Cassowaries who go fishing
SOMEWHERE in a tall tower down in Brisbane.
There’s a knock on the premier’s door. “Come in. Oh, g’day Ken.” “G’day Premier.” “Just got you in to go over that little thing up near Port Douglas, that spot their mayor was talking to us about last week, for the animal shelter. I’ve just had that mayor on the phone again – it wasn’t pretty.”
“Yes, Premier. Jeez the mayor is hopping mad isn’t she! Just can’t take a joke. I felt a bit like Manny in round five after we told her ‘no’ again.
“Or the Blues after Cooper Cronk’s kick across field to Holmes!”
“Ha yes, Premier, what a match. Anyway, I still think we made the right call about the environmental values of that paddock. I mean, if I was a cassowary, and I’m not saying I am, but if I was, I would definitely want to inhabit a spot like that. It’s nice and open, not too many trees obscuring the view of the highway or anything, and quite close to town. All the buses and everything go right past it, so it’s handy to all the transport. And there’s plenty of feral pigs for company.”
“Yes, and there’s a lovely beach across the road, especially at low tide, and fantastic views. Fabulous for cassowaries who go fishing.”
“That’s right Premier. A fantastic spot and any cassowary would be barking mad not to want to live there. I reckon they’re there alright, even if the locals never see them. They probably get about at night so they can enjoy the lights of Port Douglas.”
“Yep, it’s obvious Ken. I’m glad we had another look at it so we didn’t make a silly mistake.” “Yippy ky-ay, Premier.” “Yippy ky-ay, Ken.”