The L/NP regime is hardly a model of diversity. It's a conglomeration of toffs from private schools where sex education was limited to rumours about the sports master, entitled spawn of the squatocracy, sticky-fingered mining lobbyists, scorched earth cow cockies, suburban accountants and lack-of-life-experience political careerists. They have much in common - a flat earth religiosity and a disdain for facts, an authoritarian born-to-rule mentality, greed and mendacity. But they, and their fellow travellers on the loony fringe parties try to craft an image - their "personal brand".
Some buff the ca-ca, others need to camouflage their unpalatable true selves ala FauxMo's farcical daggy dad routine. All fool themselves more than they fool us.
How easily can you see through them? Take the quiz and find out - name that Tory.
Personal brand: astute retail politician, heroic champion of the Weatherboard Nine, speaker of truths, man of the land, author, sage.
Reality: A puce-hued, handsy lecher, gormless gofer for mining oligarchs, waterboy for big ag boondogglers and a rumpled bumpkin who parts his hair with a fence paling. If his charred remains ever need recovery from plane wreckage he will be identifiable from his tooth. He marks his territory with a lingering waft of Eau de Ugg Boot and gets his best ideas from a magazine he found in a hedge.
Familiar call: "carp, caaarp, caaaarp!" and "Another schooner please sweetcheeks."
Personal brand: Champion of downtrodden coal mining magnates, chocolate eclaire connoisseur.
Reality: He emerged like Tim Robbins escaping from Shawshank, and climbed from obscurity to the dizzy heights of irrelevance.
When he was a child his mother put blackout curtains on his humidicrib, as an adolescent his bed was put out on the nature strip in the hope he'd be taken away in a council clean up. Being an inadequate furniture salesman encouraged him to try his hand at being an inadequate politician, the only life goal he's ever achieved.
Personal brand: Urbane entrepeneur and future PM.
Reality: Grifter with a talent for re-purposing tax payers' money for familial gain. Wears the guilty expression of a spaniel caught mid-shit. Poisoner of endangered native flaura, born with a silver foot in his mouth. Modern day Don Quixote tilting at wind turbines.
Personal brand: Maverick jet-setter, chick magnet.
Reality: Ping pong ball fieldsman and used G-string collector. A voodoo doll could be made of this bloke by rolling a doughnut in a kitty-litter tray. The only time a woman ever saw him naked she screamed and ran out of the park.
Personal brand Raconteur, leader of men, dam builder, the reincarnation of Elvis.
Reality: An empty Comcar pulled up to Parliament House and he got out1. He puts "pull" labels on his desk drawers and formed a Rolf Harris tribute act to tour country child care centres. His head-nodding is symptomatic of the impenetrable dullness of an oratory so obtuse that he can send himself into a stupor mid-sentence.
Personal brand: A shiny-headed Fabio taking the salute, legs akimbo, from legions of brownshirts armed with flaming torches and housebricks goosestepping their vengeful way to MONA.
MONA is Hobart's Museum of Old and New Art, a den of leftie degeneracy, that once had a wall display of plaster casts of ladies' pink bits that Fabio mistook for an indoor climbing gym only to become entangled by his lederhosen halfway up (but he did appreciate the Gewürztraminer stocked by the gallery café).
Reality: With limited train services in Tassie to dictate should run on time he spends his days tracing his DNA back to Beowulf and machine gunning peasants on his Playstation attack helicopter.
Personal brand: A crusading exposer of the conspiracy of the world's scientists, academics, environmentalists, NASA, the CSIRO, the BoM, the EU and Boris Johnson to take over the world.
Reality: A ridiculous little homunculous who would fall through the hole in a massage table if it wasn't for his oversized head; he resembles an unsold toffee apple. Thinks the spinning blades of wind turbines are slowing the earth's rotation thereby causing bushfires.
Personal brand: Brylcreemed Jimmy Olsen with aspirations for the most Hitler Youth merit badges.
Reality: A graduate of the IPA masturbatorium whose daily schedule is provided to him in Alphabetti Spaghetti. So pale he's translucent - he could get skin cancer from a crescent moon. Possibly he's the outcome from Eric Abetz's turkey baster getting jammed in a Howdy Doody doll.
Personal brand: Urbane sophisticate and man-about-town. Help yourself guru. PM material.
Reality: Smarmy elitist twat and preppy try-hard who's his own biggest fan. A big, swinging dickhead, an enthusiast for free speech and public order by watercannon for those whose speech he disagrees with. An ideology for every occasion.
Personal brand: Sophia Loren from Wollongong and proud homophobe.
Reality: Aunty Jack sans motorbike - a hard-to-starboard looney who is offended by the "right wing" component of the designation "right wing nut job". A typically oblivious Tory dullard who thinks Sinai is the plural of sinus and that feng shui is arranging the sand bags around sinking Pacific islands. Like Kevin Andrews in drag she uses the back of a spoon to draw her eyebrows on with a lump of coal while her use of digital technology is limited to a dildo shaped like a thumb.
* * * * *
Tory 1: Too easy. Barking Barmy Joyce, aka The Beetrooter. 5 points
Tory 2: Craig Sausage Rolls Kelly. 5 points
Tory 3: Doctor Le Numbers, Black Angus Taylor. 5 points
Tory 4: Gorgeous George Chistensen. 5 points.
Tory 5: Michael McSomebody. 5 points. A bonus 5 points if you can recall his full name.
Tory 6: Eric-Otto Abetz. 5 points.
Tory 7. Tinfoil titfer Malcolm Roberts. 10 points.
Tory 8. Little Jimmy Paterson. 10 points.
Tory 9. Tim Freedom Boy Wilson. 10 points.
Tory 10. Concetta Ferrari-Wheels. 10 points.
60 - 75. You know your Tories and are consequently despondent at the nation's spiralling toward entrenched corruption, serfdom and international pariah status.
40 - 55. The headline acts in this circus - the Liar From The Shire, Spud, Fraudburger and the Conman are as much as you can handle without projectile vomiting so you tune out. Who can blame you?
20 - 35. You can smell the stench but you don't know where it's coming from.
0 - 15. Shouldn't you be reading The Spectator?
1 Paraphrasing Winston Churchill