Mrs Culthorpe, a victim of parliamentarysub-culture
Dear reader, as you will be aware, ever since Mrs Culthorpe returned from her stint as an intern in Federal Parliament, things have not been the same.
Indeed, though we recognise the “Paths to nowhere training scheme” gave Mrs Culthorpe a heads up in the competitive jobs market, we agreed with the job futures network agency, (a fully funded private employment training scheme),” that employment criteria which favoured young energetic employees who could be allied to enterprise bargaining agreements and a lower wages were more likely to gain full employment over the likes of Mrs Culthorpe’, whom after her recent stint in a private aged care facility has lost, (inadvertently the owners say) the gift of speech, continence, and betrayed traces of Berri Berri, Scrub Typhus, Dysentry and Cholera as a consequence of her being interned in the Happy Meadow Retirement Villa, (ABN 25 215 32 499).
Still we had a problem, On a Stephen Hawking type computer tablet, with the styli gripped determinedly between her teeth, she tried to scrawl the name of the parliamentarian who had so cruelly abused her.
Our P.M, standing by principle
To our shock, and after due analysis, she had scrawled the names and tell-tale vital-statistics of most of the front bench of cabinet. How could this be? Until after another agonising wait, she made it clear that those arrangements were consensual. Clearly there was something funny going on in parliament. So as we pressed for further information Mrs Culthorpe, already frail, suffered a seizure, and is unable to do much other than stare and nod occasionally.
So it’s up to us to determine who did it, and find the culprit,
But where to start, that was the question?
Not much point going to the P.M we said, he knows nothing about any form of sexual impropriety. And if he did, he’d expunge it from his soul through happy clapping and talking in tongues.
Gauleiter of Brisbane
We asked the most powerful law man in the country, the Gauleiter of Brisbane, Herr Dutton. He directed us to an offshore detention facility which we politely declined. The normally ebullient Michaela Cash couldn’t help us either.
Bugger, we’d been left with more clues than the Metropolitan Police encountered during the reign of the ripper, with nothing to show for it.
We tried asking all the pollies, and they just smirked,
It seems they all knew who’d done it, and yet were unwilling to break the code.
‘A code of honour’? said Ces,
‘Nup, the code of doing anything that might get in the way of the perks, the super, and the lifetime of sitting on well paid boards, as lobbyists and rivers of cash for doing precisely what they’re doing now’.
Michaela salutes the Gauleiter.
“Representing the people”? I naively said.
Pshaw! Ces sputtered, “for doing nothing, and looking after mates,
Perhaps one of their mates could help us”?
But, who was man enough to speak out? Clearly a sheilah in distress was of interest to no one,
Ces chuckled, ‘it’s almost as if she was a fucking refugee’…
We had to have a laugh, well I spose, at least they’re not just racist,
That was a thought, there was depth in parliament after all.
Michaela learnt the salute from H.M
Will our duo unlock the code of silence?
What will they find?
And does anyone on the front bench care enough to squeal?
Find out in our next episode, “Draw ranks and you’re FIRED” or…. “ Don’t look now, its principle’!