The couch is integral to the Australian way of life. Without a good couch, it is impossible to be comfortable and relaxed. Without a couch, families will be forced to eat the main meal facing each other across a dinner table, potentially resulting in conversation and thus the swift and inevitable breakdown of civilised society.
Without a couch, Australians would be bereft of sound economic management.
No economy, great or small, can survive for long without the couch. Without that vital contingency fund stashed under the cushions of every household in Australia, our complex financial system would come to a grinding halt within hours if not minutes. This is the secret behind the superb economic management of our peerless couch potato John Howard and his rather lumpen sidekick Peter Costello.
Whenever things look a bit grim (for example, perhaps it’s the start of an election campaign and pressies are a bit thin on the ground) John raises his derriere off the green leather and Peter scrabbles around under the cushions for a bit of loose change.
This time he’s emerged with around $34 billion that they didn’t know they had which is a testament to what a safe pair of hands and a top-quality Chesterfield can do to keep a trillion dollar economy like Australia’s purring along like a well-oiled machine.
Scientists have calculated that if it were possible to harness the energy expended by John Howard’s kicking and screaming as he was dragged towards signing the Kyoto protocol, you could power every household on the planet for millions of years. Sadly, this near-infinite source of energy is far too dangerous to be toyed with as, theoretically, the paradox caused by the presence of John Howard’s signature on the Kyoto protocol would cause the entire universe to implode.
Fortunately, there is a less dangerous source of power generation based on the principle of the Howard backflip. Once Johnny was hooked up to the generator with the monitor showing a continuous feed of opinion polls, the torque generated by the process of the little guy changing his story could power the planet.
Carbon trading? No way… flip!
Emissions targets? Not on your… flip!
Eventually, cloning and miniaturisation techniques would make possible the mass-production of the internal Howard engine, bringing an inexhaustible supply of energy to all humanity that, as long as the soundproofing was perfect, would be entirely free of toxic emissions.
As Clark Kent is to Superman, Peter Parker is to Spidey, Bruce Wayne is to Batman and William “Billy” Cranston is to the Blue Power Ranger, so is John Howard to Mr Sheen. Mild mannered Prime Minister by day, Australia’s most powerful cleaning product by night.
Now, while flying around the house on a magic dusting cloth keeping household surfaces sparkling clean might not seem to be in quite the same league as his crime-fighting superhero colleagues, the PM’s super-alter-ego’s major mission is a ceaseless battle against the historical forces of darkness. Identifiable only by their black armbands and an unquenchable fondness for lattes, these minions of misery constantly attempt to besmirch our past.
Only John and his magic dustcloth can wipe away the coffee rings of these vandals and present Australia’s history so spotlessly white and citrussy fresh that not even the most fastidious would feel the need to apologise when visitors drop by. Sure, there might be a few suspicious bulges under the carpet and I wouldn’t recommend opening any closets or poking around in the basement, but if the past is so bright you’ve got to wear shades, it’s best not to look to closely.
He’s come back from the dead so many times he once dubbed himself Lazarus With A Triple Bypass, but it’s all starting to look a bit more sinister than the combination of radical cardiac surgery and a divine miracle from the Son Of Our Heavenly Father.
Exhibit A: Every election we are subjected to an excruciating ritual rather generously dubbed The Great Debate in which The Prime Minister is gruesomely eaten alive by a rabid worm on national television.
Afterwards, John’s worm-riddled corpse is pronounced clinically dead by experts and then just a few weeks later he can be seen giving a suspiciously stilted acceptance speech for yet another term as PM in a fashion that could almost pass for human if you judge him by the admittedly loose standards of the people in attendance.
Exhibit B: Early most mornings, he can be spotted lurching along the footpaths of Kirribilli with the characteristic stiff-legged gait of the animated soulless corpse, and here’s the most telling part, doing it wearing a tracksuit no living person would be seen dead in.
Exhibit C: The traditional instrument for dispatching a flesh-eating zombie is of course the chainsaw. Now we’ve all witnessed his support for a pulp mill in Tasmania, which will draw all of Australia’s chainsaws across Bass Strait, well away from his lair in NSW.
Australia is a tolerant society and being a mindless ghoul shouldn’t disqualify anyone from attaining high office as long as he or she can quote Bradman’s batting average to at least two decimal places. However, it should be noted that zombies do tend to refuse to integrate, instead forming enclaves of zombies which roam the streets at night, terrorising law-abiding Australians and eating their brains.
While I’m not saying that large numbers of voters have necessarily had their brains eaten, it would explain a great deal of the events of the past eleven years. Draw your own conclusions… while you still can.
It’s time for bed, you’ve had a glass or two of wine and you’ve been sitting in front of the plasma TV watching election advertising all evening. They say there’s no aphrodisiac like fear and you’re convinced that the union bosses will be around to destroy the economy, abolish your job and paint TERRORISTS WELCOME on your front door mat within moments of John and Janet leaving the keys to Kirribilli House in the letterbox.
You do what anyone would do and turn to an old flame for comfort. Sure, the passion has waned over the years and he doesn’t look like much, but the candlelight’s glinting off his scalp and you know from experience that if you hop into the sack with Ol’ Johnny, you’ll get thoroughly screwed every single time. You want leadership and while you might not be convinced he’s Mr Right, he’ll do at a pinch as Mr Right Now.
The trouble with John is his mate Pete. There’s not a conservative politician on the planet without a few kinks up his sleeve (and various other orifices) and up ’til now, you’ve been reasonably comfortable with Pete watching from the corner and sometimes under the bed. There’s a slightly disturbing smirk on his face, but he’s kept his hands strictly to himself (with the aid of just a touch of lubricant).
All of a sudden though, it’s three in a bed and Mr Right Now has been joined by Mister Right Behind Him. The smirk’s cranked up a couple of centimetres, there’s an unholy hunger in his eyes and you’re not sure quite what’s lurking under the sheets. Come to think of it, that Rudd fellow doesn’t look like he’s up for too much of the kinky stuff and if you let him pop down to the local pole dancing club now and then, he’ll probably leave you alone most of the time…
We’ve spoken earlier about the Australian Defence Force squandering taxpayers’ money on some dud gear, but we have to hand it to the Royal Australian Navy for their pioneering research into the Chest Mounted Torpedo. For a mere $10,000 (or $5,000 a nork) brave female defenders of our waters have been kitted out with military-grade gazongas. Not only will this provide a recruiting bonanza in the male 16 to 35 demographic, they can always be fired at the enemy as a last resort.
Johnny’s been a big supporter of our armed forces and without putting too fine a point on it, he’s got a head that any red-blooded Aussie female warrior should be proud to stuff down the front of their shirt to enhance their self esteem as well as transforming them into an ultimate killing machine of the Angelique Jolie persuasion.
Unimaginative types have questioned the military and strategic advantages of breast enlargement, but the Navy will save a fortune on personal floatation devices when our enhanced supersailors are required to save kiddies who have been flung into the ocean by terrorist refugee parents (with the election coming up it should be any day now).
Sydney’s hosting APEC, and in honour of some of the more repressive regimes in attendance, we’ve given our police the chance to show them how it’s done with new and exciting powers to keep unruly citizens in line.
However, the centrepiece of our APEC celebrations is a gigantic concrete and steel fence around the centre of Sydney, symbolising Australia’s open and welcoming attitude to those attempting to escape countries with more permanent and enthusiastic systems of keeping their people safe from such dangers as being able to move freely through their own cities or express political views.
But while the fence is ostensibly in place to keep the riffraff at a safe distance from their mostly democratically elected overlords, it’s also the jewel in the crown of John Howard’s climate change policy. While the latte-sipping tree-huggers who signed up to the Kyoto protocol vainly try to hold back the tide, John’s embraced global warming and is looking to the future.
Climate scientists have calculated that during APEC, the volume of hot air emitted on the topic of climate change will be sufficient to entirely melt the polar icecaps, causing the sea levels to rise dramatically. Fortunately, John will be busily gathering two of every different type of bureaucrat into the Opera House early in the week.
At around 2.8 metres high, the fence will keep out the flood and with the air conditioning cranked up to maximum and snacks available in the foyer, they will ride out the apocalypse in the manner of Noah and emerge triumphantly to create a perfect society based on the Australian Workplace Agreement.
The only hole in the plan is that the fence is made of steel lattice which may not prove to be as waterproof as hoped. Nonetheless, you can worry too much about the details when it comes to the environment and as long as it looks like you’re doing something, that’s generally considered good enough.
“The patient died, but it’s okay, we saved a toenail” is something you’re unlikely to hear pronounced in a triumphant tone of voice anywhere outside the marginal seat of Braddon, site of Dr John Howard’s new national hospital policy. Sure, good toenail health is important, but sometimes a more wholistic approach may be in order.
Hospitals in Australia are pretty confusing places at the moment. Anyone sitting in an emergency ward for six hours would have plenty time to wonder if the preponderance of doctors to whom English is not a first language explains an incomplete grasp of the word “emergency”, while those on a waiting list for elective surgery would be in no doubt about the medical profession’s profound understanding of the word “waiting”.
Luckily, we’ve got consultants who can immediately and conclusively diagnose exactly the cause of the ailment, that being the arm of government not currently being consulted. It’s a bit complicated, but trust them, they’re politicians.
“Love me or loathe me,” proclaimed the Prime Minister this week, “people accept that I stand for something.” Now, quickly moving on from the fact that the ledger seems a little heavier on the loathe side these days, when you put your mind to it, while you are quite certain that the little guy stands for something, it’s remarkably difficult to pin down exactly what that might be.
That’s where the splayd comes in. A dinky-di Australian invention, it’s the bastard child of a fork, spoon and a knife. It’s whatever piece of cutlery you want it to be when you want it to be it. The splayd promises to be the answer to all your food-wrangling needs, but at the end of the dinner party you’ve got a pile of washing up in the sink and amongst all the mess, the splayd’s sitting there without a mark on it.
Reports have it that John and Janette aren’t backwards in breaking out the splayds for a soiree at Kirribilli House (ask pretty much anyone except Peter or Tanya Costello) and one wonders if there’s a deeper reason for that than a simple hankering for the fifties when handling the splayd with panache meant breeding and sophistication. You can’t imagine Kevin twirling the silverware of kings with the same level of conviction (he’s more of a spork man I suspect) and that’s where I think I’ll leave this as it’s getting far too silly.
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then John should consider himself as buttered up as Buttery Barbara, my favourite act at Scores Gentleman’s Club. Now there’s nothing wrong with a bit of bipartisanship, but if Jesus were Kevin Rudd’s election strategist (and who’s to say he isn’t) even he would be saying “For My sake, Kevin, stop turning your bloody cheek you big pansy! I know I don’t believe in evolution, but grow a bloody backbone!”
The problem Johnny has is that out of the two John Howards presented for this year’s election, the electorate is showing a clear preference for the one with more hair. Luckily, the problem presents its own solution. Once Kevin has merged seamlessly into Prime Ministership, John can take a leaf out of his old pal Saddam Hussein’s book, whack on a blonde wig and become Kev’s body double.
Pictured above about to present the Walkley for Most Shameless Moral Stance to Glenn Milne, John could fill in for Kevin at any event where he would be in clear physical danger or is busy visiting the local nudie bar. Both The Lodge and Kirribilli House could be maintained at 100% occupancy and John could slip on a maroon tracksuit at the crack of dawn and present a fresh powerwalking Prime Ministerial image while Kev’s sleeping off the hangover.
