A gramme is better than a damn episode of …
THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!
(THE SCENE: 11pm on a weeknight at the Ocean Glades Caravan Park – You’ll Never Want To Leave! NED, the cranky old fart, is sitting in his grotty old caravan in a blue polo shirt which leaves half his gut exposed, khaki Stubbies and a pair of thongs. He is squeezed in between the seat and the dining table huddled over an ancient Olivetti Lettera 32 typewriter banging away at the keyboard typing yet another angry letter to the Prime Minister accusing him of being in the pay of the CIA, the KGB, the MI5 and the RSPCA – a letter which, upon receipt, will be promptly appended to his bulging ASIO file that takes up over half a compactus shelf. As he is typing, a persistent and percussive knock sounds on his caravan’s flimsy fly-screen door, frightening the living daylights out of NED.)
NED: (in a voice that sounds like a rusty HQ Holden being torn to shreds by a tyrannosaurus rex) Oh, bugger off, can’t you bloody hear that I’m bloody well typing a letter!
BOGUE: And can’t you bloody hear that I’m bloody knocking on yer bloody door telling you to shut the f#$k up!
NED: Oh … it’s you. Hang on a minute, I’ll let you in. (NED tries to extricate his gut from between the vinyl bench and the formica dining table) Oomph … urrgh … oomph … urrgh … hang on, I might be a little longer … oomph … gruurgh … oomph … aargh … (finally wriggles free of the dining table) Phew! Made it .. hang on a minute, mate! (waddles over to the caravan door nearly knocking over the kettle and a pyramidal stack of unwashed dishes and saucepans on the kitchen bench and opens the door) Mate, come in.
BOGUE: (standing there in his favourite old Guns n’ Roses t-shirt and boxers which he sleeps in) Sure, but I can’t stay for long. You know, I’m like the only person in this whole farkin’ town who has this stuff to do called “work”, and I have to be up at six o’ farkin’ clock tomorrow to get to the Pacific Highway construction site, and you bashin’ that typewriter was keepin’ me awake an’ shit.
NED: But mate! This is important! You gotta read this letter. Here, look! (moves forward the paper release lever on his typewriter and rotates the platen until the page is free and shows it to BOGUE) You gotta read this, man.
BOGUE: Ned, you know how much I hate readin’ all your boring shit. But yeah, let’s keep you happy. “Dear Mr Turnbull, it has come to my attention that you have deceived the sovereign people of the Commonwealth of Australia. I have gathered scientific documentary evidence that your integrity is compromised through repeated contacts with the Illuminati including their representatives in foreign intelligence agencies and therefore I demand as a sovereign citizen that you hand in your commission to the Governor-General immediately ….”
NED: Yes, and here’s all the proof right here! Look! (points to a huge stack of “newspapers” published by Lyndon LaRouche-affiliated organisations sitting next to the typewriter)
BOGUE: Mate, why do you get involved in this shit?
NED: Shit? You think this is shit? This is the truth!
BOGUE: Mate. I mighta left school when I was fourteen because the teachers thought they could tell me what to do an’ shit, but even I can tell that this is all a load of crap.
NED: You think this is a load of crap? That’s what the Illuminati want you to think!
BOGUE: Mate, the Illuminati don’t tell me to do nuffint. I do me own thing.
NED: “There are none so blind as those who will not see.”
BOGUE: What? Callin’ me a blind c#$t now ’cause I won’t fall for all this crap, are ya?
NED: (shoves a few “newspapers” into BOGUE’s hand) Listen, go away and read these. It will open yer eyes and educate you and then you’ll see just how much you’ve been brainwashed by the New World Order.
BOGUE: (dismissively throws the “newspapers” onto NED’s bed) But I don’t want to read ’em. I got better fings to do. Loik, workin’ to make sumfint better of meself and raising me four kiddies and rootin’ me missus and drinkin’ wiv me workmates.
NED: Oh well. Stay ignorant then for all I care. Live in yer little bubble. Be one of the sheep!
BOGUE: But I don’t get it. I know I’m not very smart an’ stuff, but let’s just say that what you keep banging away about is true. Say that the CIA is controllin’ everyfint by putting fluoride in the water or that the ABC is run by secret Muslims working for the Illuminati. So what? What can we do about it? We just gotta live life what we can.
NED: But we can do sumfint about it! We can write letters and we can educate people about it and–
BOGUE: And you really fink the politicians you’re always writing these fings to (points to NED’s letter on the dining table) read the letters? Yeah right. The pollies have all got other things to do like takin’ bribes and goin’ to boring-arsed meetings. Their staffers read people’s letters and just throw it into the bin.
NED: Well. Someone’s gotta do sumfint.
BOGUE: So, Ned. Tell me. Why do you get involved in this conspiracy shit?
NED: (sits back down and looks glum) Dunno, really. I guess it just developed over time. I got retrenched from me job at the Nutella factory in Lithgow about ten years ago – the only job I ever had – and we moved here to the coast for the warmer weather, and I was bored out of me wits. Then me missus died about three years ago. She had anal cancer. What a bloody horrible way to go. Cancer cells eating away at your clacker and spreadin’ up the digestive tract. She could barely hold a thing in towards the end. And ever since she fell off the perch, I’ve got nuffint to do and all the research I’m doing into the Illuminati fills in the days, I guess.
BOGUE: All the other old farts in town find shit to do. Lawn bowls, darts, billiards, bingo, I even saw this geezer the other morning goin’ for a jog at the crack of dawn and he must have been at least eighty in the shade.
NED: Yeah, but I can’t do any of that. I got diabetes real bad. And I have to go to Port O’Reilly Base Hospital every week for dialysis. Me kidneys are playin’ up.
BOGUE: Well, maybe if you got off yer backside and started doing a bit of exercise, your diabetes and kidneys wouldn’t be so bad. And you might lose a bit of that flab too.
NED: Oi! Like you can talk!
BOGUE: Yeah, I know I’m a bit heavy and stuff meself. But at least I do crap. I lift plastic barricades full of water on the roadworks, I drive Bobcats, dig ditches, pour concrete kerbs. I might be carryin’ a bit of weight but at least I keep active. No reason why you can’t start doin’ that shit too.
NED: Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it. Anyway, it doesn’t seem like you’re interested in the next bit of research I’m doin’. I’ve got explosive proof that Barack Obama wasn’t born from a woman but is a freak genetic experiement from a test tube. This is going to bring the whole One World Government down!
BOGUE: Yeah, and it doesn’t seem like you’re interested in me advice to get off your fat arse and start doing sumfint better with yer life. I gotta get some shut-eye. Night, Ned. And if you start bangin’ that typewriter again any time after ten o’clock from now until kingdom come, I’ll personally come around and throw all them garbage newspapers onto a big bonfire and the whole of Ocean Glades will come to the party!