Byron quack wants Waxy’s shack but the threat to the Pink leads to a stink – so Bonalbo says No

What a week. Australians of all codes were roused and rooted from their post-Grand Final torpor by claims from the NO lobby that a YES vote would give the UN devils the trigger they need to enforce summary alien abductions (with compulsory probing), followed by the outlawing of utes, overtaking lanes and slavery.

Then on Tuesday a spokesmouth for someone claiming not to be Clive Palmer let slip that the mogul had cured himself of galloping avarice by prolonged fasting on banana fritters and almond whey and then produced the pilot for an Australian remake of the Buddy Ebsen detective show, Barnaby Jones. The original featured Jed Clampett solving murders, hotly pursuing the perpetrators at a fast walk and inevitably shooting them in the leg.

Apparently, the non-Palmer Australian production (shot in Mallanganee and Lakemba) will star Barnalby Joyce in the Clampett role, a bloodhound named Bazooka and three feisty nieces from previous marriages named Lydia, Jacinta and Pauline. In a clever twist on the original, Barnalby will identify the culprit then shoot himself in the foot. Back at the office everyone will have a chuckle, then the room will be cleared by a noxious fart. Everyone blames Bazooka, but the audience will have their doubts.

The biggest news this week came from Bonalbo. In what can best be described as equal parts furore and imbroglio, with a stiff shot of fracas, a savage battle has commenced over the fate of the last remaining unrenovated Bonalbo Beach House. Unlike the other beach houses, which were built in the town of Bonalbo during the sixties by the legendary surfie builder and visionary, Waxy Noggins, the Pink House, as it is known, was built out of town on a farm.

If you need a Bazooka, call me. Or my agent.

Late this week a plan was announced that has turned the town on its ear and raked its very backside with dirty fingernails. Someone wants to buy the Pink House and move it to Byron Bay.

Yep, quack vitamin supplement heiress and crystal influencer, Quandaree Selflove has set her tinfoil cap at the Pink House, and price is no object.

“Price is no object,” jabbered the hyper-alert billionette from her Porsche Some-Number-Or-Other. “I want it. I deserve it. I’ll get it, and it’s going to Wategos. Open and shut. Over and out. Thank you, linespersons and ball-busters. Take that to the bank and smoke it.”

But why?

“Why? Simple. I stumbled across that Bullmastiff column in some tinpot online newsrag, and read about Waxy Noggins. That cat had Byron written all over him. His stuff doesn’t belong out there in the boonies. That house needs an actual lifestyle, and a beachfront from which to salute the morning. You can’t salute the back end of a tractor, or the front end of a cow turd, or the unforgivable white ankles of someone named, Roy, Kevin, Oklahoma or Duke.

“I’m rescuing that house, I really am. Plus, it’s one of only three. That makes it as unique as a head transplant survivor. What an investment. Plus I’m solving the housing crisis: billionaires need somewhere to live too.”

Bonalbo blogger, Keratin Deadpan, retorted, “Give us a break. Gutsy but struggling little towns like Bonalbo need to hold onto their heritage and attractions, plus the Pink House is part of our limited housing stock.”

“Yeah!” chorused several local nuclear scientists and fencing contractors.

“Next, she’ll be pinching our Nissan Cedric Museum,” protested Wes Piddens.

Unimpressed, Quandaree Selflove retorted, “Oh, boo hoo, Kerosene Deadbeat! Rot where you stand, or get out while you can. It’s not my fault you can’t afford Byron. Try Suffolk Park.”

But yesterday Paul Keating weighed in. The ex-PM and heritage Jedi declaimed, “These people. I mean, all the trappings of ill-deserved huckster wealth and all the rich inner life of a naked mole rat after a night on the sherbet. How’s her form? Rescuing the Pink House. The only things she’s ever considered rescuing are her split ends or mis-cued toenail polish. I know her type of old: all the architectural appreciation of a hamburger bun; all the altruism of an Eastern Brown.

“I mean, if that pill pushing me-worshipper wants to rip the heart out of something, surely she could revert to her past life as an Aztec priest or something, but give the battlers of Bonalbo a fair suck of the sauce stick! Now, did I mention I’m getting a guest spot on Antiques Roadshow?”

Will there be more to this story? Are rockets pointy at the top?

A lesson to us all.


Bonalbo wants you… yes, you.
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