When you tuck into your bacon and eggs - or sensible high-fibre cereal if your wife happens to be a health- conscious nurse - at the breakfast table this morning, spare a thought for one poor unfortunate soul who joined the ranks of the jobless.
I'm referring, of course, to disgraced National Party list MP, Aaron Gilmore, he of the "don't you know who I am" comment to a waiter during a booze-fuelled foot-in-mouth restaurant visit at Hanmer Springs.
Normally I wouldn't bother commenting on politicians. I figure that's for the "serious" journalists. If I were to read a piece that mentioned the words "National Party list MP" in the second paragraph I would be more than likely bored into unconsciousness very quickly and would thus pitch forward into the giant coffee mug the kids got me for Christmas where I would drown.
But recently Aaron Gilmore has been keeping me upright and conscious.
He's a bit different is Aaron. He's at the very bottom of the political party list. This is a lot like a traditional party list where all the important booze and snacks are at the top and the third packet of plain chips is at the bottom, more than likely destined for the back of the cupboard, but nonetheless on stand-by should the other two packets of chips be used up with the dip.
Aaron Gilmore is that third packet of chips. For a start he's lost touch with the real world. He may think his former boss, the Prime Minister, is all powerful but I reckon he's got the wrong man. It's the waiter he needs to be afraid of. I mean, why would you play Russian roulette with the guy bringing your food to the table, the guy who has the power to tie your colon into a reef knot and make your bowel work overtime for a week?
You just don't do that, Aaron. It really is quite stupid.
Having said that, I'd personally like to thank Aaron for helping me out of a bit of a tough time in my life. Without his efforts I'd have nothing to write about this week and you, dear reader (though I'm hoping by now I might have more than one: Thanks for the ongoing support, Mum) would be staring at a blank space in the paper.
But good old Aaron has pitched up with a fantastic opportunity for those of us who, quite frankly, don't give a toss who he is but love to, er, extract the urine.
Anyway, I'd especially love to have been his waiter that fateful night at the Hanmer Springs restaurant.
Oh what fun that would have been. Think of the possibilities.
For starters there would be a healthy portion of sarcasm.
"I'm sorry, sir? Do I know who you are? You look so familiar. Oh, it's on the tip of my tongue. Now, don't tell me ... you're one of the teletubbies. Dickywicky perhaps?"
I hope Aaron ordered soup. Tomato of course - the stuff that stains and is easy to spill.
"Oops, sorry, sir. This is Canterbury, though. Aftershocks and all that."
As for the main course, the possibilities are endless there, too.
By his own admission Aaron was a bit tiddly that night. Didn't really know what he was saying - or presumably eating. I just hope he had ordered something green like guacamole or avocado. The perfect foods for hiding that little something "extra".
Oh, Aaron I'll be sad to see you go. I hope the furore over your behaviour dies down and you can find another job.
I doubt you are savvy enough to become a waiter, though.