The cultured choristers of the Royal Regiment of Australian Artillery Concert Party, under the tyrannical oversight of Warrant Officer Tony “STOP THE...” Abbott, have been sent to East Timor to entertain the troops. And, at 50-degrees-plus in the shade, it Ain’t Half Hot Mum!
Sergeant-Major Abbott (due to his arch-monarchist and pro-British leanings, he insists on being addressed according to the old-fashioned rank) has called parade so that the men can be addressed by Brigadier Bolt. Moreover, in spite of the stifling heat, Tones has ordered the Concert Party diggers to kit out in clobber more suited to alpine warfare, like fleecy-lined anoraks and Ugg boots. However, the guys have still not lost their larrikin sense of humour and on the parade display table have replaced the folded regimental flag with a tea-towel picturing Osama Bin Laden with the caption, “Compared to WorkChoices, mine is a kinder, gentler polity”. And, to add insult to injury, the wags have substituted the Bible with the Koran and The Regimental Standing Orders booklet with the latest edition of Gay Weekly. So, as the dulcet-toned diggers stand rigidly to attention, dripping in sweat, Sergeant-Major Abbott and Brigadier Bolt arrive on parade.
Tones: Right then, you maggots...the world used to be divided into the just and the unjust...but with you lot, it’s a choice between the unjust and the severely maladjusted...heh...heh...
[The guys know not to dignify Tones’ lame jokes with even a modicum of a suggested snigger. Instead, they remain completely at attention. Then, Tones turns to the parade display table and reaches out for what he presumes is the Bible, so that he can pray one of the psalms over these god-forsaken no-hopers standing before him. However, to his unadulterated incredulity, his eyes light upon the Koran and his head starts to nod in total disbelief. Then he sees the Bin Laden tea-towel and, worst of all, the copy of Gay Weekly. By this stage, Tones is approaching a catatonic state and his head is nodding at a rapidly accelerating rate of knots. One of the diggers, ‘Lofty’, takes advantage of the deathly silence to ask a question]
Lofty: Erm...permission to speak, Sarn’t-Major...
[Tones is still interminably nodding, seemingly transfixed by the scandal of the blasphemous objects traducing the sacred parade display table. Lofty assumes that Tones’ nodding gesture indicates he indeed has permission to speak.]
Lofty: Righto, Sarn’t-Major...I’ll just take that as a ‘yes’ then...Now, as its so damn hot in this winter clobber, we’ll soon all be dead, buried and cremated if we don’t get them off...Permission to disrobe, Sarn’t-Major sir?
[Still, Tones is just standing there staring in utter disbelief at the table, nodding like a metronome experiencing endless repeats of Groundhog Day. As before, the Concert Party crooners take this for a ‘yes’ and start to relieve themselves of their excessive clothing. However, unfortunately for them, this mutinous act of Machiavellian bastardry only succeeds in snapping Tones out of his shocked state. He gives them both barrels]
Tones: STOP THE UNDRESSING!!!! Keep that kit on, you poofs!!!!
Lofty: But Sarn’t-Major...why do we have to dress like this in the East Timor tropics...can’t we just wear our budgie smugglers?
Tones: STOP THE BUDGIESMUGGLERS!!!!! I’ll tell you why you have to wear polar-regions’ fighting kit in East Timor, you nonces – because all this global warming palaver is a load of crap!!! And the sooner you warmists get that fact into your thick girlie heads the better...Brigadier Bolt here, like me, can spot nancy-boy warmist twaddle from a mile off...so don’t you dare try to take that kit off...And, for your insubordination, and the desecration of our beloved parade display table, you can all go for a twenty kilometre hike in your arctic gear...and remember, it was a lot warmer in Jesus’ day, so consider yourselves lucky...heh...heh...At the double...left, right...left, right...
[As the sweat-saturated squaddies tramp off despondently into the East Timor midday sun, Brigadier Bolt turns to Tones]
Bolta: Erm...Sergeant-Major...I know we have to nip this leftie warmist bolshevism in the bud...but aren’t you being a tad rough on the chaps?
Tones: Oh, I’m only having a bit of fun with them at the moment, Brigadier – for our next posting I’ll allow them to wear their budgie smugglers...
Bolta: Really, Sergeant-Major? And where are you getting posted to?
Tones: Actually our next posting is to Antarctica...
Bolta: Antarctica? Why, surely budgie smugglers won’t be appropriate fatigues for that sort of climate?
Tones: Au contraire, Brigadier...As you know, if we keep up this global warming denialism for a few more years, the polar ice-caps will have melted and the men will be in their element prancing around in their speedos...heh...heh...
Bolta: Yes, very good, Sergeant-Major...And another thought has just struck me – with the ice-caps melted, won’t the mining companies be able to make hay, so to speak?
Tones: Got it in one, sir...Yes, the big-wigs at Staff Headquarters – General Gina, Cromwell Clive, and Twiggy the Terrible – certainly know what they’re doing...hee...hee...
Bolta: And we’re just following orders, right?
Tones: Yup! And I just hope the Nuremberg Excuse holds up this time...cos, if it doesn’t...shit happens...
For further reflection:
- Due to the immensity of Clive Palmer’s profit margins, should an eighth continent be named after him?
- Discuss: “global warming couldn’t be true, cos if it were, Earth would soon be hotter than hell, and god would have nowhere to send all the naughty lefties”
- Should Ban Morrison re-form his original band and re-name it, “Us and Them”?
- When the glaciers turn to rivers, should Barnaby Joyce be allowed anywhere near them in a four-wheel drive?