Even taking into account the brown paper bag kakocracies of Johannes Bjelke-Petersen and Robert Askin or the dodgy brothers operations of Fast Eddie Obeid, Joe Tripodi and Sir Lunchalot McDonald of Terrigals infamy there can be little doubt that we are now experiencing the most rancid regime in our history.
It has become apparent via the post-election rorting scandals that Brother Scott Morrison did not leave his electoral fortunes entirely in the hands of the Infinite Spirit. Perhaps ScoBro felt that the Big Guy could not be totally relied upon to deliver the much coveted miraculous election win despite his fervent swaying and praying being topped-up with his salary sacrificing to Jesus via the Horizon Church (sic) retail showrooms.
Holy payola was obviously seen as no guarantee of favours to be repaid so a backup plan must’ve been thought necessary – the bribing of mere mortals within at-risk and marginal electorates with hundreds of millions of re-purposed tax payer dollars. It was a risk mitigation strategy – after all if the celestial CEO had spent 6 days of hard slog creationing and you’re intent on salting the earth at the centre of it all then you need to hedge your bets. (Backing off the Big Guy with the Mosman Rowing Club and its ilk seems a tad blasphemous to me, but then I’m no theologian; but ScoBro’s deity will be across all of the nuances of religious-based commercial transactions I’m sure).
It seems that Jehovah & Co. were cool with all of that – delivering the requested miracle, albeit caveated by a tiny 2 seat majority. Perhaps with the blatant lies, the fraudulent election posters, Greasy Palmer’s $80M down payment for future favours and their 6 year track record of deceit, incompetence and graft the Big Guy was not convinced enough to give his full endorsement.
Regardless, we are stuck with these criminals for another 2 years – a frontbench that reminds me of Halloween trick or treaters from the burns ward and a backbench the like of which you’d expect to find under a serial killer’s floorboards.
We have a dysfunctional ragtag collection of misfits and spivs led, for the moment, by a smirking, incompetent and incontinent space invader from The Shire and a bobble-headed nonentity from Wagga Wagga, the Talking Thumb, who’s clearly been snacking on the Clag. As awful as this pair are they are both under threat from within by even worse alternatives. Kommondant Herr Spud-Dutton, the sadistic, neo-fascist rhizome from Dickson and Tamworth’s Barking Barmy, a purple-headed poster boy for a campaign warning women not to leave their drinks unattended and who has the coherence of a drunk on a bus shaken awake by a pot hole.
This L/NP is a coagulation of weirdos and shonks that is not so much a party as a death-of-democracy wake attended by flatulent aunts, uncle pervys, bagmen, corporate apple polishers, onanists, loose stools, Dogger’s Guidebook subscribers, sky pilots and scorched earthers.
Their grifters would not think twice about selling shares in a Rolf Harris Child Care Centre franchise to the befuddled in the nation’s raisin farms.
The autocrats within would happily taser widows and set fire to homeless people.
The door rattlers would steal from disabled kiddies’ Christmas stockings.
They have a bell-bottomed, helmet-haired harridan with a pebble-creted vajazzle who remains in AFP witness protection. There’s a bloated Filippino slum tourist whose oft-threatened crossing of the floor has been limited to-date to getting from the pole dancing to the titty bar and whose weight loss regime consists of taking a shit and having a haircut. There are water thieves and grass poisoners; there’s a Treasurer who provides us with all of the confidence of a recalled airbag; there’s an automatronic Finance Minister who’s as empathetic as a proctologist’s forefinger and a nut farm escapee who conjectures that a greenie conspiracy set the country ablaze to … wait for it … save the trees.
In short, we have weirdos, freaks and dullards; but their primary, shared characteristic is that they are all liars and thieves.
They’ve tried and tested a range of methods to avoid scrutiny – showing at least they had some small sense of shame. But now their deviousness has morphed into chutzpah; they’re playing the Trump card – “what are you going to do about it?”
So it is, unbelievably, getting worse. I feel a little bit of sick in the back of my throat. God save us.
(Thx to Frankie Boyle for a few of those insults).
This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.
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