After literal days of work, Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison is bushed (pardon the pun).
He’s unfairly copped a pounding from all sides of politics for focusing on vital marketing efforts during a national bushfire emergency. He’s been insulted by ungrateful victims, some of whom hadn’t even lost their entire properties to the bushfires. And he hasn’t had a holiday for more than two weeks!
It’s a tough life being a brave coal activist in a world full of raving, climate-frenzied hippies. That’s why Scotty from Engadine reckons he deserves another break.
“Not bad deals on the Maldives, hun!” Scotty shouts to Jenny, hunched over the laptop in his dad cave in Kirribilli House. “I’ve found it on Skyscanner – there and back for less than a grand per person. Should we book for next week?”
Sighing, Jenny puts down her Pentecostal songbook. She ignores the crooked “RADIOACTIVE – DO NOT ENTER!” poster plastered on the door and steps into Scott’s computer lair. Sadly, she walks over to her husband and rests her hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Scotty darling, we’ve been through this before – you can’t keep taking tropical holidays while the koalas and kangaroos are burning. People expect you to do something about it.”
She crouches down and tries to look Scotty in the eye, but he avoids her gaze.
“Can you do that for me? Will you promise you’ll be a good boy and do something today?”
“Yes…” mumbles Scotty, still staring down at the carpet.
“Good! Now let’s go and make some refugees’ lives hell. Would that cheer you up?”
“Yeah!” Scotty says, brightening up instantly and jumping out of his chair. There’s nothing like inflicting pain on the less fortunate to get a politician up and about.