I recently admitted I was lost for words.
James in Melbourne isn’t …
It’s the mind-boggling condescension; the grotesque narcissism; the pretentious over-analysis of everything; the ludicrous thesaurus-mined vocabulary, that makes his every speech a weird froth of verbiage devoid of actual meaning; the overwhelming smugness; the insufferable conceit; the off-the-scale self-regard; the insane, all-consuming craving for unanimous awed recognition as the smartest person in the room (and any room); the teenage levels of self-aggrandisement; the hilarious bigging-up name-dropping; the crass, bathetic, utter inability to relate to anyone below his perceived level, AKA everybody; the primed-to-explode grievances that fester behind the rictus smile; the ridiculous OCD of the just-so white-shirt-coloured-tie-and-navy-suit – unless it’s a weekend and it’s the ridiculous OCD of the just-so-khaki-chinos-and-chambray-shirt; the painful fakeness of the manufactured persona; the desperate fist-clenching as he suppresses the anger that ordinary people make him feel; the lightning speed to perceive a slight; the drawn-out hundred-fold revenge in return; the delight in humiliating those beneath him; and the cloying, fulsome, gushing insincerity of his fawning over other world leaders.
Any idea who he might be talking about?
bobmcgee 