Reasons you will hate me

Things I would say to Bob Ellis if he actually bothered to return my phone call.

So okay, I got Bob Ellis' home phone-number* and rang up and left a message on his answering machine last weekend. Yes, it's borderline stalky. No wait, it's totally stalky. I'll own that. But I'm a milky-skinned girl who wears short skirts and flowers in her hair, which kind of negates the creepy aspect and turns it into more of a 'too adorable!'-type thing. At least that's what I'm telling myself at night after I finish masturbating with Bob's photo and rubbing lady-jizz over my copy of Night Thoughts in Time of War.


Here is what I might have said if he had actually bothered to call me back.


1. 'I don't actually want to have sex with you! I just worship you!'
This is not entirely true. I find Bob's grumbly voice to be erotic to the point of nipple erection. But I feel it is important to draw a line in the sand, as he has had some issues with the ladies in the past . I don't wish to be just another notch on Bob's ever-increasing belt. And I don't want him to avoid me just for fear of accidentally getting me pregnant. You see how I negotiate the complex path of male/female relations?


2. 'Bob Ellis the dog is going just fine! Haha!'
Because despite how I work out all these politically astute and searingly eloquent things to say in my head, whenever I meet Bob I end up making some gay reference to how I named my dog after him and she's all kinds of adorable, HAHAHA. Sure he finds it sweet and gives me a tantalising flash of his dimples, but it's no: 'What's next for the Labor Party now that Bob McMullan has withdrawn his support for Mark Latham, Bob?'


3. 'Is your son seeing anyone at the moment?'
Bob has a son. He is my age. He is a musician. I heart musicians. If I married David Ellis I could legitimately call Bob 'Daddy' and it wouldn't be creepy.
Granted, David Ellis could be a complete gimboid with a harelip but we all make sacrifices for love, right?


4. 'What do I do now, Bob?'
This is - no shit - what I really wanted to say to Bob if he called me back. It was Sunday the 10th, the day after the election, and I was utterly, utterly broken hearted. I knew Bob had lived through devastating Labor defeats (last time round he was devoted to Kim Beazley and had to face the ignominy of the big man's gracious stepping down) and had lived to fight another day. Looking at the picture of that smug prick on the front of The Age I just wanted someone with passion in their gusset and poetic words at their disposal to reassure me in a way that wasn't just hollow platitudes. I know I get all fruity and teenagerish about Bob on this blog but I swear to fucking christ, I just wanted my idol and role model to point me in the right direction like a political Kamahl .


Anyway. He obviously thinks I'm a psycho hose beast and didn't call me. Whatevs. I'll just look to Dave for the inside skinny on the election round-up I guess.




*This is different to getting Peter Costello's phone number. That was given to me as a present on the night of the Polichicks party. This is the sort of present you would prefer to get over underwear or a Body Shop voucher. My birthday is in May, by the way.






26 days til Gabi comes home.
1086 days til the next election.

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