Standing behind a lectern in front of Parliament House, Morrison says that it has been "an honour serving the Australian public" as Prime Minister, and he is confident that Peter Dutton will do "a commendable job" as his replacement as party leader.

Morrison notes, with a soft smile, his wife Jenny and his two young daughters, Lily and Abbey, who stand to his left. Lily holds Buck, the family's cocker spaniel. Strangely, they don't reciprocate the pleasantry. They look ... Yes. They look alarmed.

"I knew this day would come," Morrison says. "But instead of feeling sad, I am excited. Because it allows me to pursue an exhilarating new chapter of my life."

As a cold southerly tosses his thin hoary hair, he adds: "I think this is definitely a case of actions speaking louder than words. So if you'll excuse me, I will leave, momentarily, to prepare for the second phase of this announcement. When I return, I will have taken the next big step in what I hope will be a life-changing experience."

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"With all due respect, Prime Minister," Andrew Bolt says. "What the hell is going on?"

"My rebirth, Andrew. That's what's going on," he replies, then turns and leaves.

"His rebirth?" Bolt says to Andrew Probyn.

Probyn shrugs.

The media throng - which includes me - has impatiently waited almost 30 minutes, when a lean and tanned 40-something man emerges from Parliament House. He wears a black tuxedo and a black bow tie, his dark hair slicked back. Standing behind the lectern, he bellows: "Ladies and gentleman, without further ado, I present to you - and I present to Australia and the world - Scott "The Jazz Man" Morrison!"

Morrison emerges from Parliament House wearing a red silk shirt, the buttons undone to the navel, baggy black slacks and gleaming black leather shoes with white wingtips. A thick gold necklace sits above a flabby, milky-white gut. On his bulbous head sits a long, flaming-red wig with glistening curls.

"F**k me!" Bolt says. "It's the honky Miles Davis! And it's f**king grotesque!"

Morrison's cheeks expand like a blowfish as he assails a gold trumpet while butchering "Stella by Starlight" - the off-the-charts bizarreness cranked up when Buck leaps from Lily's arms and jackhammers his master's leg.

"Make him stop!" says Probyn, who turns away in horror.

But the self-styled Jazz Man plays on, seemingly oblivious to the unseemly act on his appendage and the jolting effect his performance is having on everyone present, bar the MC - whose gaping smile is insanely white, and whose foot taps manically to the crazed, horrible beat.

Mark Bode is an ACM journalist. He uses satire and fiction in commentary.