Barack Obama, the President of the USA, has just completed his trip Down Under and is intrigued by the nature of Industrial Relations here.
Having returned to the States, he gets wind of a couple of Aussie outfits that have acquired large cotton plantations and ranches in the Deep South in Louisiana. And one in particular, as a marketing ploy, under the shrewd management of its CEO, Tony “Simon Legree” Abbott, has named their headquarters on the plantation, “Uncle Tones’ Cabin”, hoping to piggy-back on a name similar to the title of the famous novel by Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Anyway, Barack has decided to visit two of the newly acquired Aussie businesses. The first planned visit is to Uncle Tones’ Cabin. Obama has been warned, however, that the quality of the cotton there isn’t the best, due to infections of the boll weevil but, nevertheless, it’s the IR system, in particular, that he wants to run his eye over.
So, Barack has got up early and is being driven, just before dawn, in his armoured limo, to Tones’ place.
As he glances out the window at the dark cloudless sky, Barack notices the Big Dipper constellation. He turns to his driver, an African-American.
Barack: There she is...the Big Dipper...
Driver: Yes, Mr President...the Drinking Gourd, as us descendants of slaves call it...
Barack: Wow...that’s interesting...why does it have that name?
Driver: Well, Sir...in the old slave days, my people would look for the Big Dipper – the slaves reckoned it was the shape of a gourd in the night sky – knowing that two of its stars point to the North Star...and that was the direction of freedom...But as a matter of fact, Sir, I have a song about it on a CD...would you like to hear it?
Just as the song finishes, Barack’s armoured limo drives through the gates of Tones’ property. However, in the glare of the headlights, he can’t help noticing a slogan of some sort on the archway: “WorkChoices will set you free!”
“Hmmm...” says Barack to himself, “that sounds familiar...I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere before...”
So, with the first glimmer of sunlight rising in the east, Barack’s car pulls up outside Uncle Tones’ Cabin, where Tones himself, and a strange-looking character wearing a balaclava, and holding tightly onto the leashes of a pack of fierce guard dogs, stand in wait. Barack alights and Tones moves forward to shake his hand.
Tones: Ummm...ahhhh...errrr...g’day, mate...Tony “Simon Legree” Abbott at your service, ready to give you a tour of the old hacienda here...
Barack: Yes...that would be good, Tones...I’m very keen to see how an overseas model of Industrial Relations works here in the USA...You never know – but we might replicate some of your best practices right across our great nation...
Tones (muttering): Huh...I wish the bloody Indos in Australia would see the benefits of our “best practices”...sheesh!
Barack: Oh, and who’s your friend here...he must be feeling the cold with his balaclava on...
Tones: Yeah, I always said old Pete here was a bit of a cold fish...hee...hee...But seriously, Mr President, this is our Head of Security, Peter Reith...and don’t worry about the dogs – they’ve been fed this morning already...heh...heh...
[Then, a squad of very weary-looking labourers troops past and heads off towards what looks like an old barracks or, in the dim light, could even be a crypt. Barack, moreover, can’t help notice how pale the workers are, even death-like.]
Barack: Hmmmm...Tones, the cotton business must be booming, if you need to operate a night-shift as well...
Tones: To be honest, that lot have no choice but to work at night...and, if there’s one crop they can’t harvest, it’s garlic...if you get my drift...heh...heh...
[Barack hasn’t got a clue at what Tones is intimating. Tones realises this and turns to Reithy.]
Tones: Righto, Reithy...tuck them into their coffins...erm...bunks...and I’ll be along in a jiff...gotta renew my blood pledge somehow...heh...heh...
[Just as Tones is leading Barack past the Cabin, they come across, seated in their rocking-chairs on the veranda, Grandpappies John Howard and Rupert Murdoch.]
Johnny: Hey, stranger...don’t I knows you from somewhere...you look mighty familiar...
[Tones ignores the old codger and walks Barack down towards the nearest cotton field for an inspection. By this time, the sun is well and truly up and the extent of the plantation is clearly visible.
However, despite its size, the quality of its crop doesn’t look, to Barack, the best, confirming his earlier advice that it is infected with boll weevil.
In this particular section, moreover, they come across a sight, which for Barack, is very alarming. A cowed and subservient group of labourers is frantically trying to pick as much cotton as is physically possible, whilst a crazed overseer is barking orders and cracking a bull-whip over their heads.]
Tones (loudly): That’s it, Jonesie – give the lazy bastards heaps...make sure they maintain their daily quotas and more besides...heh...heh...
Jonesie: Right, you lazy buggers...fill up all these chaff bags I’ve brought along...and if you don’t, it’ll be your mangy carcases that will be stuffed inside and chucked into the lake...haw...haw...
[Barack is appalled by what he is witnessing.]
Barack: Jeanie Mac! He’s far from being the ideal supervisor, I reckon!
Tones: Well, a bad boss is better than no boss, I always say...hee...hee...
[Further on into the tour of the plantation, Tones invites Barack to view the assault course, which is designed to make the field-hands fitter, so that they can work longer hours in the cotton fields. There is a commando-like Bottom Field, with water obstacles, rope climbs, a huge wall and a climbing-net for good measure. The overseer, Paul Kelly, with copious amounts of gravitas, is busily putting an exhausted group through their paces.]
Barack: Good lordy, Tones...this is a bit rough, isn’t it?
Tones: Nah... it’s good for them..Actually, Paul designed it for the Gillard management team bonding exercise – he reckoned they needed to face regular tests...
[And speaking of Paul, he spots Tones and Barack out of the corner of his eye.]
Paul: G’day Tones...Isn’t it about time you took the test...when will we fit you in for an appointment...heh...heh...
[Tones gives Paul the Mark Riley “stare and nod” treatment. This puts him back in his box, and he turns his attention back on the hapless victims on the assault course. Meanwhile, Tones makes a mental note to tell the plantation Matron, Bronnie Bishop, to wash Paul’s mouth out with kero at the earliest opportunity.
The next place on the plantation property they come to is the company airfield. Barack reckons, however, that it hasn’t got much going for it. All he can see is a couple of old, dilapidated crop-dusters, which appear to be in such bad nick, Joe Hockey has a better chance than them of getting airborne. Moreover, they are enclosed by a 3-metre-high electrified fence, which is preventing a few protesting hands, dressed in pilots’ uniforms, from getting access to the planes. And, inside the fence, is a little bloke with glasses, making faces at the protesters, and sticking his tongue out at them.]
Barack: Wow...this is surreal, Tones...what’s going on with your planes and who are these guys?
Tones: Oh, the little guy behind the fence is our pilots’ overseer, Alan “James” Joyce – a vicious operator – flies like a Ulysses butterfly, but stings like a right old b....heh...heh...
Joycey: Tones! Top o’ the mornin’ to ye! Don’t worry, I’ll beat these bastards yet...I’ll have their wages down to New Zealand levels in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, so I will...so help me god...to be sure...to be sure...They’ll all soon be fit to be tied, and red ones at that, so they will...hee...hee...
Tones (muttering): Heh...he’ll not be so chirpy when we pay him his $2 million pay rise in Confederate dollars...heh...heh...
Barack: Hmmm...Tones, I heard your cotton crop was infested with boll weevil, and now I see why – you allowed that clown to ground your crop-dusting planes!
[Tones ignores what Barack has just said and walks away, press-conference-style. Barack has no option but to follow, so, after another short walk, they come across a group of labourers who are digging guano from a pit. The overseer, wielding the lash over them, is Scott Morrison.]
Barack: Hmmm...Tones...I hope you’re paying these guys a heap of money – this work is so arduous and smelly...Oh, and by the way, I didn’t realise we had deposits of guano in this part of Louisiana...
Tones: Nah...we didn’t until recently...not until the crony government of Nauru chucked it in and we decided to move the whole place over here...Now we’ve got all those pesky Mexican boat-people coming up here via the Mississippi shovelling it into chaff bags for us...heh...heh...
Barack (incredulously): So...you’re saying that Nauru doesn’t exist anymore? You’ve carted it all over here, so that you can exploit it more easily for your own selfish commercial gain? What about the Nauruans, for crissakes?
Tones (superciliously): Oh them! I wouldn’t worry about them, mate – we offered their best rugby players to the Wallabies, but, as for the rest...well, shit happens...
[Tones then takes Barack past the oldie employees’ paddock and the supervisor, Sophie Mirabella, is gleefully working them to death. And, as they later pass by the children’s cotton field, a youngster escapes the clutches of the slave-driver, John Alexander, and begs to Tones, “please, sir...can I have some more – they’ve taken away my penalty rates...”
Anyhow, Tones and Barack have done the full circle of the plantation. Barack can’t hold in his contempt any longer. He turns in disgust to Tones.]
Barack: Look, buddy...your outfit here resembles something from the pre-Civil War era...It looks like you and your “WorkChoices’ Way” couldn’t give a hill of beans about freedom...
Tones: But...but...but...we do!
However, we only support freedom in a particular social context...heh...heh...
Then, back at Uncle Tones’ Cabin, they witness the jolting sight of Grandpappy Rupert being led away by the FBI. But, still in the other rocking chair on the veranda, is Grandpappy John Howard. Upon seeing Barack again, he suddenly sits bolt upright.]
Johnny: I remember now! I know who this turkey is! He’s that bloody Al Qaeda guy! Quick, Tones, fetch me my shotgun...
[Barack realises that discretion is the better part of valour, so he immediately shoots through, before this mad old coot shoots through him. He jumps into his armoured limo and the driver takes off like a bat out of hell. Later, a few dozen clicks down the bitumen, Barack begins to relax a bit. He has been at Uncle Tones’ Cabin all day, and by now darkness has well and truly set in. He addresses his driver.]
Barack: Phewww! That was close! What a shower of losers that lot are...Before the marines get posted to Darwin, remind me to send them to that place and close it down...with its “WorkChoices’ Way”, it’s an abomination and an industrial relations nightmare...
Driver: Erm...can I remind you, Sir, that your next appointment is to view another Australian-owned business – the “Fair Work Ranch”...However, they are expecting us for supper, but, because we spent so much time at that other joint, I don’t think we will make it in time...
Barack: You know, I haven’t asked you your name...excuse my bad manners...
Driver: It’s Tom, sir...everybody just calls me Tom...
Barack: Well, Tom...as for making it to the other Aussie place in time, YES WE CAN, Tom! So, step on it, and have no fear...The Fair Work place is due north – just follow the Drinking Gourd...