Posts Tagged ‘odyssey’

Where Is Tony Now? A Guide To Ostracism

September 16, 2015

We dismantle Tony’s empire this week.

We unsmuggle the budgies, pull the motor cord that starts the boats, bury the axe he took to the tax. Mount Doom is bursting apart and two MPs in suits lay on the dead rock of the mountainside, lava cascading all around them. In their direction, eagles come to swoop them away from the wreck they’ve brought to Team Australia. Thee eagles pass a helicopter going the opposite way, fleeing with a woman who wears pearls and claims this ride on the dole. One suited MP on the rocks whispers, “It’s over. It’s finally over. I’m glad to be here with you, Julie Bishop, at the end of all things.”

Smoke rises from the mountain of doom. The hour grows late and a new leader takes his throne of coal.

It’s been eight months since they set out in disguise to topple Tone. The New PM, Turnbull, jabbed some subtle barbs at Tony during the February leadership spill including a “captain’s call” comment. Anyone could see that before the February motion which Tony survived, #it was #on.

Silence and discontent, more and more news polls which showed everyone was unhappy with the government, until last Monday’s challenge. The #ItsOn tag dominated Twitter.

Now Malcolm is victor and the mutiny is complete. What’s next for Tone? Is he hiding in the ceiling of the PM’s house, rolling around in a field of his beloved coal, being boiled alive by South Pacific island chiefs? Is he fishing in a cave, walking on his hands and feet?

No, we have revived an ancient tradition.

In Athens, the voters would have regular elections. They wrote their vote on ostraka, pieces of broken pottery which were so common that people used them as scrap paper. If the winner of this election had more than 6,000 votes, they’d be exiled from Athens for ten years. Ostracised.

I can name 6,000 people in my neighbourhood who have been voting this way in their sentiments, prayers and those hideous renewable energy sources we’ve started buying since we don’t really have an ozone layer anymore.

So where did Tony go first, after we launched him into the Pacific Ocean with nothing but his wits and speedos?

First he found the body of Peter Dutton floating by, water lapping at his shoes. Tony used it as a raft, but NOT A BOAT. It’s a raft, okay?

He paddled to his nearest friend, New Zealand. The Kiwi People treated him to hospitality and bid him watch their athletic games. Then he learned that 79% of their energy is renewable. Tony vomited up his edible plate and would not eat their food, or drink their water tainted by renewable hydroelectric damming. He survived on the body of Peter Dutton and rectally ingested his iron heart.

He spent a long time lost among the islands of the South Pacific, floating often on infinite fields of water. Soon the local sirens sung him down to the sunken islands of Kiribati, where they kept him and cared for him well. Tony soon remembered he had to get back to his wife.

He used his triathlon skills to find the nearest island. It was enormous. Tony climbed a palm tree to look out over the land. Never had he seen land so fertile and ever-reaching. When his elite English tutors taught him that Australia was the largest island, they must’ve been lying.

It was the bloated political body of Joe Hockey. That wasn’t a palm tree, it was a cigar.

He swam until he found a real island. On the way, he encountered three boats. Each one asked the same: What news in Australia? There is word of mutiny. Tony told them, The country is lost to the greenies! Turn around! Turn around your boats, lest you be treated like people seeking asylum and not concentration camp inmates! Turn around!

All ignored him. They were doomed.

At the island, a thick throng of native men greeted him holding worker’s tools. They showed him hospitality much like New Zealanders. He asked who they were, if they recognised him. The natives pointed to him. “Man.” Then themselves. “Us.”

He was one of them. Tony wore the local clothes, a polo shirt and shorts with thongs, the attire of the peasants whose dole money he once spent. He drank their kava and they chanted, “Man! Us! Man! Us!”

He asked again where he was and an old man parted the crowd, a beard reaching to his knees. Tony asked again, Where am I?

The man looked him up and down. “You are Uncle Tone. You have been here before.”

He looked around. The crowd was still chanting. The old man pointed.

“This is the man who kept the camps open! This is the one who visited us last week! He was the man who laughed.

Man. Us. Manus. Manus Island. Papua New Guinea.

They ate Tone and rectally ingested his heart, a piece of coal whose size Santa would admire.

Tone’s house filled with greenies, who competed to be the man of it. Tone’s pet Credlin grew old and died on an unmaintained pile of kale. The day they ate Tone, wind turbines sprouted all over the country. The ozone hole he adored and cared for closed its burning eye forever.

The Eye of Climate Change Denial.

The Eye of Climate Change Denial.