November 2010 and Kevin Rudd was in a quandary. He’d just had his 73rd diary secretary quit on him, fed up with working 22 hours a day.
And his last speech writer had just quit because he was sick of the repetitive crap Rudd forced him to write. That was Rudd’s 57th speech writer, and now Rudd had no staff left, except his one loyal trusty advisor: his 15 year old son, Marcus.
Rudd needed a new speech writer: and fast! A hasty search was done through the corridors of Parliament House, but nobody could be found. Then a man was spotted etching a message into the table in the cafeteria. It said “Dyslexics of the world untie’.
As he was just finishing his second message, ‘Dog is Great’, one of Rudd’s advisors approached the man and asked ‘What are you doing’?
‘I’m just drinking this bottle of ‘NAÏVE’ water. Oh and I’m writing a message in the table’.
‘Ahh, so you are a writer’? asked the advisor.
‘Yes I am, but I should warn you that I am a member of the DNA’ the man said.
‘The DNA? Huh’? queried the advisor.
‘The National Dyslexic Association’.
But the advisor didn’t care and said ‘follow me, you’re the official new speech writer for Kevin Rudd.’ The man didn’t have the heart to tell the young boy that he didn’t like Rudd and had previously etched another message into one of the tables at Parliament house that ‘Rudd sold his soul to Santa’.
‘Listen up mate, what’s your name’? asked the advisor.
‘Bob, and my wife is Hannah, and we both love Abba.’ Suddenly Bob’s mood changed for the worse as he realized he’d be working for a man he despised.
‘Dammit I’m mad’ he said, backwards and forwards. ‘Dammit I’m mad’.
But Bob soldiered on and became Rudd’s 28th speech writer in just 2 years. He knuckled down to the task and wrote a speech for Rudd to present to the National Press Club.
Bob sat nervously in the audience, proudly wearing his ‘I put the sexy into dyslexia’ t-shirt. He was confident he’d written a good speech, particularly the first part where he’d have Rudd say that he is ‘thoroughly enjoying running our country.’
Rudd cleared his throat and began; “Ladels and Germs, my name is Keith Ridd. I am your Prime Mister and I am thoughtlessly enjoying ruining our country.”
From the murmurs through the crowd, Bob knew he’d done a sterling job!
TO BE CONTINUED….
He’s now formed 86 committees and 76 reviews, but with his hunger for a headline, that hardly rates a mention:
As his head hits the pillow in his Hiroshima Motel Room, Kevin Rudd quietly prays:
“Dear God, hi it’s Kevin, how’s it going up in heaven?
I’m praying to you from the Land of the Rising Sun,
There’s lots of Japanese here, and the thing I really fear,
Is that I have no ideas for tomorrow’s headline, not a one,
I need your help Lord because I feel the pressure building around my rectum, I need that headline so my popularity doesn’t ‘cascade down the spectrum’
So please deliver me a sign, an indication that you’re listening,
So I can deliver that headline, to keep my popularity glistening,
I’m in the city of Hiroshima, chauffeured around in a nice new Beema,
And I’m struggling to find something to say to the Japanese press,
So please send divine intervention, so then I will not have to mention,
That without me you’d be nothing….. but I digress… ..
‘Did the earth move for you Therese? I’m feeling weak at the knees’,
No wait, that was the sign, love, from the big guy up above,
He’s channeling the A-bomb, his message is coming through loud and clear,
That’s it! I’ll arrange a new committee, to tackle problems nuclear.
I tell you God, you’re all class, once again, you’ve saved my arse,
All I can say to you is thankyou and thanks Heavens!
And to really make a statement, I’ll roll out an old lefty who’s been latent,
They’ll love it when I tell ‘em the committee will be chaired by Gareth Evans.
I’ll dust the cobwebs off Evans, just like a cellared bottle of Merlot,
And, hey, what the heck, to keep him busy I’ll also appoint Kernot,
“Are you awake my dear Therese?”, seems all I can hear is your snores,
(Reaches for bedside phone),
‘Hey Jeeves, it's Kevin keen to please, get dressed, we're going to ‘Scores’.”
Arigato. Sayonara. God help us all.
AMcA.