Strewth Donald!

I’m not sure you know, but someone has just leaked footage of you sinking the boot into yours truly.  Fair suck of the sauce bottle!  Some dopey galah has left the camera rolling during a break before distributing copies of the resulting footage behind the shelter shed to any dingbat stupid enough to broadcast it.  Flamin’ heck!  Excuse the French, but you really ought to try shutting your yap for a bit.  It seems every time you open your cakehole, you get caught on a hot mic saying something stupid and end up looking like a complete nitwit.  

Now that you’ve made a mess, it’s left to me to clean things up.  Lucky for you, there’s no one more qualified to smooth over troubled diplomatic waters.  Just wheel me out, point me at a camera and let me weave my own particular brand of magic.  You’ll be amazed.  But whilst I’m willing to sort things out, I’d ask that you take a long, hard look at yourself so we don’t both end up the creek that dare not speak its name without a paddle again.

Try and see it from my point of view – after turning in last night after a warm Milo, I wake up to find your size six Hush Puppies fair up my clacker.  I can’t imagine what I’ve done to turn you into a right flaming mongrel.  Fair dinkum, Donald; the rubbish coming out your mouth made you sound madder than a cut snake.  Was it something I said?

 Granted, you and I see some things differently.  Whereas you appear to take any and every opportunity to suck up to murderous dictators you can, I come from a country where we threaten to shirtfront these drongos before refusing to sit with them at lunch time.  Sadly, for all of us, this didn’t have the sobering effect on Vladimir we hoped, and he now seems hell-bent on rampaging his way across Europe.  But at least we tried.  You, in contrast, appear determined to make Putin your best mate.  I wouldn’t be surprised to see the pair of you rocking up in matching shirts to the Deni Ute Muster before scooting off to the B and S Ball together.

Turn it up, Donald.  You can’t very well dislike me without having met me, even if saves time.  In the interests of fairness, you ought to get to know me first, perhaps even get stuck in a lift with me, then dislike me.  Like regular folk. But even if your comments suggesting you might not like me were bewildering, the suggestion that I might not be ‘the brightest bulb’ was a complete shocker.  Truly, Donald, you have been misinformed.

 I don’t know if you know this, but I introduced the term ‘programmatic specificity’ into the Australian idiom. Fact is, when I first dropped ‘programmatic specificity’ into casual conversation, the entire country went completely psycho and had a complete fit.  People were beside themselves.  They’d never heard so potent a sentence from a leader.  It’s like our country suddenly came of age.  Ten years later, it’s common to hear school kids use the term ‘programmatic specificity’ over school drinking fountains and footy fields.

I note you mentioned that I’d, ‘said some nasty things.’  Once again, you’ve been misled.  It would be more accurate to say that I ate some nasty things, namely my own ear wax whilst sitting in Parliament (there’s footage – it’s all over YouTube like a rash!).  It’s one thing to get caught on a ‘hot mic’.  It’s entirely another to be filmed chowing down on whatever you’ve pulled out of your ear with your index finger whilst sitting in the nation’s temple to democracy.  If Putin had been filmed eating his own ear wax, the camera man would never have been seen again.  It’s my ability to forgive others that truly sets me apart.

Granted, I called you the ‘most destructive President in history’ but I meant it as a compliment.  Giving each other a hard time is just what real mates do.  If you’re out of sorts, you’d be welcome to even things up by giving me one of your trademark nicknames.  To make things easy, I’ve prepared some suggestions for you to consider – ‘KRudd’ and ‘Kevin Rude’ were all pretty popular in Australia.  My personal favourite, though, has to be ‘Kevin Ruddy Wilson’.  Trust me, that’s a cracker.

The irony of all this is that you and I have heaps in common.  Like you, I too know the bitter sting of having power wrenched away by someone heaps less deserving.  And, like you, I understand how it feels to harbour resentment and bitterness as I plot my way back to power.  Now that I think about it, instead of trying to stitch me up, you should be calling me for advice.  Because after I was turfed from office, I managed to claw my way back and regain the throne.  All hail the mighty Kevin!  That’s right – instead of trying to give me the diplomatic equivalent of an atomic nipple cripple, you should be calling me your hero.    

Frankly, Donald, you’re lucky I’m an ambassador.  Because if I wasn’t my nation’s chief diplomatic emissary to your country, I’d be bound by Australian custom to say: ‘You. Me. Carpark. Now’.  If that sounds confusing, it loosely translates as an invitation to resolve our dispute through an informal means.  Preferably in a car park.

Let’s agree to bury the hatchet somewhere besides each other and try to get along.  It would be shame if our two great nations got into a tiff just because you had hurt feelings following a classic (if I do say myself) K Rudd burn.  Toughen up, princess!  If you don’t stop being such a sook, I’ll be short sheeting your bed and sticking a mango in your tailpipe before you know it.

Yours sincerely,


The Electric Nugget Defence – Art vs. Good Taste

Imagine this.  You’ve just gone through one of the most traumatic experiences of your adult life after finding an intruder in your living room.  After suffering the kind of full-tilt adrenalin surge you’d normally associate with skydiving or base-jumping; the type that leaves you numb, shaking and slightly disoriented, I managed to call the police.  They arrived quickly and were professional, polite and reassuring.  It was only as I sat down with the Senior Constable that I noticed the multiple paper cutouts of Donald Trump’s head spread out across my living room table.

I can explain.  But before I dive headlong into the specifics, I should provide something of a contextual overview.  Do you remember that your parents would insist you always wear clean underwear just in case you’re in a traffic accident?  It seems highly unlikely and, yet, you can’t be too careful.  The same goes for Donald Trump’s head.  He should always be packed away after use in the event you have to call the police unexpectedly at two o’clock in the morning. 

Having multiple portraits of the forty-sixth President littered across my dining room table like over-sized orange confetti is not my standard practice.  In this instance, there was a very specific reason as to why he was there.  I could beat around the George W. Bush but, instead, I’ll come right out and say it – I have a band.

It’s not just any band – it’s a musical ensemble that creates kids’ music.  The lynchpin of this musical powder keg is Liam.  He’s nine.  It’s his band.  He reminds me of this regularly whenever I start to get carried away.  Our band name – “The Electric Nuggets” – sums us up perfectly.  We’re the ultimate mix of high energy and fried snack foods.  Just like Nickelback.  Having ceded creative control to a nine-year-old boy, you can safely predict that certain themes will emerge in your songs. 

We’ll unleash our debut EP on an unsuspecting public in a couple of months.  So far, our tunes include ‘Spaghetti In My Hair’ and ‘Liam The Lego King’.  There’s one song we haven’t quite finished entitled ‘Men At Twerk’ that may turn out to be the greatest song ever written (we’ll see – it needs a bridge).  But the song that best defines us as a band and, possibly, as people is called ‘My Butt Cheeks’.

No one’s more surprised than I am.  When I first met Liam, he spent a lot of time either referring to, drawing, making fun of or seeking status updates on butt cheeks – both his own and those belonging to other people.  I found it confronting at first.  Then I kind of got used to it.  After a while, I was humming a tune to myself between meetings that gradually and inevitably evolved into a song. I then had to confess to Liam’s mother that I’d composed a tune entitled ‘My Butt Cheeks’. 

Conceptually, it’s quite simple.  Each verse includes a description of the aforementioned anatomical feature before the rejoinder ‘They’re my butt cheeks’ kicks in.  My current favourite is ‘When I get old they’re going to be antiques – they’re my butt cheeks’.  It is, of course, all done in the best possible taste.

Having written the song, we set about recording it.  Put simply, it was an absolute hoot.  There are slicing guitars and thundering drums, harmonies and slick bass lines, all in aid of a tune expressing a sentiment that’s all too rare since Sir Mixalot went into semi-retirement.  Having faithfully recorded our musical meisterwerk, our minds turned to promotion.  And, more specifically, to YouTube.

I’ve known about YouTube for some time but have only recently become aware of its near vice-like grip over anyone born in the present century.  As best I can tell, a lot of ‘YouTubers’ are unpleasant people who make fun of other people who made a not-very-good video.  A lot of it’s quite unpleasant.  But, so I was told, that’s how people experience music these days.  We’d need to make a film clip.

I had two ideas.  Firstly, we’d use pictures of things that resembled the human posterior but were, in fact, something else.  Fruit, a candle, trees and even and airship.  We’d intersperse those images with pictures of famous people.  The idea being that you’d see the face of a powerful person before a speech bubble appears with the words ‘They’re my butt cheeks’ written in capital letters.  But before shooting it, I had to see if the concept would work.  I needed to do a test run.

To aid my experiment, I printed off headshots of Donald Jehoshaphat Trump and Liam patiently cut them out.  We would test out our idea to see whether it was as hilariously awesome in practice as it was in theory.  I thought nothing of the fact that I now had multiple cutouts of a former President spread out across the table.  It’s not as though anyone would see them…

Nobody expects to be robbed.  And nobody expects to be caught with several cutouts of Donald Trump.  The police were incredibly polite but I felt the urge to explain.  ‘It’s for an art project!’ I blurted out.  Then I was silent.  The concept of ‘My Butt Cheeks’ is hard to explain to strangers in the best of circumstances, much less at two o’clock in the morning in the morning after a robbery.  I decided to let sleeping butt cheeks lie.  It’s for the best.  I’m sure Donald would agree.

O Donald! My Donald! (With Sincere Apologies to Walt Whitman)

O Donald! My Donald! Your fearful term is done

Bookended by impeachments like a legal burger bun

Marine One’s near, the bells you hear, the people all exulting

But Twitter’s ban means you can’t say things false and insulting

            But O heart! heart! heart!

            O the strange things that he said

            Where every day my Donald lies

            No proof, not a shred

O Donald! My Donald! Rise up and hear the tweets

Rise up – for you the flag won’t fly – when you call others ‘cheats’

Relief as we ungrit our teeth – as the whole world now detoxes 

Rejoice as fleets of moving vans pack up those cardboard boxes

                Dear Donald! O Donald!

                My Oompa Loompa bruiser

                Forever now on history’s page

                Remembered as a loser.

The Donald does not answer, his lips are pursed and orange

His eyes are tight, he looks as if he’s sucking on a lozenge

Will you get your bond back? It’s something I don’t know

I’m sure you’ll take the bathroom fittings back to Mar-a-lago

                As you head out to the landing

                Your steps unsure, unsteady

                We rue that you did not explain

                The meaning of ‘covfefe’