Shamewanking over griefporn

John Birmingham
Oct 19, 2018 · 3 min read

I think it’s time for ScoMo to break out the raw onions. After all, there’s still a handful of escaped mental patients who think Tony Abbott should make a comeback, and if ScoMo could possibly swing them behind him by necking a fistful of stinking fresh bulbs and stripping down to a pair of bright, red dick-stickers, why not just go for it? The alternative is going limp in the middle of the road and just waiting for the eighteen wheel road train that’s coming to turn him into street pizza. And it could hardly be less ill-considered than trashing decades of bipartisan agreement not to fuck around with the septic mess of Isreali-Palestinian politics for the sake of a few votes.
But ScoMo’s accidental prime ministership is now so terminal that even the magic onion might not save him. What a fucking disaster his soon to be short-lived Turd Reich turned out to be. An imploding supermassive shitshow of desperate incompetence so violently bunglefucked six ways from Sunday that even listing the major oh-no moments feels like shamewanking over grief porn.
This week alone — and just this week — heading into a history-making beatdown from the unforgiving voters of Malcolm Turnbull’s old seat, ScoMo and Co managed to shit the bed not once, but on four separate occasions:
Not just voting in favour of a white power meme cunningly disguised as a white power meme by red-headed white-power She-Ra cosplay champion, Fraulein Hanson…
But also letting Melissa Price, the very surprising Environment Minister and sentient coal-fired killdozer get loose in a Canberra restaurant where multiple witnesses saw her monster the former president of Kiribati and shit-talk the rest of the Pacific Islands community in a way that sounded a bit like your drunken Uncle Bob getting pantsless and punchy at a family barbecue.
Not content to piss off pretty much every island nation that Beijing has earmarked to bury in a tsunami wave train of hard currency loans and developmental ‘assistance’, ScoMo personally stepped up to the crease and promptly tripped over his own cock by flopping it out to wave in the face of the entire Muslim world with his brainfart about moving the Australian Embassy in Israel to Jerusalem.
Israel (two way trade worth about a billion dollars a year) was stoked, thanks mate.
Jakarta (two way trade worth a lazy sixteen billion dollars a year) was not so fucking stoked.
Nor were the dozen or more Arab ambassadors who met in Canberra to release a joint statement detailing their extreme lack of stoke for ScoMo’s desperate pursuit of the Jewish vote in Wentworth. (A demographic the witless idiot already had in the bag).
The free trade agreement with Indonesia is now in play, along with billions of dollars of agricultural exports to the Middle East. The National Party’s farmland constituents would be probably displeased, if the National Party had not decided to distract them and everyone else by floating the prospect of getting ruddy-cheeked pork swordsman Bonerby Joyce back as leader.
And that was just this week.
It will be over, sort of, by the time cocktail hour rolls around at Bondi Beach and the polls close in Wentworth. Maybe the government hangs on. Maybe they get beaten like a giant novelty gong. Either way, ScoMo has proved that the only thing he was ever good for was remotely torturing refugees, when nobody could actually see what he was up to. And by the end of the week, with both the UN and thousands of local doctors demanding the release of children imprisoned in our Pacific gulags, it looked like ScoMo couldn’t even fall back on his proud legacy as a prison camp overseer to save his worthless arse.

(Gimme a clap. I get paid for it!)

John Birmingham

Written by

I write for food.

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