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Enter Pauline Hanson. BJ considers his options Alan Moir Net zero is the issue. Equivalent to Barnaby's achievements after 20 years in politics. As Coalition hard right loons prepare to defenestrate Sussan Ley, barking Barmy Joyce the empurpled jizz distributor from New England, is threatening to jump. Pauline Hanson has offered him an opening. Someone, and I wish I could give credit, recently said of Barnaby that he is spruiking typewriters in a touchscreen world. The "best retail politician" in Australia is aggrieved and considering joining the anachronisms of One Neuron to tout the virtues of carbon pollution with their science-averse quacks and weirdos (viz Screwloose Lautrec - the wee, shaved gerbil signing himself as " Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul " on parliamentary correspondence). Aptronymic David L̶a̶u̶g̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶t̶o̶c̶k̶ Littleproud, who should be capable of seeing both sides of an argument simultaneously, is the cause of Barmaby's current chagrin. The rhubarb-tinted one feels hard done by - Littleproud having shivved BJ, his once upon a time mentor. The soi-disant man of consequence, now a forlorn figure on the nosebleed back bench, is never again to achieve the status that he thinks is his due. “ My relationship with the leadership of the Nationals in Canberra has unfortunately, like a sadness in some marriages, irretrievably broken down ” lamented the impregnatron - he who had become used to enjoying the perks of being on top. A wobbly-booted blend of cirrhosis and stupidity the libidinously incontinent Barmaby is an inevitable evolution from the mercifully brief "Abbott era" (sic) - taxonomically being the bozozoic interregnum. Barmy is a relic from the subsequent cretinaceous period of Morrison/Joyce L/NP government. "The former Nationals leader has long been a national embarrassment, accident-prone and scandal-ridden, and it is beyond time that he quit politics altogether." Troy Bramston. The Australian, 21 Oct 2025. When you've lost Murdoch's Tory propaganda apparatus.... Barmy's primary talent is throwing grenades - typically into the trenches on his own side. He has crossed the floor 28 times. This goes down well with the rubes. There is a MAGA-like devotion in the bush to this crapulous ultracrepidarian*, a Bjelke-Petersen acolyte, a lover of bush-based boondoggles, a rorter, a credibly accused sexual harasser (he has denied the allegations). BJ is a bloviating chucklefuck who works the gimmick of wise man of the land, a bloke who tells it like it is, an uncompromising champion of the 'weatherboard nine' who are doing it tough in the sticks. The ludicrously large, wide-brimmed Akubra, the RM Williams boots (now swapped for Gina Rinehart's Indonesian-made Rossi brand), his affectation of reciting the names of country towns in his rambling dialogues, hands clasped over the bulging ROI from his copious VB investments. The random placement of teeth (neglected headstones in an abandoned churchyard), the sartorial cred of a split laundry bag dragged from under a bush, the magenta visage (Joyce's jabberings are typically so incoherent as to be useless for determining his state of sobriety - better to monitor the purpleness of his head). All this contributes to his "authenticity" apparently. But Barmy's overt brand is grievance. *Ultracrepidarian: one who loves to give their opinion, at length, on matters they know nothing about. Net zero is his immediate cause celebre. There is a holey bucket technique to his anti-renewables ranting - 'climate change is a con, climate change has always happened, humans don't contribute to climate change, Australia doesn't contribute to climate change, our contribution is too small to matter, the cost of mitigation is too high. Besides, Gina once offered me $40,000 cheque and my mate Matty's family owns a busted arse coal mine'. Barmy is quite chuffed at his latest grenade, throwing it at the Nat's commitment to net zero, administering the coup de gras to Suss's fraught political ambitions, jeopardising the Coalition and guaranteeing a further massacre of Tories at the next election. “I’ve played my part. I could be faux humble and say, ‘Oh no, no.’ Definitely, I played my part. Had a big part.” Barking Barmy bragging on his role in the Nats dropping of net zero and thereby wanting to wilfully undermine the health of the planet's biosphere. Barmy abandoning the Nats comes as somewhat of a surprise. This is not a bloke with transferrable skills outside of white collar crime. He was once an accountant - who as Shadow Finance Minister struggled with the difference between millions and trillions (he lasted 3 months in that role). He's misconstrued the biblical invocation of thy rod and thy staff. He's been Deputy PM and acting PM on multiple occasions which adds cachet to a CV but he can never be accused of bringing dignity or credibility to the roles so, so much for any of the lobbying/consulting firms. A talking head on Sky? A Murdoch hack? BJ's forte is incoherent gibbering so it's a long shot, but don't rule it out. Joining Clive Hairy Palmer's wingnut collective? That possibility has the 'ka-ching' factor - Clive's got lots of money and he throws it around at his lost causes. Senator Joyce from the Cookers-R-Us party! To paraphrase an aphorism - BJ wouldn't be the dumbest fuck in the Senate but he'd want to hope Clive's bug-eyed chubster Ralphie Babet doesn't die. Big Vag's fudgels for discarded Tory nut jobs? If Gina Reinhart can cop the egregious Sophie Mirabella on her payroll she can cope with BJ as a directly employed gofer rather than, as now, a sub-contracted one. I won't write this option off. The talked about option though is the lipsticked dipstick from Ipswich. (" Australia may be on a trajectory where One Nation overtakes the Coalition to become the nation’s main right-wing party " - The New Daily). The Libs are like fish looking for barrel so this is not as wild an idea as it first seems. Pauline Hanson, after seeing the images of a munted Joyce splayed on a Braddon footpath said " there's my boy! " She's added smugness to her grab bag of personality defects and thinks Barmy would be a good fit for her delusional ambitions. No commentary on Drunkerby is complete without this emblematic representation of his contribution to Oz politics. This disgrace has been our Deputy PM and acting PM. A seat in the Senate would give BJ another 6 years at least sucking on the public teat - something the champions of small government are quite practised at. If he stands as an independent in his seat he may be re-elected but as an independent he won't enjoy the perks and privileges afforded major party members, so unlikely to happen. If he does he would split the red neck vote and open up the possibility of a more progressive independent ala Tony Windsor taking the win. Oh frabjous day! Watching the machinations of those on the right such as Barmaby is quite entertaining. The grievance peddlars, the Trumpsters, the febrile Christo-fascists and happy clappers, those for whom wealth equates to virtue, flat earthers, sex pests. Consider the freaks of Barmaby's persuasion - Craig Kelly, the party swapper who changes gear without using the clutch, spherical Buoy George Chistensen, coprophiliac Mark Latham, Matt King Coal Canavan, el narcisso Cory Bernardi, Alex Antic who's busily turning the SA Liberals into an unelectable tent revival of Jesus freaks. Things never work out well for the extreme right. Climate change. You can believe the world's scientists or you can believe Dick Pounder and the Chicken Chokers. As amusing as they are they are also damaging to the country's well being whenever in the wheelhouse. It looks likely that the BJ will help keep them side-lined for some time yet. " Technology not taxes "..." We believe in technology, they [Labor] believe in legislation. They believe in laws, we believe in technology. " Barnaby Joyce, then part of executive government that creates laws. This from a senior member of a coalition that sought to sabotage the NBN, that defunded the CSIRO, that bagged the SA Big Battery, that claimed EVs would end the weekend, and they now will do all they can to sabotage renewable energy initiatives. "Twenty-three years ago, a Chinese-Australian solar scientist moved from Sydney to Wuxi to build China's solar panel manufacturing industry from scratch, using technology developed in Australian universities. "Shi Zhengrong became the world's first clean energy billionaire, nicknamed "The Sun King". China went on to dominate global solar panel manufacturing and, thanks to a mix of innovation and cut-throat competition, made solar the cheapest source of electricity in history. "Australian science graduates filled the top technology roles at the biggest Chinese solar companies. And a solar cell design developed in Australia became the global standard. "Meanwhile, Australia mostly stopped building its own solar panels." James Purtill, ABC's online technology reporter, April 2024. China once built an industry from Australian innovation. China now has a 20-year technological innovation advantage over the rest of the world. The technophobic Tories have been well and truly kicked to the kerb. Let's help ensure they stay there for some time yet. Fun with anagrams Barnaby Joyce - Cab nearby, joy. Weatherboard Nine Our hero strides off into the sunset. Product Description, Marlowes 2nd hand books : "207 pages. Book and Jacket appear to have hardly been read and are both in as new condition throughout." Barnaby Joyce: Cross country. SMH, 19 May, 2016 ($) " When I look at this," he says, shaking his head, "I start to wonder whether climate change might really be happening. " Barnaby Joyce trashed the regulator and left Labor to clean up his pesticide mess . "J oyce was told would happen if he moved APVMA to his electorate happened, and it trashed the agency ." Crikey, 17 July 2023 ($). Barnaby Joyce isn’t a ‘maverick’ political genius. He’s a politically poisonous sook. Crikey ($) 20 October 2025

The cold, pallid glow from a gibbous midnight moon breaks through scudding clouds on an otherwise black and typically bleak, wintry Canberra. Buried beneath a fog-shrouded Capital Hill the halls of Parliament House are eerily deserted, yet a chillingly familiar, stuttering cackle echos down the long, dimly lit corridor of the back-benchers' wing - "a h...uh...uh...heh...heh...heh !" In pushing aside the door marked Tony Abbott MHR the sound seems to come from a sarcophagus atop a large desk, its lid slightly ajar. Peering inside, drawn by an appalled anticipation of horrors to be revisited the curious snooper gapes, aghast at the familiar, waxy pallor with the lipless mouth drawn back into its awful grimace and is greeted by a sleazy wink. It's alive........alive! The horror is still alive! C+. The Editor Malcolm Turnbull did Australia a huge favour when he pulled the big, green swivel chair out from under Tony Abbott PM. The most destructive politician in our history was deservedly humiliated and to great public acclaim thrown into a dumpster on the back benches where it was thought he could cause only limited further damage. But any hopes for a return to more thoughtful politics proved to be misplaced - dashed by Abbott's mendacity, spite and utter bastardry. His political corpse had more than a pulse; it was fully animated by his innate vindictiveness and zero sum mindset. He was prepared to sacrifice his party for his own vengeful ends. A creature shaped by a friendless childhood and indoctrination into a Medieval religious dogma Abbott somehow developed a self-belief that scorned all facts, merit or logic. His is an ideology based on wreckage and destruction. With no imagination, no creativity, no ideas, no care for the truth he had only sabotage, lies and hypocrisy. His political style is akin to lighting farts in a fireworks factory. Abbott plotted and schemed with his loony fringe acolytes who'd slipped through the crazy filter and finally succeeded in bringing down his nemesis Turnbull. But he has not finished yet. He plots further perfidy - withdrawal from the Paris agreement on carbon emissions, the end of any remediation of climate change, undermining of the electorate's endorsement of marriage equality, the break-up of the ABC and killing off any progressive initiatives. He will use these issues as an excuse to continue his malignant vendetta. Abbott looked shaken after the Lib Party Room spill voted down his proxy - the dead-eyed dog Dutton. Gone for now was his lipless hyena-like grin, gone too his ludicrous bow-legged affectation that reminds me of a rodeo rider leaving a port-a-loo. But make no mistake, this scabrous gobshite, this simian seminarian from Warringah will continue to snipe and wreck and undermine. It's all he knows, it's his only talent. If Parliament House had a belfry Abbott would have a suitable roost, hanging by his heels from the rafters. Without which his natural habitat is a Manly street corner with a sandwich board and loud-hailer - shouting at pigeons and pointing at brown people. Dear Tony Abbottageddon

The malignant monsignor from Manly, that simian seminarian Tony Abbott is celebrated by the Liberal (sic) Party as the best ever Leader Of The Opposition. Negativity was his primary virtue - the zero sum mindset of a crusading, belligerent religious dogmatist to whom truth, facts, evidence and ethics were entirely dispensable in pursuit of his personal deity's assigned task of imposing an authoritarian, neo-liberal theocracy onto our secular, progressive instincts. A Torquemada out of his time. Abbott's creepy weirdness and his shameless lying and hypocrisy became too much for the public, jeopardising the Libs' born-to-rule cause of shoveling public money to corporate carpet-baggers, rent seekers and privileged grifters. But, the rabid Abbott's consequent political assassination re-energised the behaviours that triggered his downfall in the first place as he mendaciously set about vengefully sabotaging his own party. His talent for wrecking and destroying was once more brought to the fore. Despite continued endorsement from the swivel-eyed loonies Abbott's star has well and truly faded but his legacy stains the Liberal Party. He's painted their walls with his excrement and most of it has set. Nowhere is this more evident than with the Lib's response to the massacre at Wentworth last Saturday. The blue-as-blue Wentworth, the wealthiest electorate in the country represented by conservatives for 117 years smashed the Libs across the face with a shovel and voted for a progressive-minded lesbian to champion causes that are anathema to the colander-hatted crazies. The Lib's Abbottesque incompetence was on full show in the lead up to the by-election; each fuck-up was followed by yet another fuck-up. Scare-mongering, bribes, brain farts, thought bubbles and dirty tricks; all as if Abbott was still the "adult in charge". But it was their response to the result that has set the seal on their imminent demise. Tin-eared, delusional, arrogant. "Business-as-usual" hectored Shouty McShoutyface in a style reminiscent of his mentors from his Church Of Jesus Shopping Hypocrites - you could almost hear the shaking of tambourines and the hissing of snakes as he delivered a prosperity-doctrine sermon loosely disguised as a concession speech. They are doomed. Abbott established the operating model for this coagulation of grifters, spruikers, god-botherers, pooners and hillbillies that misrepresents itself as a government. His work is complete. But Abbott is going nowhere. Unemployable outside of politics, convinced he is on a mission from god our feculant friar is digging in - schemeing for a Lib loss at the next election and his return to the leadership where he thinks that next time he will be rightfully received as a saviour. But he's not the messiah - he's just a nasty cunt. Dear Tony Is this the worst band in the world? FauxMo hits the road: The Twat In A Hat The Undead - haunting the House under the hill Egregious arseholes - The Top Ten

Angela Merkel's G20 briefing notes on our PM-of-the-moment have fallen off the back of an Argentinian truck and into my hands Frau Merkel Profile: Scott John Morrison Aka FauxMo, SloMo, Smirko, Scummo but favours ScoMo as a rather piss-weak and wholly transparent attempt at image management; a schmo with no mojo. Temporary Prime Minister of Australia. This may change prior to the conclusion of the G20 and most certainly will by May next year. Background : RWNJ and happy-clapping, Jesus-shopping prosperity gospeller who was ignominiously sacked in shadowy circumstances from two government tourism gigs. Persona : Typically exhibits a condescending smirk. A smart-arsed know-all whose failures have not detracted from a delusional self-belief that is oblivious to facts and logic. Personification of all of the characteristics of the political party he (temporarily) leads: breathtaking hypocrisy, tin-eared delusion and backstabbing treachery. A contender, with Tony Abbott and Billy MacMahon for the title of the worst Prime Minister in Australia's history. He is unlikely to topple the seriously creepy Abbott for the crown as he won't hold office long enough and he doesn't lick babies' faces. Or kiss the back of women's heads ( but be careful anyway, he's standing right behind you ). Gesundheit Hans und Dieter Fukwitmonitoringkommando with confidential input from Herr Adolf Kipfler, Ersatzkommondant, Gestapotato, Dickson Branch, Queensland

Dear Tony, It's time. Don't humiliate yourself any further; gather the tattered remnants of what remains of your dignity and go. Whatever vestige of credibility you may have ever had is long gone. You're a figure of fun, a delusional buffoon with an introspection-free self-regard that has been resistant to public derision, your serial failures or any wise counsel. You embarass yourself, and far worse, you embarass our country. Your time, the mid 1800s, has gone to never return and so should you. Frightened by a girl you've surrendered your archaic signature doctrine of withdrawing from the Paris Agreement on climate change in a pathetically transparent dodge to rescue your unhinged ambition of a return to the big, green swivel chair. You've been shirt-fronted by Zali Steggall and you pissed your pants. Is it your narcissism that prevents you from considering a return to the limbo of your pre-infamy days as a nobody? Is that a scarier prospect than the ignominy of being taken down by a woman? Is that worse than the very real prospect of further humiliation - a Howard-scale rejection by a rusted-on Liberal Party base in your Tory heartland electorate? Pause for a moment Tones and reflect upon your résumé. Your only achievements have been ones of destruction and wreckage. Free of imagination, ideas or insight you have sought to level the playing field by bringing down the accomplishments of others. Negativism is your forté, capriciousness is your modus operandi, slander and bullying are your tools of trade. Hamstrung by religious conceits and weighed down by insecurity you seek validation from your antiquated certainties - the unquestionable authority of a medieval belief system and its dogma, the hereditary supremacy of born-to-rule elites, the worship of privilege, power and wealth. You're lost in a world of ritualised voo-doo and dog-eat-dog Randesque ideology where we serfs know our place and democratic institutions are an inconvenience to be sabotaged or manipulated. Jonathan Swift wrote in 1721: Reasoning will never make a man correct an ill opinion, which by reasoning he never acquired . Reasoning is not one of your strong points Tones. You're a man of flexible principles but rigid opinions. You sought affirmation from a convicted child rapist yet dismissed the expertise of scientists. For you the mysticism of be-jewelled, robed necromancers swathed in incense and claiming to have the ear of an omnipotent yet vindictive deity always trumped proof, evidence and facts. You were always widely loathed and so it remains. The evidence supports popular opinion: you are a leering, winking, creepy sexist, you are a self-confessed homophobe, a mendacious, cowardly bully, a crank and a weirdo with a propensity for licking the faces of babies and kissing the back of women's heads. Despite your image management - the macho man in red sluggos, the lycra-clad warrior, the hero with a hose, it is obvious to all except the gormless and callow that you are phony, Tony. The staccato cackle, the clammy, cadaverous countenance of a carp wrapped in cling film, the sleazy, lipless smile, the ludicrous bow-legged affectation bringing to mind a rodeo cowboy leaving a port-a-loo; it's all counter-productive Chuckle Head and subliminally reminds us of your ape-like swaggering approach to unexpecting victims - the lunatic grin and manic chuckle, the far-too-close, double-handed deathgrip cutting off easy escape. We could read the minds of the hapless recipients of this faux chumminess Tones, we could see it in their eyes - " Fuck, I want to turn away but if I do he may kiss the back of my head. But if I don't he may go for the mouth. " You're King Midas in reverse Tones - everything you touch turns to shit. For your own self-respect, it's not too late, give it away. Gratuitously yours Grumpy Geezer Also posted in the Australian Independent Media Network More on Tony: Abbottageddon The Undead - haunting the House under the hill

From a photo from The Guardian It's the smirk; that perpetual, condescending, self-satisfied smirk. It's a creepy display of the arrogance of a smug holy-roller who literally believes he has a red carpet awaiting his ascent to join the celestial choir come the rapture while we undeserving outsiders are to be condemned to eternal torment, both in this life and in the firey beyond. " My personal faith in Jesus Christ is not a political agenda " said FauxMo the god-shopper who sought out his preferred version of Jesus and found it in the Pentacostal Retail Therapy franchise. His Prime Ministership, facilitated by prayer and regular monthly payments, is his Armageddon dress rehearsal - a dry run for the end of the world. It explains so much about a patronising elitist whose superstitions, despite his denials, are a core part of who he his and how he shapes and sells his political agenda. Religion is an escape - it's a comfort blanket, a crutch, a denial of the harsh realities of our transient existence on a tiny blue dot in an immense, timeless cosmos. It's Santa Claus for adults - where an old bearded guy maintains a list of who's been naughty and who's been nice. I happily went along with the jolly, florid fatman myth for my kids at Christmas when they were little, and I don't challenge the religious notions of the elderly who, staring imminent oblivion in the eye, seek out comfort in the notion of eternal repose by an astral spa where the sun lounges have not all been reserved by Germans. Religion in that context is harmless. But throughout history religion has otherwise manifested itself in the demonisation and persection of the others, those not of the "true faith", while providing fortune and favour for the cults' CEOs and their bag carriers. Does that not line up nicely with FauxMo's words and deeds? Who could watch Morrison's shouty, spittled hectoring in Pariament and not be reminded of a revivalist preacher haranguing a congregation with confected outrage at hell-bound scapegoats and promising that salvation requires deference to he who has a special relationship with an almighty? This is a bloke who ignores science; who credits his IVF daughters to a god-given miracle but not to the science that enabled it. More ominously Brother Scotty also attributes his election win to another miracle - one that the Big Guy signed off on after a prayer session. Divine intervention! If Jesus is OK with his Machieavelian back-stabbing then perhaps FauxMo sees himself as a legitimate inheritor of the doctrine of the divine right of kings - subject to no earthly authority. The arrogance, the hubris, the disdain for scrutiny and accountability, the appeal to his "quiet Australians" as obedient, unquestioning supplicants to his authority; it all fits the profile of a bloke who cannot separate his paternalistic religion from his day job. Most, if not all, of those who attain high political office are egotists, many are in it for the power and self-enrichment, some are despots, some are standard-issue nutters and weirdos (g'day Tony) and others are fully-fledged, orange-tinted loon-ponders. Of the current shop of horrors - Putin, Kim, Xi, Trump, Johnson, Farrage, Bolsanaro, Duterte, Orban, Al Assad, Netanyahu et al only Morrison is an overt religionist. That does not let religion off the hook - it simply makes Scooter somewhat of an exception, believing he's there by divine providence and not just political artiface which just makes him a more zealous threat to our fairness and freedoms. With his exclusionary god on his side FauxMo can demonise and punish all undeserving outsiders with a clear conscience. The unemployed, the underemployed, the poor, the indigenous, the homeless, asylum seekers, environmentalists and vegan activists are all fair game. Dissent and scrutiny are to be outlawed - GetUp, whistleblowers and unions are to be persecuted. Expertise that diverges from the scripture of Brother Scotty, whether scientists, the public service or our institutions like the CSIRO and ABC, is to be silenced or ignored. With the rapture pending he does not care a jot for the health of the planet - why should he, it's all going to end soon. He's King Cnut; trying to hold back the progressive tides until Armageddon. Unluckily for him it's the unfolding climate disasters and a tanking economy that will see his acolytes start to abandon the pews. Morrison has a messiah complex, but despite his mushroom politics he cannot hide the incompetence and graft, his spin has spun and in the battle of ideas he's left holding the beers. Without his religion he's got nothing but a smirk. It won't be too long before the dak shatter goes terminal and the hairless Hitler, Spud-Dutton, seizes his chance. Heaven help us! Australian neo-Pentecostal perspectives on anthropogenic climate change .

FauxMo has now returned from his one man band tour to Washington. Invited by the orange PT Barnum (" there's a sucker born every minute ") our be-spectacled, chubby PM No Friends was vaporous at the prospect of playing dress-ups with the richest kid in school. It's rumoured that he even shat his pants with excitement. Morrison flatters himself that he's a master marketer, a puller-off (now, now) of miracles, so it will be interesting to see to what extent he'll borrow from his new, orange BFF's grab bag of grift and graft and sleight of hand trickery. Morrison was too star-struck to realise that Trumplethinskin had jizzed all over his back simply to admire his own reflection ... the Narcissist In Chief has no interest in Morrison other than as a compliant rent boy and stooge, someone with whom to taunt China, an urger to back-up the cowardly schoolyard bully's bluster on Iran. Morrison was the ideal dupe for Trump's flagrant schmooze, willingly jeopardising our relationship with our biggest trading partner and risking entanglement in another counter-productive Middle Eastern conflict in exchange for a photo op and a tickle behind the ear. Despite his smug self-belief FauxMo is a lightweight; a vacuous phony, a fatuous, hollow vessel who seeks validation from prosperity gospelling hucksters. How did he imagine that his knee-bending to a malignant narcissist and sex predator would play out at home? Did he imagine that blowing The Donald would add some gravitas to his faked image? Why did he think that being cheered by a rabid rabble of slope-headed MAGAs at a cardboard box factory would be a good look? Macca Dakka And who in their right mind would schedule in for the 2019 FauxMo Bend-over Tour a photo-op of Skidmark in front of a MacDonald's drive-through sign at a Chicago innovation hub? The Engadine Maccas dak-shatting saga is a source of wide bemusement and there can be little doubt that the Americans' intel on Skiddy includes his infamous brown-out at the southern suburbs junkfood emporium, so somewhere some anonymous jokester in the White House logistics team is having a bit of a laugh at our incontinent PM's expense. How the actual fuck did this not raise a red flag with the self-styled master marketer? It's also noteworthy that the PM of the Liberal Party (the destroyers of a functional NBN and saboteurs of clean energy initiatives, the dig-it-up-and-ship-it-out Luddites) thinks that a junk food drive through menu represents notable innovation. FMD!) FauxMo's take-aways Did Shatty think he'd look good in comparison to the gaga MAGA? Was there an element of playing up to Oz's own happy clapping Armageddon-rich gravy-trainers, a reliable cohort of fraudsters whose talent for bilking the gormless, the dull-eyed, the callow and the just plain greedy is a template for our prime faecal-spreader's behaviour? Does the huge pool of religious Trumper whackos in the US offer a potential source of additonal funding for the god-botherer infested Lying Nasty Party? Morrison's draft guest list for the shindig was said to have included a close mentor, wealth accumulation consultant and CEO of Mammonites For Jesus Inc. Why would that be? Lifting the profile of a god-for-profit shonk in the huge market that is the land of the easily duped is my guess. But what are the take-aways from the tour for FauxMo? Trump's chutzpah with his constant and blatant lying must've impressed our Liar From The Shire who, while perfectly at ease with his own pork pies, has seen first hand that opportunity exists to ramp it up a few notches. FauxMo's "Canberra bubble" and "gossip" is a tad more nuanced than Trump's "fake news" but I have bet a round of beers that FauxMo will test the waters by letting that term slip from his smirky lips real soonish. What's he up to? The Liberal Party's dirty tricks have included the wedge and dog-whistle since the dark days of John The Lying Rodent Howard as has the ideology of divide and conquor. Australia's more enlightened compulsory turn-up-to-vote system means that our pollies do not need to encourage their ragged fringes to vote with some shameless appeals to bigotry ... but yet that is the trajectory that the Libs are on. They'll go the full Hanson should the nightmare of a Trump 2020 victory materialise. Fear, uncertainty and doubt (the FUD factor) is another Tory tradition - it served FauxMo well in 2019 with a fall-over-the-line win. Will that close call motivate a further slide to the RWNJ practices of victimisation and ostracism of easy targets? Of course it will. The only issue is whether they will find inspiration in Trump's megaphone tactics; Trump's MAGAs are FauxMo's "quiet Australians" - querulous, easily frightened and hence easily manipulated. Slogans not policies; not vision, not action but a dulled, gulled "silent majority" - it works here (taxes) just as well as it does in the Land Of The Introspection-Free (guns). With FUD comes authoritariansim. A fearful public is a compliant public and both the LNP and the GOP are ardent practitioners albeit in different ways. Here the Tories raid unions, journalists and the ABC whereas that could not happen in the U.S. But authoritarianism presents FauxMo with an image problem. Our shape shifting pants shitter contrived an image for himself of a typical suburban goofy dad - gobbin' pies and kneckin' beers at the footie and mounting machinery at factories and farms. It fooled enough of the dupes and the stupid to get him over the line so does he keep up the charade and dispense with his moth-balled shouty hardman persona, the tough talking jailer, the demoniser of dusky hordes? He's got a Howardesque rat cunning - he signed off on the shivving of Malcolm Turnbull but made sure he had no fingerprints on the weapon nor blood stains on his shirt but how will he now further manipulate his image? 'Bloated, dysfunctional, orange narcissist' won't make the short list I'm sure and Spud-Dutton has copyrighted the fascist dictator persona. I'm thinking a paternalistic cross between Pig Iron Bob Menzies and Joh Bjelke-Petersen wrapped in some good ol' Trumpian razza-matazz is a theme that would appeal to him. If it doesn't come off and Spud goes in for the kill he can always get a job at Engadine Maccas as a bucket boy. A closer look at Scott Morrison’s CV - Crikey Engadine Macca's rumour - KIIS

There's a lot about Scott ' Poo Bear ' Morrison that can be explained away by the fact that he's just another RWNJ with a RWNJ agenda. Also, it's widely acknowledged that he's a finalist in the contest of no ideas with his charisma and sex appeal registering somewhere around 'check-your-phone-to-avoid-eye-contact' level. But he's not unique in those aspects; John Howard's lugubrious presence would suck the joy from a box of kittens and Tony Abbott's asinine, bow-legged, red-sluggoed, hairy macho affectations took weird to a whole new level. What is it about Poo Bear that makes him different though? And just how weird is he? Howard was mean and tricky, a master of the dog-whistle and the wedge, a divider and the architect of the nastiness that forms the foundations of today's wretched L/NP regime. He wasn't weird so much as very, very nasty - an individual who has done incalculable damage to this country. Morrison has embraced much of Howard's poisonous politics but he's a different sort of character - it's Howard's suburban solicitor guile vs Morrison's spin merchant claptrap. Abbott, the simian seminarian, however is clearly a weirdo, perhaps due to a lonely childhood spent hiding in the shrubbery, religious indoctrination and too many punches to the head all manifesting in a life of serial failure and the spiteful mendacity of his thwarted, delusional ambition. Abbott's talents suggest a suitable post-politics career with sandwich board and loudhailer pointing at brown people and shouting at pigeons. But Abbott's weirdness is not the same weirdness as Poo Bear's. Poo's odd-bod foreign contemporaries are of note also for comparison purposes. Alexander Boris de Piffle Johnson is a £5 haircut on an unmade bed, a chancer and a spiv; and of course there's the citrus Caligula himself, Donny T. Boris Johnson. BoJo MoJo for ScoMo? Although born in New York Boris De Piffle is a product of England, the green and pleasant land of the class system, fagging, would-be posh twats punting in boaters, the Sex Pistols, cheese rolling, socks with sandals, Morris dancing, Fawlty Towers and the Robin Reliant. It has towns called Curry Mallet, Nether Wallop, Mudford Sock and Great Snoring. It's a country where small, public transgressions of etiquette will earn a severe tutting from strangers, it's a place that elected Maggie Thatcher and then enthusiastically celebrated her departure for the great beyond with street parties. England is a celebration of the off-beat, it's a soggy, windswept home to the charmingly eccentric. That all helps explain Boris De Piffle who amped up his Englishness to Monty Python as reality TV - the voters liking what they thought of as his ability to be “real.” De Piffle's buffoonery is a calculated deception. The "lovable rogue" persona is cover for his willingness to say almost anything to win, his poverty of ideas and his absolute focus on personal power all hidden behind a contrived, bumbling affability. Does that sound like someone closer to home? Lynton Crosby, the Lying Nasty Party's svengali for election dirty tricks teamed up with Johnson on his 2008 bid for the London mayor's gig and was in his ear in his manouvering for the British PM job while Crosby's company C|T Group claimed a share of the glory in Poo Bear's come-from-behind victory in our election. Affable eccentric Boris / daggy dad ScoMo - just a weird coincidence I'm sure. Deckstain Donny & his Strumpettes Donny Trump is not so much weird as fully mental, a bubbling cauldron of raving dementia whose orange head is a tweet away from an explosion of fetid offal. Poo Bear Morrison's support act for Deckstain at the White House was scheduled not so much in recognition of Australia's "special relationship" with the U.S. nor as acknowledgement of Morrison's vague talents or unmagnetic personality but, as with all things Trump, it was all about Trump. Donny the malignant narcissist has to be, as always, the star with Morrison as his enthusiastic flunky - his number 2 if you like. The whole shebang was ramped up to blackhole level on the suckometer; a state reception was the event horizon of the colossal, all-consuming vortex that is Trump's madness - once within its gravity field there can be no escape. Return favours have already been called in. Australia has been sucked into the alternative universe that is Trumpworld. At the risk of mixing metaphors it should be said that a rational national leader would foresee that being feted by His Effluence was akin to catching the bouquet at a funeral but I suspect Morrison was too enthralled, not just by the office of POTUS, but by the debauched personality that currently infests it. At face value the two men are chalk and cheese. Billionaire grifter vs daggy suburban dad. Frotteurist vs happy clapper. Sexualiser of daughter vs brainwasher of daughters. Deranged paranoia vs sly manipulation. So why the cow-eyes from Morrison, why the lovesick smirk? If Morrison had had any hair he would've flicked it over his shoulder with a toss of the head and a wink, and then to avoid mixed messages thrown in a full OysterVision redux of Sharon Stone's famous scene in Basic Instinct. I have no doubt that Poo Bear sees in Trump's purported billions a blessing from on high - holy endorsement from the Zegna-suited, Moet-sipping Jesus of Nazareth Country Club. Additional evidence of godly providence is to be found in Trump's miracle win over Hillary in 2016 ala his own god-approved win over Shorten. Perhaps Poo also sees a role model, a mentor whose brazen lying, disregard for decency and dismissal of conventions and institutions provides a guide for his own ambitions. He's already headed down that path so is he looking for tips and ideas on how far he should take it? Learning from the big boys The crime spree that is the Trump presidency provides inspiration for the copycat criminals of the Lying Nasty Party. Trucking tax-payers' money to friends and family is the foundational ideology of the IPA (trading as the L/NP Pty Ltd) but it's the Yanks who are known for their mastery of crony capitalism so there are lessons to learn, contacts to be cultivated, new friends to schmooze, more money to be made. Trump can open doors should Poo drop his drawers. Broad church coffers The gospel according to Poo and his fellow Jesus-shoppers is one of selective prosperity - rich folk are rich because they are righteous and poor folk are poor because they are not. The land of Jimmy Swaggart, Jerry Falwell, Jim & Tammy Faye Bakker and their odious ilk offers unlimited potential for bilking the credulous in the god-approved cause of turning a buck. When asked, Poo refused to deny that he'd suggested that a wealth consultant and rapturist (let's call him Pastor Al Dente) should join the other mega-rich groupies on the tour. Private prayers in transit seeking further sales leads from the Big Guy in the sky could've perhaps been a motivation for including Pastor Al in the retinue. Fellow ooger-boogers in the Trump camp are Veep Mike Pence (Bobblehead McCormack's separated twin) and Secretary of State Bomber Pompeo. Could an introduction to these two well-placed Armageddonists provide credibility and access to a cornucopia of evangelicals' business plans? Growing the franchise, yeah? This, of course, is all speculation - the sort of speculation that would be generated should Morrison have been dumb enough to invite a millionaire prosperity gospellor to accompany him. What's the catch? There's no free lunch when Deranged Donny is involved. Quid Pro Quo++. Not a problem for Poo, he'd hung a for rent sign on his arse before the wheels of Shark1© had left the tarmac. A bummer for Downer? Is Lord Downton-Abbey of Adelaide to be sacrificed to service Trump's unhinged paranoia? Our Ambassador in Washington Sloppy Joe Hockey laid the groundwork - obtaining the bus timetable in readiness for the vehicular transformation of Alexander Downer to roadkill. As a sop to the orange fruitcake Sloppy volunteered to "assist" with investigations into our puffy, plummy-vowelled ex-diplomat's role as a deep-state Clinton operative. While many people have thought of Downer as a plant it was only ever in botanical terms. Downer's James Bond credentials are limited to bugging the East Timorese to facilitate the further theft of their oil and gas, all in line with standard Tory behaviour, so the idea that he's an agent of the left is laughable; but his discomfiture is hugely amusing. A pompous, elitist Tory twat is now on the receiving end of a RWNJ pineapple suppository. How far will Morrison go in aiding and abetting the combed-over cockwomble's crimes, assisting his desperate attempts to discredit Robert Mueller by scalping Downer? Downer's quavering bottom lip will at least provide "Witness K" and Bernard Collaery with an opportunity to indulge in some justifiable shadenfreude. Titanium man with a tin ear Being obsequious to US presidents is on all Australian PM's checklists - it's not a sign of weirdness. What's weird about Poo's behaviour though is his embrace of things Trump. The Trump Lite mannerisms - the thumbs up, baseball caps, flag lapel pins; the tribute band performance at a Wapakoneta box factory opening-cum-MAGA rally, the "fake news/Canberra bubble" and anti-globalism/UN rhetoric. Why has Poo turned orange when with every tweet and every utterance Trump megaphones his madness and his criminality? It's possibly spin merchant Morrison tapping into the Trumpian anti-politician politician schtick but it's still weird when Trump in Oz is as welcome as a fart in a phone box. Poo Bear the weird cultist Morrison's shape shifting from Shouty the hard man, to his self-branding as ScoMo the reluctant PM, to daggy dad and champion of those who have a go was supplemented by a screen test of his pious persona - a bizarre spectacle of arm-waving, closed-eye praising of a choosey Jesus from who's favour most of us are excluded unless we ante up 10% of our hard-earned as the price of admission. The look was discomforting. Talking in tongues while awaiting the rapture is not your standard religious practice. This is the freakily weird ideology of a sociopathic theocrat, someone who's empathy is available only when funded, a believer in the dogma of divine intervention in politics by a right-wing deity who wants his subscribers to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle until the imminent rapture when climate disasters and mass extinctions are irrelevant. In countless ways the world is getting ever shittier. And one of the reasons that is so is because of the weirdos like Scott Morrison. Looking for Scott Morrison - The rise, duck and weave of Australia’s no-fault prime minister. The Monthly. The terrifying appeal of Boris Johnson, according to a Johnson voter Will the real Boris Johnson please stand up? - This article is also published in the AIMN .

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. Cartoon courtesy of Alan Moir. You can support Alan by subscribing via his website . 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 rigored 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 is restricted to this 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 widespead 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, obediant, unquestioning "quiet Australians". Democracy and its insitutions are hinderances to god's work, dissent is a sign of the devil, political opponents are agents of the archfiend. His potestations that he separates his politics from his prosperity gospelling dogma is obvious humbug*. 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 Equailty despite the unambiguous endorsement of it by the electorate.) Such arrogance deserves a proportionate fall. The thought 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 beligerent 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'll be praying for rain to save his arse and to suggest that it's another miraculous sign that it's he who 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 Christmans. 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 an electoral massacre of Tories. 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 as his legacy of worst PM ever. Merry Christmas! Update. Shortly after I posted this optimistic prediction the ANU released its 2019 Election Study wherein they state that Morrison "was the most popular leader since Kevin Rudd in 2007, scoring 5.1 on a zero to 10 popularity scale". I'm not changing my view - I'm playing a longer game. The Guardian Essential poll shows that voter disapproval of Morrison has crept up in the second half of 2019, from 34% in July to 43% in December. “ 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.

Image: Pedestrian TV ScoMo? FFS! Giving yourself a nickname is the pitiable act of a Neville No Friends - it's rather like tying a porkchop around your own neck to get your dog to play with you. When such self-branding is done by a once professional ad man (albeit twice sacked) it's pathetically child-like. When signing official Prime Ministerial documents as ScoMo it's deserving of ridicule and contempt. The self-designation as ScoMo is intended to disguise a grifter, a weird cultist, a Machiavellian schemer, an assassin pretending to be a folksy, daggy dad next door. This is the behaviour of a shonk - a skunk, a phony on the make. It's the fake smile of a used car salesman, it's "Wayne" from Bangalore seeking access to your computer, it's the bogus bonhomie of a nudie bar spruiker. It's cheap lipstick on a slippery pig. SloMo, StuntMo, ScamMo, ScumMo, SmokO, SmugO, SmirkO, FauxMo, Scooter, The Liar From The Shire, Scotty From Marketing and Skiddy are more compliant with the principles of truth in advertising and hence these alternatives have been enthusiastically embraced by those who are less susceptible to the fake sincerity of a guileful shyster. Shouty McShoutyface, Scott Morrison V1.0 when Immigration Minister and then Treasurer, revelled in his reputation as a hard man. Demonising asylum seekers, suggesting to cabinet that marginalising Muslims was a useful political ploy, brandishinging a lump of coal in Parliament, spittle-flecked tirades at dissent from the Opposition - that is the real Scott Morrison. Morrison has managed to fool some of the people all of the time but his facade is slipping. The trite marketing gimmick of televising his 'praise the lord and pass the EFTPOS machine' session at his Shire Mammonite Collective was a discomforting insight into a committed, exclusionary cultist. The facade began to smoulder and now with the climate biting back perhaps it has caught fire. The real Morrison has no empathy for any but his fellow subscribers to the Church Of The Holy Dollar and he takes guidance from no-one other than his BFF, mentor and wealth consultant Brother Brian. He's abandoned the country while it burns and he's getting called out for it. When his fellow traveller on the RWNJ Express Alan Jones the London lavs lurker airs a diatribe excoriating his recent behaviour could it be a sign that it's all over red rover for the chosen one? “We do have a crisis in this country. It’s not a drought crisis, it’s a crisis in government. “We have a drought of empathy, a drought of understanding, a drought of compassion, a drought of decency, a drought of sensitivity and a drought of care. “And that drought has overtaken the federal government.” Alan has warned this will be the undoing of the Morrison government. Alan Jones on 2GB The real Morrison cannot tolerate alternative views or opinions, he hates scrutiny and questioning - he truly believes he is his god's annointed one via heavenly miracle and so is not subject to earthly accountability. I suspect that he also believes that the drought and the fires are his god's will and a possible sign of the pending rapture. Now Shouty's finally gone quiet, he's nowhere to be seen. Does he think that this is the end of times or is his unexplained disappearance simply another manifestation of his arrogant disregard for decency? Could the clamour for an explanation of his cowardly desertion be a sign of the beginning of the end of times for Morrison PM? There's a cheerful yuletide throught. While the east coast is ablaze ScumMo cheerfully poses for a selfie in Hawaii.

It was Tony Abbott's ludicrous, bow-legged saunter that encapsulated the man; some wag once remarked that he looked like a cowboy leaving a rodeo portaloo. His gait was an asinine affectation, the purpose of which no doubt was to reinforce his self image of a macho man, a tough guy in red dick-stickers, but instead the ape-like amble simply highlighted the novelty of his adoption of bipedalism. A dung flinger, a wrecker and mendacious sabotour, an idiot, a practised liar and humbug Abbott was without a doubt Australia's worst ever Prime Minister. Until now. Abbott and his trademark I-shat-myself swagger has been superseded by a smirk on a jerk - Scott SkidMark Morrison. The caps, the thumbs up, the pie-gobbin', the beer kneckin' and the stunts; none capture the real Morrison. It's the supercilious, omni-present smirk that does. Arrogance, smugness, disdain and uninterest all in one self-satisfied facial expression that says "I was elected to rule not to serve". The smirk is who Skiddy is. Even in the most dire of contexts he struggles to control it but there's only one thing that will remove it - his inevitable and welcome demise. Many will see the beginning of the end times for brother Skiddy as being marked by his clandestine abandonment of our burning country to flee to a beach chair on Waikiki. Others may see it as marked by his New Year's eve partying at Kiribilli House with his dubious pals frolicking in the pool while firies were putting their lives on the line; or maybe it's his subsequent photo op with cricketers who he saw as more deserving of his presence than those who had lost everything in the flames. For me, the beginning of his end was Nelligen heroic firey Paul Parker's spray. This is the start of the death spiral of a dodgy salesman, the smirk removal shovel to the face of a self-serving grifter. Paul Parker's seminal moment in history. The calamitous bushfires have brought out the best in many people and the worst in others. The worst-of-the-worst is Morrison - a gutless grub who hides from crisis in Hawaii and uses his missus as a human shield. He thinks of the fires as a backdrop to the cricket and describes his presence at a firey's funeral as "tremendous". He ran from aggrieved victims who objected to being used for a photo op and the prick's funded empathy extended to a single bag of Woolies' groceries for the thousands of displaced fire evacuees. This is a brazen coward, a liar, a gobshite and a parasite whose only interest is self-interest. What sort of worm, after being humiliated into responding to the crisis then produces a self-congratulatory TV ad praising himself for all those things he for so long refused to do? The chutzpah is staggering. Morrison the rapturist may believe that the drought and the fires are signs of the Apocolypse but he needs the status of the office of PM and its fat salary to guarantee his seat in the heavenly chariot and a poolside sun lounge in his members only celestial paradise, so he'll continue to propagandise, politicise and gaslight until summoned by the ethereal choir. His Tory cronies will sort through the ashes looking for way to make a quick buck. A promised $2billion recovery fund will have the leeches such as Angus Taylor and Barnaby Joyce drafting their business plans and opening new accounts in the Cayman Islands. The vandalism of our environment will continue as this regime introduces legislation to crack down on environmental litigation and class actions and cuts "green tape" to let loose the vandals to monetise what's left of our natural environment. It will continue to demonise protest and dissent, and its goons will continue to threaten 13 year old girls with arrest. This is no time for politeness, there is no reason to respect Morrison or his office. This is a time for anger and outrage. When Skiddy is eventually extracted from office he will have left his mark - a scorched Australia, smoke-stained glaciers in NZ, Chile and Argentina and a legacy as Australia'a worst PM. Skiddy, you are unprecedented. You are a wretched, despicable cunt. Never forget, never forgive Firey photo: Alex Ettinghausen, SMH Late news: What a disappointment it was to find out Paul Parker is a Hanson booster

The asinine ScoMo brand, daggy dad from next door, is no longer fit for purpose We can be entirely confident that the only people in the room when this photo was taken was Skiddy and his photographer In the absence of any insight, imagination, empathy or ethics it was always going to happen; the real Scott Morrison has been fully exposed. His tissue thin credibility has fallen away to reveal the dodgy product beneath - a gutless grub, a deceitful charlatan, a sideshow spruiker and conman.` Scott Morrison's risible self-marketing as ScoMo the daggy dad from next door is about to be abandoned. Crises are a true test of character and our sausage-sangered, beer neckin' football groupie has been found wanting. When your house has burned down or your struggling sports club's bid for some much needed funding is guzumped by some silvertail's desire for a tax-payer funded cigar lounge for his badminton courts then the last thing you want is a smarmy, smirking, piss-stained twat in a cap invading your personal space for a photo-op. There are now many places in Australia where "ScoMo" would be ridden out of town on a rail so it's time for another rebranding. What will the lickspittles, myrmidons, grooms of the stool, empathy consultants and PR spivs come up with now? What is to be the next personality to be adopted by the shape-shifting FauxMo? How will they package a coward who abandons the country to the fires and blames his own kids, a porch climber who burgles $100,000,000 of our money to underwrite his election campaign? With whatever credibility he ever had now in tatters the grinning galoot cannot be seen near a sporting field without inviting derision, nor can he again flee his responsibilities in a crisis. The rorting of public money to benefit himself and his cronies will continue of course, as will the destruction of the environment - it's in the Tory DNA; they see elected office as a treasure hunt. So new disguises will be sought for the L/NP's behaviours. Disaster capitalism will be branded as disaster mitigation, scapegoats will be fingered, whistleblowers will be persued with renewed vigour, and the spiders web of conflicted interests will be hidden behind spurious confidentiality clauses and labyrinthine corporate structures. Rehearsed gravitas in the form of a stern-faced, take charge kinda guy pointing at maps; the authoritative figure at the head of the table surrounded by sycophants; feigned empathy dressed in chinos accessorised from R.M.Williams for the "staring thoughtfully into the distance with farmer" photo-ops; a practised choke in the voice and a work-shopped wiping away of a pretend tear - this is the fakery we will be confronted with as FauxMo tries to recraft his "personal brand" and rescue his true, facile self from further scrutiny. There'll be no more cringe-worthy eulogizing of cricketers as our true national heroes, the baseball caps will be mothballed, beer will be guzzled away from the cameras, the happy will be clapped behind closed doors. Despite these efforts the real Morrison will continue to bob to the surface. His punchable smirk will only ever be a glib, self-satisfied phrase away, his indignation at being queried and his barely concealed patronising contempt at being challenged will resurface - it's who he is and he won't be able to hide it. This Artful Dodger has as much substance as a snowman in a hot tub, and is so bereft of imagination he couldn't carry a stick through an open door. He leads an effluvium of Stasi, water thieves, tree poisoners, suplhorous wazzocks, dupes, loons, dangleberries, owner-operators, gowks, touts, sluggards and grifters - the type of people who have kids as potential organ donors and many of whom anticipate a lucrative, post-politics career plucking Gina Reinhart's chin hairs. No amount of re-imaging, spin, deflection, dissembling, humbug and lying can cover up for this nightsoilsman and his noisome product. The lights have come on for all but the toadies, the feckless dullards, the stupid and the deplorable. And all it took was the country in flames and the brazen, unapologetic theft of $100M. ScoMo as a product has been recalled. Now we await the same fate for Scotty From Marketing1 who invented him. Trivia. Liar From The Shire is an anagram of Holier Shit Farmer. 1 Scotty From Marketing is a clever neologism from the Betoota Advocate.