A failing of biblical proportions
THIS story begins with a trophy. The one that stopped the boats. A thought-out, symbolic gesture of achievement, carved out of admiration from a fan who spent the time and energy to tell the man 'you did good'.
'I did do good' said the man as he placed the impressive creation next to the shiny black rock and images of his own precious family. 'I did stop those boats'.
Secure in that knowledge, he smirked at his own loved ones safely ensconced at home. A sense of purpose overcame him.
Soon talk of another looming crisis came to pass only the man wasn't as concerned about this one as he was about those boats.
He was so sure he was right, he didn't even bother to meet with the prophets and their mad predictions of pending hell.
And so all was good for his people and the country that stopped the boats. He even rose from the dead to prove it, rewarding his people with promises of riches and wealth.
I'll give you tax cuts. And the people cheered. Franking credits. And the people cheered. I'll let you keep your V8 utes and protect you against death taxes. And the people cheered. Those who disobeyed the saviour were punished with Newstart and Medevac. And the people cheered.
The man was good at his job and had the trophy cabinet to prove it.
But in the eleventh month on the eleventh day everything changed when the forewarned prophecy came back to bite him in the surplus.
I need a holiday the man thought, whisking his family far away from the burning shores and army of volunteers left to defend them. After much Twitter-fire and brimstone, he reluctantly returned and made it clear it was his family's fault.
But despite the almighty spin, judgment was swift.
In one town he reached out his empty hand only to receive a blasphemous fury so great he had to turn his back.
Despite forcing that empty hand on several occasions no-one wanted to acknowledge his ability to reduce their anxiety.
Despite all the empathy-training and advice from above, they were losing faith in him.
Of course his disciples and the blind rallied around to protect the man as they stumbled from one disaster zone into another, until they came across the friendliest place in the electorate. Here take my photo now he said as he rallied the slaves around him.
All seemed fine in the bubble again so it was back to the castle for a barbecue and fireworks with the 12 apostles and their families before it was clear this was his last supper and it wasn't long before Judas of the Sea of Cruelty came along and ruined it all again.
That pagan's symbolic gesture was a sign of the cross, and angry, on behalf of loud Australians everywhere. A single salute across the waters as the choir rang out to the man whose honeymoon was over.
And so the man began to perform miracles. With military precision. There were so many he had to make a commercial to tell the people about it and perhaps raise a few gold coins for his followers in the process. He was late but he wasn't going to be crucified by a mob of ungrateful sinners from here or another land.
While his miracles were paled by the saints walking amongst us, that didn't stop the man from claiming a lot of the glory, another trophy-worthy achievement for sure he thought as he stood behind the pulpit to address his flock. 'How good am I?'
And so the tragic fable ends, for now, the obligatory moral on this occasion has never been clearer.
Where there's smoke and mirrors there's always fire - eventually.