Why I, Dr Dick, Should Be Prime Minister

Attention fellow citizens!

            Today is the day I announce my intention to be Prime Minister of this fine, wild, sunburnt nation of ours! I wish to take the reins of the bucking brumby that is our island and tame that wilful beast, whipping it onwards to better tomorrows, like a monumental jockey winning the Melbourne Cup of being a great nation!

            But, why you, Dr Dick? Why should we elect you our Prime Minister? Our figurehead? Our supreme ruler? Why should you be the captain of our Spirit of Tasmania lost in the tumult ridden seas of our modern world?

            A fine question and one worth a strong answer!

            I am a man driven by his convictions. I stand by my beliefs as the swagman stands by his jumbuck – taking them to my grave. Particularly, the conviction that my convictions are in fact malleable. A man should stand by their beliefs, their ideologies, their driving philosophies, as a man should also stand by their willingness to abandon them if they are proving to no longer be profitable!

            There is nothing braver in this dusty bushranger tundra of ours than a man whose conviction is to have no conviction and thus have greater conviction than everyone else!

            I will never hold back when it comes to this fact! And I will stand by all the truths and non-truths in the unfolding narrative of my rise to power, giving credit to all ideas, for this is the genuine democracy of our thirsty archipelago girt by sea.

Should one man dispute that the Yarra is in fact turquoise, I will readily agree, even as I stare at its unique shade of brown and see therein only crystal.

Boat people are a problem, but not. Boats are the real problem, or the sea. Refugees don’t exist, except when they do.

Climate change is a myth, and also real. An energy initiative is the only way to fix it, though I do not believe in crafting an energy policy, though maybe later, if people want one.

African gangs in Melbourne are a problem, but also not, though I do and do not go out for dinner in Melbourne some nights, and African gangs may or may not be why.

Clearly, I give my ears to both sides of the debate: from the north of Queensland, to the boroughs of Melbourne's inner city, fact and truth reside everywhere, even in falsehood and lies. For I have feelings about the issues. 

            Is this not what we need today in our great Southern land of kangaroos bounding freely across the eucalpytus horizon? The ability to have many feelings about many issues? And to then articulate them? Like my feelings about immigrants. These are complex feelings, because there are lots of them. Feelings, that is. 

            Should I become Prime Minster I will continue to have many feelings, and I will boil them down, make them simpler, craft them into phrases palatable to your damper taste buds. And, like our emblematic kangaroos, I will leap from one feeling to the other, exploring them, breaking them down, giving them to you. 

            Experience? What about it?

            As I am an academic and clearly smarter than the average punter, up above while everyone is down under, experience does not matter, for my wits will travail and succeed on all the rugged Burke and Wills paths of our problems.

Even should I lack the title of doctor – which I do not – I would argue experience remains irrelevant in the echidna dirt of our storm boy washed shores. What we need is an absence of experience in governing to govern effectively. To climb the grassy knoll of our Parliament requires no mountaineering equipment. I see a lack of experience as a new start. And in the great Bathurst race of life that our nation is caught in, isn’t it an amateur we need at the wheel? One brave enough to hit those corners hard, with no prior knowledge of what can go wrong, so that everything can potentially go right? But, faster.

            A vote for me, Dr Dick, is a vote for a man with conviction, on the side of fact and feelings, with fruitful inexperience, who will be willing to put aside running Australia so that I can maintain my grip on power, as a koala hangs onto a tree when chased by a territorial cow.

            I can be that koala. We can all be that koala.

            Dicks your pick.

Some True Facts About Peter Dutton

·       Peter Dutton is, in fact, a semi-sentient potato. Now this is well known. What is less well known is his particular species of potato: he is an unwashed russet burbank potato left outside in the sun too long. This explains his sickly bluish tinge, unsightly tentacles, and the slight stench of ferment about him. Peter Dutton is on his way to becoming a really cheap, nasty vodka.

·       In his previous life as a cop in QLD, his workmates referred to him as only Dirty Ol’ Russet.

·       His oft documented fear of ‘people of African appearance’ and ‘Sudanese gangs,’ has its nexus in both his inherent racial insecurities (a trait common to semi-sentient potatoes and other edible tubers – see also, Eric Abetz, semi-sentient turnip) and his fear of the dark and, more specifically, dark colours (no one has told him the irony of this fear, considering he is, in fact, a semi-sentient nightshade). As such, Peter Dutton is also terrified of: black or navy suits (and only wears them at parliament under great duress while heavily medicated), shadows, ninjas, having his night light switched off when he’s going sleepys, most black animals but particularly black bears, the sun setting, pirate eye patches, black holes, cauldrons, and –

·       He is deathly afraid of the Indigenous people of Australia (well, as scared of them as he is of ninjas, and Peter Dutton is very frightened of ninjas). The Indigenous flag terrifies him, mostly the top half. This partly explains his decision to absent himself from Kevin Rudd’s apology speech. (Also he misheard Tony Abbot who said there’d be ninjas there, but may have been using another rhyming n word. Either way, Peter Dutton wasn’t taking a risk, being deeply alarmed by both possibilities).

·       Peter Dutton believes that climate science is a form of black magic. Peter Dutton is terrified of black magic, and often feels compelled to tell his conservative allies that they must be wary of black magic and their practitioners. His fight against black magic is at the core of his ideology.

o   A generalised list of people whom Peter Dutton thinks use black magic: immigrants and refugees, the gays, women (he is particularly suspicious of the vagina, which he  associates with black holes and cauldrons), the Lebanese community, African gangs, Melbournians (particularly Melbournians with the gusto to visit restaurants at night) and, of course, Malcolm Turnball.

·       Peter Dutton’s private police unit, Border Force, is often given the secondary task of monitoring black magic and keeping watch on dark shadowy areas near Peter Dutton, lest either an African, ninja or black bear is hidden within.

·       Peter Dutton never ventures out at night to dine. He finds the experience too stressful – from the whole ‘night time’ dilemma, to dealing with peasant wait staff who do not appreciate the political class to which he belongs. Also, African gangs. African gangs everywhere.

·       Peter Dutton would put the very idea of dark colours and dark races in offshore detention if he was able. He is currently working on how to make this achievable.

·       Peter Dutton’s biggest dream is to ride a stallion adorned with Trump’s toupee, while shirtless, alongside Vladmir Putin, across the tundras of Russia, hunting foxes, black bears and undesirables. They’d be sweating and Putin would be licking Dutton’s vodka flavoured skin. And they’d both be white together. And neither would acknowledge the weather, for the weather is black magic and not worthy of their haughty concerns. And there would no gays anywhere.

Georgia's Tray

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The 12 Biblical Rules of Hospitality (Old Testament)

If thou doth turn a deaf ear to a waiter’s greeting, then thou shalt be forever disfigured, finding thine own tongue rendered mute and thine own ears turned unto globular masses.

If thou doth impede the passage of a waiter’s walking, then thou shalt be hobbled at the knees.

If thou doth interrupt a waiter’s specials sermon, then thou shalt be deprived of taste, smell and sight.

If thou doth use cutlery with graceless ineptitude, then thou shalt feed from a trough.

If thou doth recoil from the hearty touch of gluten, then thou shalt forcefully partake of the glutinous Body of Christ.

If thou doth click thine fingers in the manner of a wanton peasant for a waiter’s attention, then thou shalt find the divine privilege of opposable thumbs no longer available to thee.

If thou doth fail to account for the activities of thine children, then thine children’s adorable little heads will toil diligently as toilet brushes for eternity.

If thou doth find the act of sitting graciously an unbearable chore, then thou shalt no longer comprehend the act of sitting itself, forever bewildered by chairs, stools, couches and on and on.

If thou doth leave thine phone in the place where a sacred meal is to be set, then thou shalt be made to dine on thine phone.

If thou canst handle thine alcohol, making grotesque mockery of holy dining manners, then thou shalt be cursed to a lifetime of lemon lime bitters, the coward’s beverage.

If thou doth finds the words thank you to be scarce in thine mouth, then thou shalt utter no other words but thank you so long as life is present in thine body.

If thou doth linger past one’s welcome and grasps not the concept of closed, then thou shalt be entrapped in a moment’s perpetuity, no longer a creature of time or God.

thoughts of a hot day

I am not of the heat, but within it.

I am, in fact, Ra.

To dip in the oily rag like waters of St Kilda and feel the slime of its sand nestling around, not between, my toes. Refreshing.

Is that the cool ripple of air conditioned condensation playing across my brow? Or doth my own sweat create its own fearsomely duplicitous mirage?

There are only so many layers to remove before we reach the skin and I would like to strip down past my skin and be truly naked, truly exposed, and perhaps truly cool.

All the grandparents are on park benches wearing slacks and their insides are becoming medium to medium-well and sweat nestles gently in the folds of their wrinkled skin, granules of perspiration promising a coolness not to come.

Alas, it is all now a cruel mirage. A promise of respite, but just another hot gust of wind.

Thoughts tentatively reach for the beach, but are accosted by men in speedos complaining of the temperature of the sand turning their feet to stone as lava does.           

Now for the fever dream: the same nightmare hallucination of Tony Abott and Andrew Bolt engaged in tender coitus, whispering of the global warming fake news, more coal they add to the fire they lay before, turning orange and white, in a bed of toupees. And, here, I am left stricken by these beacons of paleness invading my flash fried thoughts.

I cannot flee the inferno. I cannot flee the inferno’s infernal thoughts playing at the margins of my dwindling sanity. 

I am a sloth in a tree in a great fire.

Is that now Trump who joins the fray? Or some magnificent golden being whose court I must attend? Do we all talk to the sun at Fire Island?

I am, in fact, merely a servant of Ra. Hardly an Aztec. A slave whose heart placates confused gods who breath fire.

I am a Prophet of the Cool Change and I will write its prophecy as soon as I rebuild myself, as Alex Mac, would from the pool of warm salty water I have become.

We are now a living 42 degree day with the strong chance of bush fires and a total fire ban.

I am made of boiling water meant for pasta.