In those first apocalyptic days when Covid raged across the land, Scott Morrison finally succumbed to the glory of his own vanity.
© AAP
Terry McArthur | Blog #27 | 16.8.2022
So our former PM harboured a fetish for Ministerial adornment. Not satisfied with his ranking, under cover of COVID, he inveigled no less a personage than the Governor General to swear him into multiple Ministerial offices of the land in complete secrecy.
Not even incumbent Ministers knew they had been superseded.
A brazen act. The act of a tinpot dictator proclaimed current PM Anthony Albanese, managing to betray only the slightest of smiles. A sinister act declared Malcolm Turnbull, still bearing the knife wounds inflicted from matey mate mate Scomo who infamously declared he had the former PM's back ( hell yeah, right between Mansion Mal's svelte shoulder blades).
Something more than Hawaiian shirts, bad ukulele, forced handshakes, and no hose mandates. Something more dangerous than fondling a lump of coal in Question Time like some besotted fossil fool in love with his own school boy pranks.Something more dangerous and delusional than the Swinging Big Dicks stroking their erectile fantasies up and down the corridors of Parliament House.
Yes, my fellow Australians, in those first apocalyptic days when Covid raged across the land, Scott Morrison finally succumbed to the glory of his own vanity. He was no longer just a man of faith, he was the instrument of divine intervention, the living example of why people should put their own faith in God over governments. He was God's Prime Minister, born to be in all his Pentecostal certitude the one and only, The Minister for Everything.
© HOW SCOMO BECAME THE MINISTER FOR EVERYTHING | Terry McArthur
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