Joe Hookey: Out of Touch Apology Speech.

"Joe's Apology Speech" accidentally emailed to Pinky...

Dear Public People of Austrailya,
I love poor people. I really love them a lot. I love them so much that I could even be friends with one if I was ever fortunate enough to meet one. Therefore it grieves me to think the peeps of Australia thought I was having a Marie Antoinette moment last week when I said that poor people don’t drive cars and shouldn’t be worried about the fuel excise; even though it’s true. 

They don’t fly helicopters either… or have private jets God love ‘em. But that's beside the point.

We won’t be reducing the fuel excise and it will not be affecting the poor unfairly because we will be making it up to them by penalising the Richie Riches in the following manner, don’t you worry about that codgers.

Firstly, poor people really don’t drive cars because they use the bus to do all their illegal drug transactions. They catch buses to Centrelink, they catch buses to the footy. In the interests of social justice we will not be raising bus fares. (Except in accordance with fuel prices, but that can’t be helped if the bus company deems it appropriate.)

Furthermore, poor people don’t have to buy as much fuel as rich people because they don’t have to visit relatives since they all live in the same rented house.

And as John Hewson said in 1992, you can tell which house in the street is the 'rented house' can’t you? It’s the one with the overgrown lawn because they don’t own lawn mowers so therefore don’t buy fuel.

(Actually the speech was written by his then press secretary, guess who? Tony Abbott)

Therefore, as youse all can see, this fuel excise will not affect the poor people, only the rich who have big lawns and have to visit their rellies in Majorca via a fuel guzzling Boeing 747.

In the interests of all the fine upstanding povos living in our fair land girt by sea, we will also be instigating harsher taxes on the Hoity Toities of Australia.

Financially challenged people don’t use spoons because they ingeniously save money on milk by eating their cereal with a fork. Therefore the government will be imposing a tax on spoons. But only silver ones… and those found in the mouths of babes.

Poor people don’t need NBN because they can’t afford computers anyway. (Thus, we will only deliver NBN to wealthy suburbs and up their rates. Fair’s fair eh?)

Poor people don’t need solar heating because they don’t have a roof over their head so we will be cutting out the feed-in tariff scheme to punish the rich. (I realise they fly to Majorca in Winter and Aspen in Summer, but the fuel excise they absorb for their private jets will bring them to their sun-kissed knees.)

Poor people don’t need to be able to pay house insurance. Let’s be honest, if a cyclone or flood struck it would essentially be a house improvement. (In order to slog those moneyed-up bastards we’ll allow insurance companies to go silly with raising their premiums). That’ll hit ‘em hard. Having to pay extra insurance on the luxury yachts moored in Majorca. No wait… Nevermind.

The Living off the Fatted Calf Pensioners: Gotta hate them don’t ya?

If they really are as poor as they make out then they should be at home with their lights out wearing fingerless mittens and eating cat food. The oldies don’t need to get the pension if they are seen to be living the high life. Grey nomad caravan parks and South Pacific cruises will be taxed accordingly. It’s time we clamped down on this rich, old people rort.

The fuel excise will raise the price of fresh goods due to transportation costs but poor people don’t need to buy fresh fruit and vegetables because they prefer cheap junk food so it’s a win/win situation.

It’s only the thin, rich people who eat fresh food. It’s gonna suck to be thin and rich huh?

University fees will go up and this will be a bonus for the poor. Once they leave Uni the poor kids can never get those good jobs anyway due to the ‘elite school’ old boys/girls' club so it’ll save them a step in their education. Let the posh buggers pay for their tertiary education and your kid gets straight into the nitty gritty of their hairdressing/painting apprenticeship, earning four years of pay before the Uni graduates even start on their $300 000 p.a. careers. 

Who’ll be ahead I ask you?

As I said, povos and all poor people hold a special place in my heart. And remember, when life gives you lemons guys… get up your chauffeur for not having limes cut up to go with your Corona instead.

How to be Unpopular in the Voting World

                             

“Do we really HAVE to go?” I entreated Scotto this morning.

“Yes Pinky, you get a fine if you don’t vote, now get off the Twitter machine and go for a shower!”

So off we went to the school around the corner to cast our ballot papers with still NO idea which despots we’d actually vote for.

Who should we see outside the school gates but Sue the Librarian! If ANYONE should know who to vote for it’s a librarian… right?

“I’m not telling you who I voted for Pinky, that’s why they call it a secret ballot… and that photo better not be going on your silly blog!” she warned.

As we walked through the gates we were besieged with party representatives smiling, laughing and thrusting propaganda material into our hands. We felt like Justin Bieber walking the red carpet with rabid fans wantonly shoving autograph books in his face and slobbering all over him like sycophants. We felt... loved!

The voting rooms were chockablock full of nervous, wild eyed punters but luckily we knew the head bouncer, Julie, who let us cut in line. 

We told her we were “On the List” and apparently it turned out we were on the list! Who knew?

I looked for my favourite party on the ballot sheet but couldn’t find it… the Christmas Party!

Scotto looked confused and wanted to phone a friend.

Voting successfully completed, we walked through the gates again BUT this time the party spruikers SHUNNED us! Didn’t even give us a second look!

We couldn’t believe it! We thought they loved us. We were just old news to them, like a piece of gum discarded from the bottom of their shoes.

B#stards!

It was thirsty work voting so on the way home we thought we’d treat ourselves to something noice.

See you tomorrow when who knows who’ll be running the country!

Who will Pinky vote for?

“Who are you gonna vote for Mamma Bear?”

Those were the first politically oriented words I’d ever heard my number four son, Padraic utter.

“No-one!” I answered tersely, whilst fishing around for the nylon scourer in the Insinkerator which was causing the entire kitchen to rock and roll every time I turned it on. At least I hoped it was the scourer and not something a little more distasteful. 

I’ve an illogical fear that an evil entity will maliciously turn the garbage disposal on when I have my arm sunk into it up to my elbow… or that it’s not actually off, just jammed, and when I release the blockage it will spontaneously begin its grinding and pulverise my hand into mincemeat. 

As I said, I answered Padraic’s question with more than a little snap in my tone than usual.

“No-one?” he scoffed, “That’s a bit slack of you Mum… a bit irresponsible.”

This is the boy who walks around the house in his jocks and hasn’t cleaned his room since 2005 calling ME irresponsible.

I never write about politics in my blog. Not because I’m afraid of being shot down in flames by Internet trolls or the fact that I know nothing about it, but because I find it to be excruciatingly BORING!

This blog is about recalling the appalling moments in life and dissecting them down to the finest of details in order to discover something… anything… amusing to be gained from the experience. It’s about being silly, laughing at life and not taking myself too seriously.

Writing on a daily basis for the last eight months has completely altered my perception of life. When sh#t happens I now relish the opportunity to explore the possibilities; dichotomising the various elements of the crisis (whilst using as many big words as I can find in the Thesaurus) and attempting to discover a funny side... and there usually is one.

This is why I was forced to turn my back on Padraic and quietly snigger at his sudden interest in politics. At eighteen years of age this will be his first time at the polling booth and I’m pretty sure he thinks Julia Gillard is still the Prime Minister.

At gatherings, my entire family (mother, father, sister Sam, in-laws, two eldest sons Thaddeus and Jonah) love nothing more than a vigorous, bloodthirsty debate surrounding politics which usually winds up with several fists pounding on the table, shouting matches and someone stomping off to bed with a serious case of the sh#ts.

All the while, Pinky sits in the corner, quietly sipping Chardonay and chatting amiably to her eight year old nephew Heinrich, about little plastic Skylander toys.

Does it make me an unintelligent person because I have zilch interest in and don’t follow politics?

I know one person who thinks so.

As Thaddeus was leaving one such gathering (three sheets to the wind) he lunged at Sam and I embracing us both in a bear hug.

“Would you agree that Sam is the slightly more intelligent sister and you’re the slightly more attractive sister, Mum?” he slurred affectionately.

Sam squinted at him cagily, “Thanks Thaddeus,” she retorted, “No really, thanks…”I, on the other hand, was tickled pink! At last! All throughout our growing up period, Sam was always the “pretty one”! Who cares about bloody brains anyway!

Pinky Runs for Mayor.

                                  

Scotto and I have our best creative brainwaves when we go out to lunch.

“We should write a childrens’ book!” one of us will effuse. “Or make a Youtube video!”

One day we decided we could write the Great Australian Novel. We had the plot; the characters, the complication … everything we needed, but we neglected to write down the details and neither of us could remember anything the next morning. I’m positive it was a bloody good idea though.

The most outlandish hogwash we ever came up with was on a day we were at lunch waiting to go and watch Thaddeus, Jonah and Newman play in their band at the pub around the corner.

We were between our second and third wine and as we bemoaned the recent rate hikes in our city and discussed which teenager we should list on Ebay to raise revenue, I espied an electoral advertising billboard on the side of the road and unexpectedly blurted out with a rush of excitement, “I should run for Mayor!”

“That’s a great idea, Pinky!” Scotto unwisely encouraged, “What party would you join?”

“Labor of course, don’t all teachers vote Labor?” I queried.

“I don’t know, but it sounds right to me.”

Over the course of the afternoon we had devised all of our financial policies (Scotto was going to be my campaign manager at a shrewdly negotiated fee, which almost started an argument mind you) and we had all our slogans worked out including what type of car I would drive and how I should style my hair. I think I may have even told a few friends at the boy’s gig about how I was entering the mayoral race.

“Good for you, Pinky!” smiled a nervous Newman’s mother.

The next morning as I stretched out in bed suddenly the whole silly notion flooded back into my dehydrated grey matter.

“I can’t run for Mayor…” I whimpered to Scotto. “I have too many skeletons in the closet.”

“What do you mean?” he sat bolt upright in bed looking alarmed. “Naked videos on the Internet?”

“No.”

“You’ve been in prison?”

“No.”

“You used to be a man?”

“No.”

“What then, Pinky?”

“I don’t know sh#t about politics.” I bleated pathetically.

“That shouldn’t stop you.” He answered in a relieved tone of voice.

It’s true. I’m an ignoramous. My sister-in law, Maz, knows everything. This is a link to her blog…The Conscience Vote

Last year Maz stayed with us for a couple of weeks and I was desperate to impress her with my superior intellect. She is one of those people who can read five books overnight, and I was looking forward to discussing literature with her as I’m a bit of an aficionado.

Whilst I’ve read the Jane Austen trilogy, (my favourite was ‘The Emma Strikes Back’) and ‘Withering Looks’ by Emily Bronte, I’m not a big fan of George Eliot, he’s a bit pretentious.

“What’s this?” she asked curiously, picking up a copy of “Fifty Shades of Grey”.

“Nothing!” I said snatching it out of her hand and chucking it under the coffee table.

I attempted to engage her in some political debate while she was staying with us. “Look!” I’d exclaim after I’d been losing an argument about climate change and snuck upstairs to my computer. She’d graciously peruse the clutch of freshly printed Wikipedia pages I held up as ‘facts’ and shoot me down gently with rational deliberation.

I had no hope.



I just wanted to say how proud we are on her recent writings and thank her for supporting me in my literary attempts to look at the brighter side of life through my blog.

                       This is my sister-in-law published!

Pinky gives Kim Jong-un a telling off.

                        

The threat of nuclear war is no joke but then again we often make fun of the things we fear the most. I’ve seen quite a few Facebook jokes about Kim Jong-un with a myriad of comparisons drawn to Gangnam Style singer PSY. I heard a reporter the other day use a metaphor alluding to a tantrum throwing spoilt child, “Kim Jong-un has thrown all of the toys out of his pram.”

We seem to hear plenty about his late father and grandfather but not too much about his late former opera- singer Mum. I tell you what, if he was Pinky’s son he’d be getting a bloody clip over the ear for his shenanigans.

“Kimmy! You come out of your room right now! And you can get that surly look off your face. I’ve had enough of getting phone calls from other mothers telling me you’re not allowed over to play anymore. That Mrs Putin just gave me a big serve about what you did to her son. What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you play nice with the other kids? What’s that? You’re a dictator? Listen son, you’re not a dictator… you’re just a very naughty boy. 

For God’s sake put some pants on, I’m sick of seeing you walking around in your jocks. And why do you insist of cutting your hair like that… you look like Sweeney Todd. Who is going to want to be friends with someone with a haircut like Sweeney Todd? 

What about those nice boys from One Direction. I like that little Harry, why don’t you grow your hair like him? 

Where have you been all day anyway? Inspecting the concentration camps! Well you could afford to spend a bit of time there yourself Fatty Boombah. You’ve been tucking in to a bit too much Western food lately. Ever since you made friends with that Dennis the basketballer you’ve been feeding your face on Maccas and KFC. Well if you send a nuclear bomb over to America where do you think you’re going to get your fried chicken from then eh?

Can I smell cigarettes? Have you been smoking again? I can always smell it you know. Where are they? Right! Haven’t you embarrassed me enough after lighting up a bloody cigarette when you were inspecting operating theatres at the hospital? What were you thinking Kimmy? What sort of role model are you for the citizens?

Now I’ve made up my mind Kimmy. You’re grounded until you can cut out this weapons nonsense and start focussing on learning to get along with others. 

Isn’t it time you thought about getting a real job. I’m sure you could get a car mechanic’s apprenticeship at Hyundai if you apologised to South Korea for being such a little nasty little sh#t. 

That Barack’s a lovely bloke! Why don’t you invite him over for a play? And while you’re at it get rid of this internet and media censorship you insist on, I want to find out what’s happening on My Kitchen Rules! Now go to your room and have a good think about your attitude!”