ScoMo is a man who is calm during a crisis, especially the current bushfire crisis. It’s easy to be calm under pressure when you’re 5000 miles away, getting your Billabongs wet on the beaches of Hawaii.
Not swayed by convention, and seemingly immune from popular opinion, when asked why he was whooping it up on the islands of Aloha at such a time he responded, “I don’t hold a hose mate, I don’t sit in a control room.”
What’s more, he doesn’t really give a shit. See, for those like ScoMo who singalong in garish modern evangelical rock ‘n’ roll congregations like the massive corporate Hillsong Church, empathy for humans is an abstract.
Politics taught ScoMo abstraction and his innate conservative cynicism yielded him a self-insulating contempt for mortals which allows him to carry on splashing about in the surf while his people choke on smog and burn to death in mega blazes. However, modern Christianity teaches indifference to the plight of others because it’s all God’s will anyway, or something, so if people are burning, like Israel Folau would contend, it’s their own sins that put them in that mass of flames.
While ScoMo was building sandcastles on Maui beach with his minders two volunteer firefighters, Andrew O’Dwyer, 36, and Geoffrey Keaton, 32, were killed when their truck rolled off the road after hitting a fallen tree. They were remembered with deep sadness by their colleagues at Horsley Park Rural Fire Brigade in Sydney.
But then again, even though he paid lip-service to the fallen heroes, ScoMo has made it abundantly clear he doesn’t believe their contribution is worth paying for. He made it clear there would be no pay or conditions negotiated on behalf of volunteer firefighters. They are not as important as, say, politicians who need a pay increase every five minutes to keep up with the rising cost of Dom Perignon.
As soon as there is enough of us, nationalists will duly abolish the Westminster parliamentary system, round up crooks like ScoMo, and institute a payback system for all the crimes committed against the nation on a scale of 1 to 10. Then there is likely to be a fully safety-controlled bonfire where ScoMo’s Billabongs will be burned and ScoMo himself flicked on his flabby white arse with a wet towel till he cries.
ScoMo’s holiday has a ring of Nero about it: in the apocryphal story of Nero the sixth Emperor of Rome supposedly played a fiddle while Rome burned. ScoMo, on the other hand, pretended to be a battleship as the waves washed him like a beached whale on the shores of Maui.