PLUMBING!

The Mayor Has Finally Met a Pipe He Can't Fix

A Special Medical - Plumbing Bulletin from Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
Senior Investigative Rodent & Occasional Plumbing Correspondent

There are times when a journalist must put aside the usual trivialities of politics, corruption, government overreach and the suspicious disappearance of three crates of lamingtons.

This is one of those times.

Mayor Dusty McFookit is sick.

And while certain irresponsible rumours have suggested that the Mayor is merely hiding beneath the floorboards of the Dusty Dingo Pub to avoid his civic responsibilities of posting here on the Dusty Gulch Gazette, the Gazette can now confirm that he is genuinely crook.

Very crook.

Indeed, according to the Mayor himself, the situation has become what can only be described as a plumbing emergency.

The exact medical terminology used by the Mayor was considerably more colourful.

He reports that he has been:

"Pissing napalm every time he goes to the dunny."

The Gazette has chosen not to verify this statement independently.

There are some things even an investigative rat does not need to see.

But there is an important point here which appears to have been overlooked by the medical establishment.

Mayor McFookit is a plumber.

Not a theoretical plumber. Not one of those modern fellows who arrives with a tablet computer, spends twenty minutes staring at a pipe and then tells you that your entire house needs replacing. Dusty is a proper plumber. A man of fittings, washers, elbows, pressure and the mighty McFookit Sink Spanner. patent pending subject to Dracula the Emu making a formal complaint. 

For years he has wrestled with the plumbing problems of ordinary citizens.

Blocked pipes. Leaking taps. Stubborn fittings. Systems under pressure.

And, during his years working in the far reaches of Cape York, ( more on this tomorrow) he reportedly collected water samples while simultaneously dealing with crocodiles.

The Gazette has never established precisely how one goes about sampling water while avoiding becoming a sample oneself.

But Dusty apparently managed it.

This is therefore a man who has faced some of Australia's most formidable plumbing and wildlife challenges.

Yet today he lies stricken. Not beneath a crocodile. Not in a Cape York swamp. Not halfway down a broken water main. But apparently in or near a bathroom.

His own internal plumbing has turned against him.

I, Roderick McNibble, having consulted several authoritative medical texts, one plumbing manual and the back of a packet of Smith's Crisps, have reached a preliminary conclusion.

"The Mayor," he announced gravely, "has encountered a pipe he cannot fix."

There was a long silence.

Then I added:

"At least, not with his usual tools."

The Gazette understands that the Mayor is presently resting and receiving whatever treatment is appropriate for a man whose internal plumbing appears to have declared war. The famous Sink Spanner remains safely nearby. It has not been used. Mrs McFookit has offered to whack Dusty's pipe with her sonic rolling pin, but, thus far, Mayor McFookit has declined her generous offer. This is considered a positive development.

Meanwhile, the entire population of Dusty Gulch is hoping that our Mayor makes a rapid recovery.

Enter Dusty Gulch Medical Clinic doctors, Doctor Quill and Doctor Snapp. 

Both are fully qualified from the Mumbai Institute for Pieces of Fancy Paper.  Both wear white coats. Both carry stethoscopes.

They conferred. Dr Quill pointed at the clipboard. Dr Snapp nodded. Dr Quill pointed at the Mayor. Dr Snapp nodded again.

The Mayor lay between them.

" We are agreed. The patient needs a jab. "

The Gazette asked whether it was for COVID.No definite answer was provided.The Gazette asked whether it was for bird flu. Dr Snapp looked through the window. Several penguins were receiving vaccinations in the yard. The penguins appeared to be cooperating .

The Mayor was not.

He immediately launched himself off the table, limped home, fired a blaze of napalm at the medical clinic, fell asleep and departed for Cape York in his dreams where he said he was safer with the snaps than with the quacks. Let's face it, every story deserves a dream sequence... 

Latest Update: 

Reports that Dusty McFookit has fled Dusty Gulch in an FJ Holden remain unconfirmed. Although several witnesses insist they saw him heading north. Very fast. The Boundary Rider reported that he saw a sign on the back of the FJ saying " Cape York or Bust " The FJ Holden has not been located and no further sightings have been reported. When I attempted to contact the Mayor for comment, I received no answer. I did, however, receive a message from Mrs McFookit. It consisted of three words:
“He's buggered off.”

The big question on everyone's lips is this. Who is driving? 

Stay twitchy out there and always keep a fire extinguisher in the outhouse.