There can be little doubt that Brother ScoMo believes that he will one day recoup his happy clapper tithes by literally ascending the gold pass holders’ escalators to his members only, prayers-by-the-spa, gay-free heaven. I, however, am eagerly awaiting his earthly due.
Most Prime Ministers have a date with a dismal destiny whether it’s drowning in an angry surf (Holt), being shivved in the ribs by their own colleagues (Turnbull, Abbott, Rudd, Gillard), humiliatingly but suitably losing their own seats (post-PM Abbott, Howard), overthrown in a devious coup (Whitlam), being ejected from government by the electorate (lots) or dying in office (Curtin).
(One Tory ex-Leader of the Opposition freed himself from the binds of this mortal coil in a blaze of glory that had theretofore entirely eluded him. Billy Snedden was discovered sans metabolism in a Rushcutters Bay motel room with a forever-to-be-fixed smile and a lip-sticked high tide mark on his rigoured mongrel – a circumstance that encouraged a far too late rethink on my part about his otherwise nebulous appeal. But I digress).
The one aspect that irks my comfortable atheism is that I know I’ll never have an afterlife opportunity to blow I-told-ya-so raspberries at the nut-variety theists while they, in return, smugly anticipate hurling rocks and insults at me from on high as I suffer the eternal torment of a goateed Beelzebub in his one-piece, body-hugging, red lycra trackies accessorised with cape and trident. My schadenfreude, however, is restricted to an earthly existence, and in FauxMo’s case, I wish to indulge it fully.
Given the feculence of the Tories’ barrel scrapings – Morrison, Abbott and Howard, it is to be hoped that they share a common fate, i.e. complete humiliation and widespread ridicule. Given FauxMo has outperformed the other two in egregiousness (quite a feat) his humbling should be, please karma, greater.
As evidenced by the ever-present smirk, Morrison is a smug believer in his own god-approved infallibility. He gets testy when challenged. His preferred congregants are obsequious, obedient, unquestioning “quiet Australians”. Democracy and its institutions are hindrances to god’s work, dissent is a sign of the devil, political opponents are agents of the archfiend. Despite the obvious humbug of his protestations that he separates his politics from his prosperity gospelling dogma* he sees his Prime Ministership as god’s licence to apply his superstitions – including his end-of-times scorn for existential threats to the health of our planet.
(*For example, he walked out of the Parliamentary vote for Marriage Equality despite the unambiguous endorsement of it by the electorate).
Such arrogance deserves a proportionate fall.
The notion of him being caught on camera in flagrante delicto behind the Parliamentary wheelie-bins with his trousers round his ankles, a $10 dollar note in one hand and George Christenson’s clammy todger in the other is too optimistic – a more realisable scenario and more palatable mental image is to be hoped for. I’m going with the Spud option.
Peter Spud Dutton’s Prime Ministerial ambitions remain undiminished and the Tory tribes remain a fractious sack of ferrets. FauxMo’s domineering self-belief and belligerent arrogance have dulled his post-election gloss within the Tory ranks, while environmental collapse is opening the eyes of all but the most eye-swivelling of dullards within the electorate. FauxMo’s ratings will tumble as the fires continue to burn and the rivers continue to dry up. He’s praying for rain – to save his arse and to claim that it’s another miraculous sign that he is in Jesus’s good books.
Meanwhile, Spud, Herr Kipfler, is honing his shiv. The latest iteration of his tired, tawdry fear and trepidation PR gimmick is to deploy more militarised public servants to patrol those spaces where their presence best sells the Potato’s propaganda – airports during the heavily travelled festive season. “Without me, you’ll all die in fiery bombings at the hands of swarthy immigrants. Merry Christmas. Spud.”
There are rumours that Spud will be following up this latest stunt by phoning around Tory MPs over the Christmas break to test their appetites for ScoMocide. Unlike Morrison, Spud won’t pretend to have clean hands – he revels in his neo-nasty reputation of hard man. I now hope he succeeds.
WTF? Yep, I mean it. Morrison is that bad. Dutton will ensure a massacre of Tories come the next election. Morrison will be suitably discarded and humiliated – it will be a huge blow to his unshakable belief that his reign was God ordained. He can slink away crestfallen and fall off the edge of his flat earth leaving a skidmark and a legacy of worst PM ever.
Merry Christmas!
* * * * *
“Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice.” (William Jennings Bryan)
“My destiny was to be PM. Jesus chose me.” (Scott Morrison). OK, I made that up, but we know he believes it.
This article was originally published on The Grumpy Geezer.
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