March of the Moribund: A Gonzo Descent into Coalition Carnage

They emerged from the ruins like survivors of their own ideological bushfire – “Littleprod, Campervan, and Joyce,” the holy trinity of Coalition self-sabotage, proudly stomping through the ashes of Menzies’ once-mighty broad church with all the self-awareness of a BBQ chook in a sauna.

First came Littleprod – equal parts accountant and undertaker – dragging the desiccated remains of what used to be electoral relevance behind him. He still clings to “personal responsibility” like a rosary bead at a tax forum, whispering sweet nothings to the IPA in between floggings of the public service. His idea of progress is an Excel spreadsheet that ends in privatisation.

Beside him waddles Campervan, smug as a pork knuckle at an RSL buffet. He’s got coal dust in his veins, a Gina Rinehart bumper sticker tattooed to his ego, and enough fossil-fuelled delusion to power the Sky After Dark panic machine for a decade. If there’s a photo op in a hi-vis vest, he’ll be there – helmet on, shovel unused, and mind firmly planted in the 1950s.

And finally, there’s Joyce, sashaying through the carnage like it’s a B&S ball and someone just yelled “free beer.” His smile says “rural values,” but his voting record screams “clown car pile-up in the paddock of reason.” He’s the patron saint of pork barrelling, climate denial, and somehow forgetting who he’s supposed to represent between media blow-ups.

Behind them, flaming ruins spell out the remains of the Coalition brand – torched by “Rita Kindhart’s Trumpian” cosplay experiment, a frothy mix of imported culture war bile and budgetary fiction so unstable even Alan Jones’ ghost wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.

They march on, oblivious to the electoral scorched earth policy they authored, holding hands like demented Dorothy and co. skipping down the Yellowcake Road. Only, instead of Oz, they’re headed for a Teal-paved purgatory where mortgage-belt moderates have already changed the locks and sent the mail to community independents.

And above it all, the final epitaph: “Menzies’ Broad Church Destroyed by Howard Greed Creed.” Turns out the Coalition wasn’t eaten by the left, but by its own tail – wagged by Murdoch, gnawed by billionaires, and sold off one factional backroom deal at a time.

They won’t be seeing treasury again. But don’t worry – there’s always Sky After Dark, post-politics consultancies, and a permanent seat at the Scomo School of Scooting Responsibility.

Amen. And pass the irony.

 

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