And being the real Barnaby Joyce
"I’m not pretending to be anyone else, I’m still wearing the same glasses, sadly the same suits, and I weigh about the same, and I don’t mind a bit of Italian cake either. So, I’m happy in my own skin."
Scott Morrison pretending he's not a pretender.
When you're Scott Morrison you need to pretend that you're not Scott Morrison
In Latin the name 'Scott Morrison' translates as 'Gobshiteus Ad Nauseum'. OK, it doesn't but it should. Morrison is, however, a human ambigram - a condition known as Zachary disease, a symptom of which is the discharges from either end being indistinguishable.
“When you’re prime minister, you can’t pretend to be anyone else” effluviated the originator of the ScoMo® artifice in all of its manifestations:
Old mate
Sharkies tragic
Drinking buddy
Family guy
Bob the builder
Scotty next door
BroSco, messiah from the Shire
Musician
Bon vivant
Curry connoisseur
Stoic bushie gazing into the distance
Big rig truckie
Lab tech
Beautician
Fighter pilot
Long distance swimmer
Team mascot
Tank commander
Trump whisperer
Defender of Aussie values
Father of the nation
On the tools tradie
Fiscal conservative
Big spender
Glorious leader
One of the boys
Insightful engineer ("...they won't tow your boat, they won't tow your caravan")
Dog Lover*
Mark McGowan's BFF
*insert cat as required to cover the bases
There is no escape from the stage managed appearances of this smarmy pillock in one of his many ScoMo contrivances. A flubbetered, be-moobed, crotch stained incontinent in his dress-up du jour who thought it a clever sledge to skinny-shame a trimmed down Albo. He's a colourless dullard who thinks that just enough electors to matter are stupid enough to indulge his inane charades when even Lib rusted-ons are rolling their eyes.
Awkwardly for Morrison his assertion of authenticity has simpy highlighted his phoniness. Those that know him best said it best...
Image: The Twitterati
“People may not agree with everything I have done but they know what I am about.” Unfortunately for Faux this is probably true but not in the way he intends it. His general uselessness has alerted the politically disengaged that what he's about is photo-ops trumping substance, announcements substituting for delivery and that what he and his minders are all about is saturating a complicit media with stunts to distract from his habit of setting fire to his own head.
The shameless lying of this media whore has caught him out - it's all on tape. The gullible, the lazy, the apathetic and the wilfully ignorant have had the real ScoMo rubbed in their faces via monumental failures in national crises so his fatuous marketing schtick and relentless bullshitting is blowing back in many and varied forms including many takes on his self-applied, asinine nickname:
Scotty from Marketing, Diddley Scott and Smorph
Spinocchio, Scurry, Smoko and Sir Smirksalot
Smirko, Smuggo, Smarmo and SloMo
Shirko, Sooty, Skiddy and Scooter
Scuttle, SchMo, FauxMo and Shithead
The odious prick has been fully exposed for who he really is to those who may have otherwise been inclined to ignore the obvious and now he's in panic mode. Still, it is fun watching him shit himself. This time, in real time.
I may miss him when he's gone.
The best retail politician in the country
And so we move on to the B Team, the rustic oiks of the Nationals (t/a the Man-Coal Love Association) headed by a bloke who most of the nation gazes upon and, as with a penguin on a flag pole, wonders how the actual fuck he got there.
Fermented brewster Boozerby Joyce, the stool to Morrison's dunce, red of face and blue of balls, has apparently earned his place at the pointy end of the bumpkin patch due to his focus on the bush. Having the intellect of plankton and the vocabulary of a Peppa Pig early reader must be essential attributes in the job description for these crem de la criminals for whom rorting is not a dodge but a credential.
Image from Change.org
Boozerby could detect the opening of a plain, brown envelope through a concrete wall so no-one is questioning his aptitude in that respect. What is a tad more challenging to understand is the appeal of his presence.
This boke is unburied landfill, he's a physical manifestation of tourettes with the satorial elegance of an upended kitchen tidy. Culture is what grows between his toes, he has the coherence of gravel shaken in a rusty bucket and breath that should never be exposed to a naked flame. None of this reconciles the penguin/flagpole paradox.
Perhaps he's just a reflection of his constituency. Rugged, self-reliant stoics always on the make for a hand-out. Big farmer, big polluters, water thieves, tree poisoners, pet abandoners, double parkers, seal clubbers, finger sniffers and those whose utes outnumber their books.
Perhaps it's because Boozerby has overcome many challenges in his career, not least brewer's droop. Perhaps it's his personal contribution to employment opportunities within New England - of dry cleaners and designated drivers, divorce lawyers and Alco-lock beta testers, girlfriend placement agents and barmaids' bodyguards.
Perhaps, gawd help us, it's because he really is the best the Nationals have got.
The only good judgement either of these two have shown is that they hate each other.