadership when he flees the country or disappears behind the curtains when confronted with real-world challenges.
Truth is an entirely dispensable frippery whenever it doesn’t serve his purposes, which is often. Announcements and promises delivered with gish-galloped smugness in a condescending tone and without a thought as to implementation will be contradicted or denied in short order. All evidence that the shite is coming out his ears right there in front of everybody is disdainfully dismissed as if he travels between dimensions where reality is subjective and he gets to choose the version that applies to the moment.
I snort derisively that this Nigel No Friends had to invent his own tragic nickname. ‘ScoMo’ – the $50 note he’s pinned to the lapel of his unpleasant presence; a spiv raffling past-expiry-date rissoles at the local boozer, backslapping the punters and pretending he gives a fuck. I’m embarrassed that someone occupying the highest office in the land appends such an asinine moniker to official communications.
I hate that no freak fringe is off-limits for grooming as he chases the preference votes of the clunge farm escapees. He nods and winks to the arse-wash of sovereign citizens, freedumbing anti-maskers, red-pilled conspiracy wingnuts, horse-punchers, the self-righteous ACL homophobes who are obsessed with what the gays do with their pink bits and the UAP and One Notion over-spill that have me reaching for a puke bag.
I’m sick of his pandering to the wealth interests of an avaricious cohort of cardboard box billionaires, fridge magnates and private-schooled sybarites for whom too much is never enough. I’m disgusted at his punching down and victimisation of those least able to fight back and his denigration of those who show that they might.
I don’t like his stooges, I abhor his cronies, I detest his enablers and I’m dispirited by the appeal of his facile schtick – the pre-fab chook pen and cubby house, the bloke-next-door affectations of a transactional, calculating spruiker of the virtues of apathy and unquestioning acceptance of this superficial drivel.
I’m appalled at his Jesus-with-an-ABN sect that celebrates self interest and licences disdain for the disadvantaged. It makes me nauseous that he is OK with the destruction of the environment as his expected end times make our liveable planet an expendable, temporary stop-over on his way to his imaginary celestial forever-holiday resort, sharing beers and jokes about the povvos with his good mate Jebus down by the VIP pool.
His smarm makes me cringe, his voice makes me gag, his presence on the telly makes me feel defiled. His bloviating hypocrisy bubbles away in my colon like a bad oyster awaiting a projectile vomit of bile and loathing into the smug bastard’s face.
I’m ashamed that this grinning, vacuous opportunist connived and lied and inveigled his way into our country’s top job. Watching Morrison’s rise was like watching a fish climb a ladder – such things are difficult to comprehend. The way he gained office defines his character, or more accurately, his lack thereof. His behaviour during the fires disaster revealed his true useless, craven self. Given his surrender in adversity and his admissions of impotence in the face of real world challenges his delusional self-belief is staggering. A serial failure but for the intervention of grim happenstance this low-flying dullard reminds me that somewhere there’s a flushing toilet missing his head. He’s a void, a vacuum sucking the hopes and aspirations from all but the gullible, the toadies, grifters and subscribers to his disturbing talking-in-tongues prosperity cult.
He claims the imprimatur of his deity yet nonetheless fears all scrutiny, defaults to habitual lies and deception and depends upon his cabal of bag carriers and crime scene cleansers and the complicit Murdochrities and media specials to cultivate a dumbed-down audience for whom the news is only entertainment and entertainment is the only news.
He’s a squatter who fills in the time between elections by electioneering and buck passing. There is no nuance, no subtlety, no 3D chess in his behaviour – no intellect at all, no vision, no insight, nothing beyond the full time sales pitch of a tent revivalist. He’s a charlatan and a grifter to whom ethics is an English county and whose god-ordained tasks remain a mystery after 3 long, depressing years of this fuckwit cosplaying at PM.
Always late to the party he awaits poll results to form his opinions, scapegoating his cockups and disappearing until his minions can spin a means to lay claim to any upside or, failing that, to dig up another dead cat. For Scooter Morrison it’s the triumph of cheap politics over the national interest every time. Under this imbecilic galoot we are experiencing the erosion of our values and the sacrifice of our national integrity. Our transformation from a progressive, liberal democracy to Ayn Rand World in Pentecostal Disneyland is well under way.
I am gobsmacked that after Howard and Abbott the Libs somehow found someone who’s worse.
This bloviating pecksniff was scraped from the filter after an incontinents’ pool party. Our country will be vastly improved from the very moment this fatuous twat and his smirk are thrown out onto the street.
“The plot is that once you make government a pay-for-play operation, you forget how to govern when there’s no one paying. Required to act in the public interest rather than deliver what his donors want, Scott Morrison and his government are all at sea.” Crikey
“I’ve been in evacuation centres where people thought I was just giving someone a hug and I was praying, and putting my hands on people … laying hands on them and praying in various situations,” Scooter Morrison, April 2021
“Joel, I really feel like this is what the Lord wants … He wants me to become prime minister.” Scooter to his chum Joel A’Bell
Scott Morrison and the women’s movement. The Saturday Paper
This article was originally published on Grumpy Geezer.
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