Anyone out there feeling just a little sorry for how things panned out for Prime Minister Scott Morrison on his US trip?
No, me neither. But maybe we all should be? So let’s show some compassion, people!
Let’s accept it took chutzpah on a grand scale for a bloke who really doesn’t stand for anything much at all except an almost pathological desire to succeed and make money, whatever the cost, to stand before the world as he has this past week and appear he belongs there.
And just how utterly and inwardly petrified he must have been about being exposed for the hollow-man, not-too-bright, failed snakeoil salesman he is.
And yet in the end, despite his best efforts, stand there he did, an emperor unclothed, naked as the day he was born, not a skerrick to offer us up top or Down Under for that matter.
Let’s recap the lowlights.
From the outset, it wasn’t pretty viewing to see how mateship is defined in the current world – or the Australian-United States version of it.
That special “mateship” meant Morrison got to sit in a room looking amused, bemused and confused while the Orange Buffoon babbled on with bullshit and bluster that even our PM must have realised he’d never be capable of. That had to hurt.
He then had to stand, glass in hand at rose-garden dinners or on the floor of a box factory beside not one but two people with scary orange hairs and say vacuous, cringe-worthy things such as “how good is America” or “how good are jobs.”
Could you have then stood outside a Maccas and marvelled at 21st Century, computerised menu selection technology that’s all over Oz anyway while the rest of the world was tacking climate change? No!
And how hard must it have been for our PM when he finally stood in that giant UN chamber chock-a-empty with world leaders’ seatwarmers and tried to divert the world’s attention away from his non-existent climate change policy by talking about plastics, all the while hearing the few who had stayed to listen muttering things like “he doesn’t look very Austrian.”
Plastics! Had Morrison, nestled in B’Liar House in Washington awaiting his moments of world-stage glory, been watching The Graduate from 1967, where a young Dustin Hoffman is told just that one word – “plastics!” – was where his future lay?
In any other universe, putting plastics before climate change might make sense. But not on the earth. Rising sea levels will mean plastics will take up a smaller percentage of the oceans in decades to come anyway! Talk about a problem solved naturally with or without Scottie-come-lately’s last-minute plans to scoop up some softdrink bottles here and there.
So, as I said, let’s see some empathy, people! The poor schmuck’s had a terrible time. We normal humans would have been shattered by these events and I refuse to believe even a sociopath rating highly on the Dutton scale could have come through that process unscathed. He has to be a little less confident, a little less capable of that next fib flowing freely from his Smirky McSmirk Face.
Still, didn’t the trip give gave us a chance to “compare the pair”.
It reinforced the view that while Trump might be the leader of the good ol’ US of A and Morrison might be Australia’s, neither is a leader’s sweaty armpit, bellybutton fluff or rectal seepage. They are natural dividers, not bring-togetherers.
Both have each won an election but neither got there with a vision for their country crafted from a lifetime of doing good deeds that flowed naturally from wonderful minds focused on doing things that bring their countryfolk together and move them forward.
Both are masters of mendacity. Lying comes almost as easily to Morrison as it does to the Orange Buffoon. Maybe those lies are crucial to their success, like little political brush fires lit on the sidelines to focus attention from the fact that neither can string together some coherent, logical and clearly spoken sentences. Who can forget Morrison’s opening line the other day: “I have a ten and twelve year old child myselves”?
Both got to where they are now through a ruthless character assassination of anyone who has stood in their way. Trump had his “crooked” Hillary Clinton. Morrison had his “lying” Bill Shorten. And before that, some poor prick who was much more liked and respected during a preselection challenge. Didn’t win? Call in Murdoch to defame the poor bastard.
The Orange Buffoon has long had his “silent majority”; Morrison has his “silent “ Australians.
Both profess a love of God to appeal to that voter debase, but each and everyone of you out there know that the next glob of ear wax you absentmindedly extract with a biro top, your mid-morning dump and that reluctant sea-green boogie you eventually extract from deep within your left nostril will all have more Christianity to them than these two charlatans combined have in their entire bodies.
Trump has his Washington swamp that he’s added more alligators to than drained; Morrison is battling his Canberra bubble but seems compelled to keep inflating it with laughing gas mumbo-jumbo whenever he’s inside it with the likes of “if you have a go, you’ll get a go”, “the best form of welfare is a job” and “who’s side are you on?”.
Trump has long had his “fake news” and his contempt for media generally; Morrison is aping him admirably and catching up fast.
Both trumpet jobs based on trickle-down economic theories than haven’t worked for yonks, if ever. Trump promised to return to the Rust Belt jobs that can’t be resurrected; Morrison blows hard about dodgy job-creation figures that have more and more Australians juggling several part-time jobs not to thrive but simply survive.
Both brag about their business successes yet Trump has had more business bankruptcies than porn stars and a $60 million taxpayer-funded royal commission into Morrison’s business and professional life “curruption” would make the probe on Bill Shorten and Julia Gillard feel like a stern look from dad for leaving your bike on the driveway.
And while it’s true that Morrison can’t match Donald “I want the Nobel Peace Prize!” Trump’s occasional threats to blow some country and its people off the face of the earth simply because he doesn’t have the brand new or upgraded nuclear weaponry all primed and ready to blow, he probably would if he could. What better way to serve, nay impress, the Lord Jesus Christ Your Master who has his own Rapture on its way by creating a smaller version of your own? A Rapture Prerapture!
Both are bullies which means both are most likely cowards. Which means there’s absolutely no chance that Trump is going to be charging, unarmed and bellowing, his orange hairs streaming a metre out behind his bald pate, his big, fat lardarse wobbling behind him, his feet in screaming pain due to bone spurs, at next week’s crazed gunman coming to a mall or kindergarten near you. We know instinctively that Morrison is not going to be right behind him.
Both have a good chance of being reelected by electorates being dumbed down to their levels by a mass media almost entirely on their sides, despite their hypocritical claims otherwise.
All these similarities!
No wonder our Happy Clapping, Slogan Bogan, Daggy Dad, Liar from the Shire and the Orange Buffoon in the big White Lies House get on so well.
They’re besties, even if you and me, dear readers, and the rest of the world barring Boris Johnson and one of their wives, see them as the pathetic, grubby, truly awful cunts that they are.