Episode 81 – A Fool And His Money

They say the best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees, I want …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(THE SCENE: Six o’clock in the evening in MR WONG and MRS WONG‘s McMansion in which BOGUE and BOGUETTE used to be domiciled. MR WONG, MRS WONG and their children MATTHEW, JESSICA and baby OLIVE in a highchair are sitting in the upstairs dining room, heads bowed in prayer, bowls full of steaming umami goodness surrounding a massive rice cooker in the centre of the dining table.)

MR WONG: Lord, for what we are about to receive, make us truly thankf–

(the front door sounds like it is being stoved in by a SWAT team and a mediaeval battering ram, causing the entire family to cease their divine supplication and look up in fright)

MRS WONG: Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?

MR WONG: I don’t know, let me go down and have a look.

(MR WONG goes downstairs and tentatively opens the door, to find BOGUE knocking like a madman with one arm and a whole stack of folders under his other arm)

MR WONG: Oh, it’s you, is it? What do you want?

BOGUE: Please, mate, I need yer help.

MR WONG: Really? And why should I help you after what you said to my wife on Christmas Day, you little racist shit?

BOGUE: Please! I’m sorry, all roit? I had a bit to drink and stuff and I didn’t mean–

MR WONG: Yeah, you always have a bit too much to drink, don’t you. Now me and my family are having tea. Go away.

BOGUE: But please! Ploise! I need yer help! I’m about to lose me house and shit–

MR WONG: And whose fault’s that?

BOGUE: C’mon, mate, you’re me mate, you gotta help me, you’re a financial planner and stuff.

MR WONG: Oh, so you’re trying to prevail upon me to provide you with financial advice for free? Excellent. Next time I’m down at the Holden dealership would you be able to give my family a free Captiva in return?

BOGUE: Mate, you know I can’t do that. But you … you can help me, you’ve got yer own business an’ shit. Please.

MR WONG: No! (closes door)

BOGUE: (sticks his foot in the door) Oh ploise! (gets down on his knees and starts sobbing) Ploise! Ploise! PLOITHE! Ploise help me. You’re me neighbour. I’d do the same for you if you were in trouble and were about to lose yer house and stuff.

MR WONG: Well … umm … the Bible does tell us to love thy neighbour … and to do unto others as ye would have done unto you … All right. I’ll spare ten minutes, before my dinner gets cold. (leads BOGUE into his home office at the rear of the ground floor)

BOGUE: Wow, it’s weird being in a house I used to own. This used to be me entertainment room. That wall where you’ve got all them university degrees, I had a massive projector screen. And this bookshelf here full of … (flicks through the books) Financial Planners Association Code of Professional Ethics and Capital Depreciation And The Taxation Act, well, I had a 1991 Panfers jersey signed by the first Penriff team to win a Grand Final hung up roit behind the bookshelf!

MR WONG: That’s nice. So, how can I help you? Make it snappy.

BOGUE: Well, me and me family are in big shit. You remember how I bought the house with the three hundred and sixty grand I won after we came back from Singapore and I did all them interviews on the telly and someone wrote our book? Well, the Attorney-General reckons they’re proceeds of crime and the Tax Office did an audit and now we owe all these back taxes.

MR WONG: Hmm, interesting. And how much do you owe?

BOGUE: Hang on, let me go through these folders here … Ah, here’s the ATO’s revised assessment. Together we owe $117,760. And we might have to owe money to the Attorney-General, and Centrelink are doing an audit too because it affects our Family Tax Benefit.

MR WONG: OK, that’s a fair whack of money. First, I’ll do a quick analysis of your current situation first. OK. Income.

BOGUE: Yeah, about ninety grand a year gross, depends on commissions and incentives if I meet me targets. Hang on, here’s me last weekly payslip. Net pay $1,256.50.

MR WONG: And your wife?

BOGUE: She’s staying with her lezzo nutjob lard-arse cousin at the moment. But she works three shifts a week at the nail salon. Her pay’s usually about $350 a week.

MR WONG: OK, so weekly net income, about sixteen hundred bucks, give or take. You’re not going to be able to pay your tax debt and all the other stuff you owe the government out of your income alone unless you intend on living to the age of three hundred and living in a tent in a middle of nowhere until you die. Now, do you have any assets?

BOGUE: Yeah, me house.

MR WONG: And how much do you have owing on it?

BOGUE: Hang on, lemme have a look. Yeah, a tick over a hundred and fifty grand. Me repayments are about $250 a week.

MR WONG: OK, your house would possibly fetch five hundred, maybe six hundred thousand on the market – if you were waiting around for the perfect buyer. But these things are usually fire sales at auctions, you might get in the high four hundreds. So, you have about three hundred and twenty thousand dollars in equity locked up in your house. That’s almost enough to repay the proceeds of crime debt, but not the tax debt – and I’m not certain the Tax Office will drop that even if you do repay the Attorney-General. And you still don’t know how much you owe Centrelink. Not to mention paying all the lawyers which these sorts of proceedings always require. Do you have any other assets?

BOGUE: Yeah, me Panfers jersey. And me Jim Beam bottle collection.

MR WONG: I’m thinking of something more substantial. Any shares? Investment properties? Term deposits?

BOGUE: Nup.

MR WONG: How many vehicles?

BOGUE: Only the Ford Territory which I bought with me winnings. The SS Commodore is me company car.

MR WONG: OK, your Territory would have lost plenty of resale value as soon as you drive it away, you might fetch twenty grand for it. Any savings?

BOGUE: Savings?

MR WONG: Yeah, you know – money that you’ve saved?

BOGUE: S-s-s-saved? What does that mean?

MR WONG: You know, when you get money, you set some aside? So you always have a bit of money if you need it?

BOGUE: Why would I wanna do that? That’s what credit cards are for.

MR WONG: Listen. Do you have any bank accounts?

BOGUE: Yeah, just the one. Here’s the statement I just printed out from online banking.

MR WONG: All right … current balance $17.35. Is it always that low?

BOGUE: Not always, but I don’t get paid until tomorrow.

MR WONG: All right, any other debts?

BOGUE: Yeah, me bitch got a credit card. She keeps maxing it out, we owe five grand. Every time I repay a hundred or two hundred bucks on it, she goes and wastes it shopping wiv her girlfriends.

MR WONG: All right. Now what I’m about to say is not going to be pretty. But … you don’t have any liquid assets. Your income is decent enough for a family of six to live modestly but not even a big-shot lawyer or stockbroker on three hundred grand a year is going to be able to repay their debts immediately. Income doesn’t matter very much with these things, it’s assets that matter. And the only major asset you have is the equity in your home. So … so …

BOGUE: Well? Spit it out!

MR WONG: Well. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the only solution is to sell your house and liquidate your equity so you can get most of these debts off your back. And believe me, you don’t want the government as a creditor. Bad news. Yes. Bad news. You think the loan shark down at the tavern is tough? Just wait until the Attorney-General is breathing down your neck.

BOGUE: But they can’t take away me home from me and me kiddies! I paid for it!

MR WONG: Yes, you paid for it with money that under proceeds of crime legislation and the Taxation Act and the Social Security Act isn’t yours.

BOGUE: Urtghrughkurrgghnt! You fink you’re so smart, with all them bullshit degrees in frames on your wall up there an’ shit, but I’m tellin’ you, that money was MINE! Proceeds of crime? Bullshit! Bull-farkin-shit! They’re never gettin’ me money back!

MR WONG: Oh well. Continue thinking like that, my friend. Until the Australian Federal Police padlock your doors and throw you all out on the street. Then I suppose you’ll be wanting my help again — for free, I presume. Harrumph!

BOGUE: Yeah, and you fink you’re so good, so how did you make YOUR money then, huh? You bought my house – MY house – with cash, no mortgage. So where did you get that kinda dough? Rippin’ off clients, pocketin’ secret commissions an’ shit? Yeah. Go on. Tell me, kurrrghnt! TELL ME!

MR WONG: All right, you want to know how I got my money, I’ll f#$kin’ tell you, you miserable fat arsewipe! Because I worked for it! And my parents worked for it! My mother got a small inheritance from her grandmother, my parents moved to Australia, ploughed the inheritance and their life savings into a Chinese restaurant on High Street. Every single day of my f#$king childhood I worked. Do you know what that was like? Spend seven hours at school, then tutoring, then violin practice, and then working all evening in the restaurant, then homework, then six hours’ sleep. Do you have any f#$king idea what that was like? My parents shouting at me all the time, “Wilson! The council greenkeeping crew is coming to the restaurant for their Christmas function at seven o’clock, get in here and fold sixty purple napkins into vaguely crown-like shapes NOW!” “Wilson! We’ve just run out of black bean sauce, go down to the Mobil garage and get a forty-four gallon drum of used sump oil NOW!”

BOGUE: Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’tcha?

MR WONG: No. Oh no. I’m not whingeing. I’m proud of my childhood! It made me a better person. It taught me – work hard, spend your money wisely, study hard, be disciplined, love your family, and you’ll lead a good life. Meanwhile – YOU! You get three hundred and sixty grand landing in your lap. Even if they weren’t proceeds of crime, you could have kept some in a savings account, gotten a used car instead, bought a cheaper home somewhere else, used it as capital to start a business that might make you even more money. But NO! What do you do? Blow the whole lot on a brand-new piece-of-shit Ford Territory and a house well beyond what you need! And now you’re back to square one. But you know, I don’t mind the fact that people like you exist. It means more business for me!

BOGUE: Yeah, I knew it. You nerdy c#$ts are all the same. Finkin’ that just ‘cos you’re so smart that makes you just so high and mighty compared to everyone else. Well, f#$k you. F#$k you, you little smart-arse. F#$k you! (stomps out of his old house and slams the door)

THE END

(P.S.: You can now keep up with The Bogue & Boguette Show on Facebook. Like this blog at http://www.facebook.com/bogueandboguetteshow )

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Episode 80 – Bogue’s Party

And welcome to a special election night edition of …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(THE SCENE: The ground floor of BOGUE and BOGUETTE‘s McMansion on the evening of September 7, 2013. BOGUE and his brother RYAN are sitting on the cream velour modular sofa in the main entertainment area watching the election night coverage on ABC1 on a massive fresco-sized plasma television. BOGUE is attaching gel nails she nicked from her work on her sister NARELLE‘s fingers in the adjacent dining area.

BOGUE gets up off the couch and into the kitchen to grab another can of Jim Beam & cola. He notices yet another postcard attached to the fridge door).

BOGUE: What? Another bloody postcard? Christ, Cliff and his missus get around a lot for a couple of old farts. But where the fark’s Quambone?

BOGUETTE: No idea!

BOGUE: Why does he go to them places nobody’s ever heard nuffint about? (waddles back to the sofa, sits down, opens the can, takes a massive gulp of Jim Beam and lets out a massive belch) Fer fark’s sake, Ryan, what are we doing watchin’ this nerdy prick with that stupid bloody squeaky voice on the ABC? I want to watch a rool station, like Seven or Nine. The ABC don’t even have any ads, what kinda channel is that?

RYAN: (sips on a green bottle of Carlsberg) Actually, Antony Green is one of Australia’s most respected electoral statisticians.

BOGUE: Yeah, whatever that means, like I give a stuff. He’s still annoying as f#$k. So mate, who did you vote for?

RYAN: I voted Labor.

BOGUE: (splutters his Jim Beam all over the coffee table) What the fark? Are you some sort of softc#$k or sumfint? Don’t you realoize, Labor’s farkin’ ruinin’ this farkin’ country, with their carbon tax an’ a hundred thousand reffos comin’ on boats every year an’ shit. Australia Needs Tony!

RYAN: Hmmm. You’re in work. Your wife’s in work. I’m in work. Yeah. The country’s going to rack and ruin, let me tell you.

BOGUE: Yeah, farkin’ smart-arse c#$t. I voted for Tony. Man, I want him to be Proim Minsta so much. I even wanted to get a tatt of him on me arm. Roit there. (points to his bicep) But … but …

RYAN: But what?

BOGUE: But … there ain’t no space left on me arms for another tatt!

ANTONY GREEN: And now we turn to the ewectorate of Windsay, where sitting Wabor Party member David Bwadbury is almost certain to lose his seat in the face of a massive Wiberal Party swing …

BOGUE: Woohoo! Fark yeah! I’m glad that that little pin-headed dickhead Bradbury’s gone. And Tony Abbott was right. I’d root Fiona Scott fer sure. I reckon she’d be a real goer.

RYAN: Wow, you vote for candidates based on their physical appearance?

BOGUE: Well, of course! I don’t want me local MP to be some fat lezzo porker.

BOGUETTE: I voted for Julia Gillard. I like having a chick Proim Minsta!

BOGUE: Fer fark’s sake, you stupid dumb bitch, you’re more stupid than I thought you were, and I never thought you were rool smart. Julia Gillard got the chop months ago, Kevin Rudd replaced her again.

BOGUETTE: Well, how am I supposed to know this shit, I don’t read the newspapers an’ shit like youse blokes do!

NARELLE: You voted for that bitch Julia Gillard? I can’t believe it. That bitch kicked all us single mums off the parenting payment!

BOGUE: Good!

BOGUETTE: Oh shit, Narelle, you’ve started him off again.

NARELLE: (with a quivering voice) Well, I don’t care, I’m sick of it. I’m trying my hardest to find work, and he knows it. I go to all my appointments, I’m on Seek every day, I walk around all the shops handin’ out me bloody resume, and all I ever bloody get from your dickhead hubby is you puttin’ me down, and like me sis always used to say, it ain’t bloody fair!

BOGUE: So you can’t find work? Whose farkin’ fault is that, you stupid dumb sl#t. Why the fark should the rest of us have to pay for you to spit out brats just because you’re too lazy to be able to find work?

NARELLE: (breaks down into sobbing) You don’t unnerstand … you don’t farkin’ unnerstand … I wish I could work, all right? I really really want to work! But you don’t unnerstand … Sob sob … sniff sniff … I get interviews, then when they find out that I have kids I’m raisin’ by meself the boss goes, “Well, umm, err, we’re looking for a more suitable candidate” … I get offered a job but it’s shift work and there’s no child care centres open after dark … Or they won’t let me duck out to pick the kids up from school because there’s no after-school care spaces at Tyler, Tyson and Tyrone’s new school … and I wish I had a hubby … I really wish I had a hubby to help me raise me three beautiful boys … sob sob … but … I go onto RSVP … and … as soon as some bloke finds out I’ve got kids, you never hear from him again … and … you wouldn’t unnerstand … you wouldn’t farkin’ unnerstand …

BOGUE: Then you shouldn’t have left Tyrone’s father then.

NARELLE: (hysterical) But he was bashing me! He was bashing me, all roit! What do you expect me to do? Just stay there and get beaten up all the time, me kids would hide in the corner crying because he’d come home from the pub drunk as a lark and high on every drug you can think of? Is that what you want my boys to live through? F$%k you!

BOGUE: (takes another gulp from his Jim Beam can and lets out another massive burp) Yeah, serves you right. If I had a whingeing bitch like you for a missus, I’d smack you ’round the head every now and again too. Just to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.

BOGUETTE: You — you PIG! F#$K YOU!

RYAN: Yeah, mate. That was uncalled for.

BOGUE: (crushes his empty can and throws it at the television) Urrghrugurhghrkurrghnt! Who the fark do you fink you are, Ryan, to come here to MY house as an invited guest and tell ME how to act in me own house? Do I ever pop around into your crappy little shoebox of a flat and tell you, “Hey, Ryan! Stop flogging your log all by yourself while watching Doctor Who DVDs! Hey, Ryan! Stop rubbin’ yourself up against those stupid pooncey antique clocks you collect!” Fark me life!

RYAN: Yeah … sorry …

BOGUE: So you should be!

(NARELLE is inconsolable and BOGUETTE is hugging her)

BOGUETTE: It’s all roit, sweet-art. Mum and Dad said that you and the kids could live at their place for a little while if things here didn’t work out. Seven Hills is a bit closer to the train station and the city, it’ll make it easier to find work that way. I’ll be coming with you too.

BOGUE: What? What the fark?

BOGUETTE: That’s roit. You heard roit. Narelle’s leaving and so am I. How DARE you talk to me sis like that! You know, you’re a f#$kwit.

BOGUE: Yeah, so I am. But at least I’m not a farkin’ dole-bludgin’ slapper like Narelle here!

(BOGUETTE walks up to BOGUE and gives him the mother of all slaps across his face. BOGUE gets up to retaliate, but RYAN gets up and grabs the back of his collar)

RYAN: Mate, I think this has gone too far, just settle–

BOGUE: Urgghruighkurrghnt! Don’t tell me I’ve gone too far!

RYAN: Mate, just sit down, have another drink with me, and let’s both calm down. All right?

BOGUE: Yeah. F#$k you. Whatever you say.

(BOGUETTE and NARELLE both go upstairs to hastily pack and leave for Seven Hills. BOGUE and RYAN sit there for several minutes in awkward silence.)

BOGUE: Still, mate. I can’t believe you’ve voted for that dickhead Kevin Rudd.

RYAN: Let’s see. The National Broadband Network. Disability insurance. The only country in the western world not to go into recession. Gonski. Yes. The Labor government has been an unmitigated disaster, without parallel in the annals of history.

BOGUE: Yeah, I s’pose you’re right. One good thing about Kevin Rudd, I guess – he got rid of that communist bitchface whore Julia Gillard.

RYAN: Brother, do you even KNOW the meaning of the word “communist”?

BOGUE: Yeah, it means that, you’re like … umm … that you’re like … err … a communist and stuff …

RYAN: Yeah. Julia Gillard nationalised so many industries, didn’t she?

BOGUE: (leaps up and points his finger at RYAN) Urgghrughgrkurrghnt! You fink you’re so smart, don’tcha, just because you know all them fancy big words an’ shit. Well you wanna fight me – KURRRRGHNT!!! – well, I’ll fightcha, kurghnt. I’ll FIGHTCHA!

RYAN: Yeah, whatever.

BOGUE: That’s it. Get outta me house now, you little smart-arse nerdy prick. NOW!

RYAN: Yeah, right. You won’t kick me out.

BOGUE: Yeah, and what makes you fink that?

RYAN: Because then you’d be spending the rest of the night alone. And you can’t handle being alone more than five seconds, and even that’s pushing it. You won’t have anybody to whinge about politics too if you send me home.

BOGUE: (slumps back onto the sofa) Yeah, you’re roit. I don’t like bein’ alone. Now that that bitch Narelle and her kids are gone, there’s plenty of spare beds for you to crash the night. Get as drunk as you please.

RYAN: F#$k yeah! I don’t want to be alone either tonight.

BOGUE: Yeah. Ain’t that the truth, brother.

THE END


Episode 79 – Plucking The Goose

Why does it always rain on me? Is it because I lied when I said there’d be a new episode every week of …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(THE SCENE: The dining room on the ground floor of BOGUE and BOGUETTE‘s McMansion. AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN, KAIDEN, TYLER, TYSON and TYRONE are running around in the rumpus room nearby where BOGUETTE’s sister NARELLE is desperately trying to bring them under control. BOGUE is in his Sunday finest desperately trying to put on his only tie, a lime-green strip of glossy polyester, with no success. Exasperated, he lets BOGUETTE try and do it up for him.)

BOGUE: I’ve never gone through stuff like this before. I don’t know whether to act real smart and proper and stuff, or pretend that we’re heaps poor.

BOGUETTE: (trying to extricate the tie from a Gordian knot with no success) I dunno, sweetie. I’ve never gone through nuffint like this either. But it’s, like, an official like thing and stuff, I reckon we should act all proper an’ shit.

BOGUE: Yeah, I guess you’re roit, honeybunch. Christ, look at this farkin’ tie. I dun unnerstand how them wankers who work in the city an’ shit manage to put one on straight every farkin’ mornin’.

(the doorbell rings ominously)

BOGUE: Shit. Oh shit shit shit shit shit shit! Listen, sweet-art, we don’t have time to get this tie all done up properly an’ shit. (yanks it off and stuffs it in the drawer of the wall unit) We got all the papers and stuff ready?

BOGUETTE: Yes, sweetie, all these folders here.

BOGUE: And — Oi! Will youse f#$kin’ kids shut the f#$k up? Yer daddy’s gotta talk about important stuff an’ shit and I don’t need youse causin’ distraction an’ shit.

(the kids don’t comply)

BOGUE: I said OI! Get up to yer rooms now, you mangy arseholes! (the kids all run upstairs)

BOGUETTE: Oh well, let’s go let him in. (walks with BOGUE to the front door and opens it to reveal a middle-aged man with male pattern baldness and small round black-rimmed spectacles, sixty kilos and five-foot-two, wearing a beige Argyle vest and gabardine trousers)

DEREK: (in a squeaky, mousey voice) Good afternoon, sir, madam. Dewek Eastwake is my name. Austwawian Taxation Office. (hands over a business card to BOGUETTE with the name “Derek Eastlake” beneath the Commonwealth coat-of-arms) I’m pweased to meet you. (extends his right hand to shake BOGUE’s hand, but BOGUE just stands there stoney-faced with his arms folded) Well … umm … mind if I come in so we can discuss your financial affairs a wittle bit further?

BOGUE: (arms folded) Hmmm. Do we mind, darlin’?

BOGUETTE: No, come straight in, Derek. Let’s get this out of the way!

DEREK: Excewwent. So vewwy excewwent. (BOGUETTE shows DEREK through to the dining room, where the trio sit down at the dining table)

BOGUE: So, what’s gonna happen, mate?

DEREK: Well, as you’d no doubt be aware, the ATO has received information from the Attorney-Genewal’s Department that you two were jointwy and sevewally in receipt of income you failed to decware on both of your 2011-2012 tax weturns. I will be asking a sewies of questions to ensure that both of you are paying your cowwect amount of tax. Does that sound fair to you?

BOGUE: Nup.

DEREK: So, sir, why doesn’t this sound fair to you?

BOGUE: Because you dicks are always tryin’ to punish ordinary, decent, hard-workin’ Aussie families like us.

DEREK: Oh, no sir! I’m sorry, but you’re quite mistaken. I don’t know who put the idea of punishment in your head. Why, I’m not about punishing anyone, teehee! I’m merely all about ensuring that everyone pays their cowwect amount of tax. No sir, no punishment here! I don’t know where you get this idea that I want to punish you. (strokes his chin) Yes. Bizarre. Quite bizarre. So … (puts his briefcase on the table and opens it up and removes some folders and a laptop) … my first question. Is it true that you were jointly and sevewally in receipt of three hundred and sixty thousand dowwars from Edsberg Publicity Management Pty Ltd in the 2011/2012 financial year?

BOGUETTE: Yeah, that’s right.

DEREK: And that this amount of money was paid to you as part of a contract in which you agweed to provide media interviews and material for a ghost whiter in return for the aforementioned payment?

BOGUE: Yeah, so? It’s not taxable income.

DEREK: Oh, how do you figure that, sir?

BOGUE: Well, it’s like winning the lottery an’ stuff. We didn’t work for it, it just happened to us.

DEREK: Oh, so you’re claiming that it was a wottery win? Would you mind showing me the winning Powerball ticket?

BOGUE: Well, umm, it’s not like that sorta lottery win, but … well … it’s like … you know …

DEREK: Like … umm … you know? Hmmm. I’d go so far as to surmise that it should have been decwared on both of your tax returns as attributed personal services income. Yes. Indeed. (punches some figures into an Excel spreadsheet on his laptop) That’s one hundred and eighty thousand dollars each … that brings your unpaid tax wiabiwity for the 2011/2012 financial year by $71,435.23, sir, including interest. And madam, your outstanding debt is $46,325.45.

(BOGUETTE gasps in shock)

BOGUE: What? What the fark? You make average Aussie families like us pay tax. I bet you don’t do nuffint about all them reffos and abos and poo-jabbers cheating the tax system. Isn’t that right, you little smart-arse farkin’ nerdy c#$t?

DEREK: Wow. You really believe that indigenous people and gays are exempt from tax wiabiwities? (strokes his chin) Yes. Bizarre. Quite bizarre. Is that what you weally think?

BOGUE: Yes. You know it, you only come after people like me who actually bust their gut for a livin’!

DEREK: Wow. I never knew that I audited only stwaight Angwo-Saxon heads of household in full-time gainful empwoyment. I could have sworn that just this morning I audited a university student of Indian hewitage who had failed to declare income from a cash-in-hand job at a restauwant. (strokes his chin) Bizarre. Yes. Quite bizarre. Now onto other matters. I notice that for the 2012/2013 financial year you claimed a deduction for laundry for a work uniform. Now, would you be able to show me the aforementioned uniform?

BOGUE: Well … umm .. err …

DEREK: Well … umm … err … is it in your wardrobe perhaps?

BOGUE: (shifts his seat uncomfortably) Well, it’s a uniform. We have to wear a collared shirt and trousers and shit.

DEREK: And that’s a uniform, is it?

BOGUE: Yeah. You wouldn’t find me dead in anyfint like that outside of work. Except now, of course, thought I’d dress real flash and stuff for a Tax Office audit.

DEREK: Hmmm. (strokes his chin) Bizarre. Yes. Quite bizarre. The Tax Pack quite cwearwy states that a uniform has to be a garment that cwearwy identifies your empwoyer or is a registered uniform with an industwy association. Hmmm. I could have sworn when I drove past the Holden dealership on my way here that the sales personnel in the yard were all wearing non-descript polo shirts and trousers. I’m going to have to discount this deduction, I’m afraid.

BOGUE: (lunges out of his chair and overturns folders on the table) Urgghrughgrughrhhggkurrghnt! I’ve had enough of you, you smart-arse nerdy little shit! You fink that you’re so smart, with all your farkin’ tax rules and spreadsheets and crap, but you wanna fight me, I’ll fightcha! I’ll fightchaaaaa! Here’s me, bustin’ me gut down at the Holden dealership and before that on the motorway construction site, workin’ like a slave in rain, hail or shine, I’ve got kids to look after and stuff, you come after me  an’ me missus an’ shit after we won money after being locked up in Singapore and gettin’ me arse torn to shreds by some sleazy little ching-chong with a bamboo cane just fer drinkin’ a bottle of water at a train station, you try and punish me, but — (points to NARELLE) — do you ever go after that BITCH? She’s just a bludgin’ single mother camped out in me rumpus room because she’s too lazy to find a farkin’ job and a flat of her own.

NARELLE: Listen! I’m tryin’ to find work. I really am!

BOGUE: Well, you’re obviously not tryin’ hard enough because you’re still bludgin’ scum, you stupid sl@t.

BOGUETTE: Honey, that’s enoug–

BOGUE: Urrgghghh! Don’t tell me what to do, bitch. (to DEREK) Now get out. Get out of me house, you nerdy little shitbag! People like me pay your salary, I don’t owe you nuffint, you OWE me, y’unnerstand? You go after folks like us, but not them farkin’ dole bludgers sittin’ on their arses all day sucking bongs an’ shit, do ya?

DEREK: Dole bludgers, hmmm? (opens one of his folders) Oh yes. Here they are. Your Centrelink records. Hmm, do my eyes deceive me here? Or do I see a record showing that you were in receipt of the Newstart Allowance for sevewal months in the 2012 calendar year? Yes. Bizarre. Quite bizarre.

BOGUE: Yeah, but that was different. We all got sacked from the road construction company, I couldn’t find nuffint after that.

DEREK: And sir, has it ever occurred to you that most of the other people on Newstart might have lost their jobs through no fault of their own and also can’t find anything else despite also trying their hardest?

BOGUE: (sits back down sheepishly) Well … umm … err …

DEREK: (strokes his chin) Yes. Bizarre. Quite bizarre. Hmmm. It also appears that you were claiming the full family rate for one dependent spouse and four children, despite your address being given as a boarding house in Summer Hill. Meanwhile … (flicks through another folder) … your wife had given her address as being this vewwy house we are sitting in right now. Hmmm. Yes. Bizarre. Quite bizarre.

BOGUE: Listen, when is this gonna end! You don’t go after all them bludgers and immigrants and stuff, they get everyfint and we get nuffint!

DEREK: (flicks through some more folders) Hmm … let’s see here … the Baby Bonus on four occasions. Family Tax Benefit Part A and Part B. The Schoolkids Bonus and before that, the Education Tax Refund. Yes. It’s obvious that you get nothing. Bizarre. Quite bizarre.

BOGUE: Listen, mate. I don’t know what your go is, but I’ve had enough of you and your–

DEREK: (gets up and goes to the front window) Sir, there’s something outside I would wike to show you. Could you please come here for one moment?

BOGUE: (looks confused) Well … err … I dunno what you want to show me, but … (goes up and accompanies DEREK at the front window, just out of BOGUETTE’s line of sight) … So, Dewwwwwek, what do you want to show me?

DEREK: (grasps BOGUE’s lapels in one hand, brings his face close to BOGUE, and wags the index finger of his other hand before BOGUE’s face, and growls at him sotto voce a whole octave higher than his normal voice) You see that street light out there? Do you see that f#$king street light?

BOGUE: Mate, you’d better let me go right now before I punc–

DEREK: You listen here, you sack of shit, and you listen good. Answer me yes or no. Do you see that f#$king street light?

BOGUE: Well, yeah–

DEREK: Do you want that street light to stay on tonight or not?

BOGUE: Listen, you little farkin’ dork, I don’t know what yer–

DEREK: You will answer me, yes or no! You are forgetting that I have the power to make your life difficult, very f#$king difficult and that right now I am very f#%king inclined to make your life the most difficult it’s ever been. So answer me, you fat retarded redneck shithead, do you want that f#$king street light to stay on?

BOGUE: Well, of course, but–

DEREK: Then you will, I repeat, you WILL pay your f#$king correct amount of tax. You hear me, you racist scumbag?

BOGUE: Well don’t make me pay taxes. Make the other people who don’t pay tax pay taxes. Like that bludging bitch Narelle out the back there.

DEREK: And what if she can’t find a job so she doesn’t have any income we can tax? Has it ever f#$king occurred to you that we make people pay tax who can actually afford it?

BOGUE: Well, we can’t afford it. We spent that three hundred and sixty grand on buying this place and all the furniture and the Ford Territory in the garage.

DEREK: And whose problem is that, you stupid backward moron?

BOGUE: Well, nobody told us that we had to pay tax on the money we got from that book and the media interviews and stuff.

DEREK: Christ, you’re a much bigger imbecile than I thought, and I didn’t exactly come here today expecting you to have a PhD in interstellar radiometry. (lets go of BOGUE’s lapel and ushers him back into the dining room)

BOGUETTE: (fidgeting and nervous) So, what did you guys just talk about?

DEREK: (back to his squeaky voice and nerdy demeanour) Oh, I was merewy demonstwating to your husband the benefits of paying his cowwect amount of tax. That’s all. Teehee. (packs up his laptop and folders and closes his brief case and walks to the front door) Anyway, I think I have enough information now to make a fair and accuwate assessment of your outstanding tax wiabiwities for the 2011/12 financial year, and perhaps other financial years too. It was an absowute pweasure meeting the both of you. (to BOGUE) And by the way, sir, you might want to try being nice to nerds for a change. Chances are that you work for one.

BOGUE: No farkin’ nerds at Holden, let me tell you!

DEREK: Oh yeah? Twy the design team. Twy engineering. Hell, twy the board of diwectors. I think you will be wather surpwised. You’ll both hear from me soon. Good bye!

THE END


Episode 78 – Black And Blue

(Apologies for not posting often lately. I love my job, but after eight hours of staring at dots and lines on a computer screen, the last thing I often feel like doing when I get home is sitting in front of another computer screen.

Also, the Rudd-storation has completely destroyed many episodes I had in mind. The downfall of Julia Gillard has completely otherthrown the existing dynamics of the modern bogan’s political beliefs. So there goes that particular story arc!

No fear. The ever-reliable Ash has chipped in with a guest episode. Enjoy! And yes, the next episode is all written out in my head, you’ll enjoy it one day soon! — Regional Reverie)

I heard them calling in the distance, so I packed my things and ran far away from …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(SCENE: Sunday afternoon, at the intersection of Taren Point Rd and Captain Cook Drive in Caringbah, inside BOGUE‘s and BOGUETTE‘s Ford Territory. The family are heading to the newly-renamed Remondis Stadium in the Sutherland Shire to watch the Penrith Panfers play the Cronulla Sharks. BOGUE is driving, BOGUETTE in the front passenger seat, AIDEN, KAIDEN and JAIDEN across the middle with BRAIDEN in the back eating M&Ms. AIDEN is repeatedly hitting KAIDEN in the stomach. All the family are wearing Panfers jerseys as except BOGUETTE, who has a Henley’s Project hoodie over a Supre top).

BOGUETTE: I don’t like this. You know I don’t like footy crowds.

BOGUE: Relax, darl. It’s Cronulla. They’re all Aussies here. Not like a bloody Doggies or Dragons game or some shit where it’s all fuckin’ efnics who wanna fuckin’ stab you and call their boys or shit.

BOGUETTE: I guess, but still.

(BOGUE turns from Taren Pt Rd into Captain Cook Drive as AIDEN lays a particularly powerful blow to KAIDEN’s stomach, inducing a loud whimper from the scared little boy).

BOGUE: Oi! Kaiden! Quit yer whinin’! We’re almost here!

BOGUETTE: Darl, Aiden’s hitting him!

BOGUE: So what?

BOGUETTE: So if we keep letting this shit happen then DOCS will be back crawling up our arses! That Julia bitch still visits every week, are we gonna lose the kids again?

BOGUE: Fine. Aiden, stop being a dickhead to your brother or you only get one Pepsi at the game!

BRAIDEN: If Aiden only gets one Pepsi, can I have the one he doesn’t?

BOGUE: No!

(As BOGUE drives down Captain Cook Drive, he notices there’s no parking for miles along the street.)

BOGUE: Fark … there’s parking in the leagues. I’ll go there.

(BOGUE eventually drives around and turns into the Sharkies Leagues Club parking lot, where he is greeted by MURPH, a large, genial bloke in his late fifties wearing a fluoro vest over a Sharks jumper).

MURPH: Afternoon mate. Can I see your membership card please?

BOGUE: What? Mate, I don’t got no membership. Look here. We’re Pan-fers fans.

MURPH: Fair enough mate, but this carpark is reserved for Sharkies members only. If you go back around the roundabout you should be able to find something.

BOGUE: Urrghurrgh…

BOGUETTE: No worries mate! (winks at MURPH as BOGUE, grumbling, eventually starts to drive around and out of the leagues club parking lot)

BOGUE: Why didn’t you let me give it to that old carnt?

BOGUETTE: Because, babe! I wanna find a parking spot and he wouldn’t let us in!

BOGUE: Fine. Like it ain’t my taxpayer dollars goin’ to prop up this shithole of a club.

(Eventually, the family finds parking inside Cronulla High School.)

BRAIDEN: Muuuuuum, this walk is so long!

BOGUE: Oi! Braiden! Quit bein’ a little smart arse and come with us! It’s not that far anyway and the walk will do you some good.

JAIDEN: Muuuum, Kaiden’s not coming out.

(KAIDEN is bent over in the middle, clutching his seatbelt like it’s a precious toy)

KAIDEN: I want my mummy… I want my mummy… I want my mummy…

BOGUE: Oh for heaven’s sake. (leans in the car) OI! Kaiden! Quit yer whinin’ and come with us now! (KAIDEN refuses to move)

BOGUETTE: Babe, yelling at him won’t help! Look, you take the other three and head on, I’ll bring Kaiden later once he calms down. Kickoff’s not for another hour anyway, I’ll call you when I get in.

BOGUE: Fine. Let him be a little girl for the rest of his life for all I farkin’ care.

(After what seems like an hour of moaning by AIDEN, BRAIDEN and JAIDEN, the family eventually reaches the ticket desk where they are greeted by STEVEN, the teenage ticket clerk with a strong resemblance to the Squeaky-Voiced Teen from the Simpsons).

BOGUE: One family pass, please mate.

STEVEN: Sorry sir, we can only sell a family pass with two adults.

BOGUE: That’s OK mate, my missus is coming now.

STEVEN: Well, if you want a family pass you’ll have to queue back up when she comes. I’m not authorised to sell you one for more than two children without two adults.

BOGUE: Urrrgurrrghrughrughrughrrghkurnt! Mate, I’ve come all the way from farkin’ Glenmore Park, parked a farkin’ mile away, busted me gut on the roads for years just so I can take me kids to a footy game and this is the shit you pull?

STEVEN: It’s Remondis Stadium policy, sir. And if you continue to be abusive I reserve the right to not sell you a ticket at all.

BOGUE: Lemme talk to your boss, mate. I’ll tell him what a rude little shit you’re being and get you fired from here before you even know it.

STEVEN: Actually sir, Miss Christmas is on holiday today. And there’s a long queue behind you, so I would appreciate it if you could either please buy tickets for yourself and your family and move along.

BOGUE: Farkin’ hell. (pulls out his wallet to buy three children’s and one adult ticket). I’m gonna complain to the NRL about this. You watch your arse mate. I’m gonna call the Grill Team boys tomorrow and let them know what kind of shit service we got here.

(STEVEN passes the newly printed tickets to BOGUE, who snatches them and leaves to enter the stadium with his brood. As soon as they enter from the south-western corner, they find an empty spot on the hill.)

BOGUE: Orright boys, this is our spot. Jaiden, call yer ma and tell her where we are. Dad’s going to get him some Jimmy’s, so farkin stay right here and beahve yerselves unless you want a clip over the ear when we get home, unnerstand? (All three kids nod.) Good.

(As BOGUE leaves, JAIDEN tries to call BOGUETTE but can’t get through.)

JAIDEN: Why can’t I call?

BRAIDEN: No reception, probably. This area’s a mobile dead zone.

AIDEN: (sees a little boy about BRAIDEN’s age hobbling by) Hahaha! Look at the cripple!

(ALEX, the boy in question, turns around.)

ALEX: What did you call me?

AIDEN: I called you a cripple, you little retard! Hahahaha! Fuck off now, cripple, before I punch you in your spaz face!

(ALEX is about to cry before he is joined by his mum STEPH, sister NATALIE, Steph’s boyfriend AHMED and none other than BOGUE’s old mate GARY and his girlfriend MICHELLE.)

STEPH: What did that kid call you, Alex?

ALEX: (sniffs) He called me a cripple…and a spaz.

AHMED: He did what now? Oh fuck no he didn’t.

GARY: Leave this to me.

MICHELLE: Gary, don’t beat up the kid.

GARY: (ignoring her) Oi! Come here you little shit face!

(AIDEN refuses to, so GARY charges over and gets right in his face.)

GARY: Now you listen here you little shit. You get your arse over there right now and tell my little dude that you’re sorry, or you’re going to have a good fucking reason to be. You see that guy there? (points to AHMED) He has cousins. Big, scary Lebanese cousins. And they don’t mind bashing kids.

(Before AIDEN can reply, BOGUE comes back with a tray loaded with Jim Beam.)

BOGUE: $What’s goin’ on…(realises just who’s yelling at his oldest son) YOU!

(GARY looks up and sees just who it is.)

GARY: Well, well, well. So this is your son. No wonder he’s a piece of shit.

BOGUE: What…the…fark did you just say? (ears turn red)

GARY: I’m saying that while you were off soaking your fuckin alco nose with Jim Beam, your son called my little mate over there a cripple. (points towards ALEX, STEPH and an embarrased-looking MICHELLE)

BOGUE: So what?

AIDEN: (pretends to sob) D-dad…he said he was going to bash me. Said the Leb’s cousins were coming to bash me as well.

BOGUE: URRGHURRRGHRUGHRUGHRUGHRUGHURRGHUGHGHRGH…KUUURNT! (BOGUE is about to jump on GARY, but he’s pulled away at the last second by AHMED and MICHELLE. AHMED uses the opportunity to get in BOGUE’s face)

AHMED: Fuckin’ listen here, c#$t. If you or your family ever talk shit about Alex again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you all. You hear me? No one talks like that about my family and gets away with it. Now you make him go over there and say sorry.

BOGUE: Aiden, did you say that to the kid?

AIDEN: N-no. (he continues to pretend to sob, but flashes an evil grin at GARY as soon as his dad looks away).

BOGUE: So are you calling me kid a liar then?

AHMED: Are you calling my kid a liar?

BOGUE: Well considering he hangs around you dirty fuckin’ import lot I wouldn’t be surprised.

GARY: (restraining AHMED from jumping on BOGUE and hitting him) The same “dirty fuckin’ imports” who work and pay taxes so useless “Aussie” bludger c$%ts like you can get on the piss and fuckin’ buy flat screens every time you knock a bitch up and give you money to raise your useless fat lazy c#$t spawn and send them to dipshit private schools to keep them away from people who’ll actually teach them the value of, I don’t know, working? Helping the community? Being FUCKIN’ AUSTRALIAN? And don’t give me shit on how hard you work. I’m best mates with your mate remember? I know youse haven’t had jobs for ages. C$%t owes me almost 5 grand. You know I had to pass up taking my Mrs to Fiji to meet my dying grandpa because of him? And he’s my mate so I helped him but it’s my taxes that go to people like you. Useless bogan scum like you make me fuckin’ sick.

(GARY spits at BOGUE’s feet, but BOGUETTE shows up with KAIDEN just in time to defuse another eruption.)

BOGUETTE: What’s goin on?

(BOGUE is still in shock from GARY’s rant as MICHELLE comes to drag him away.)

MICHELLE: Come on baby, let’s go get our seats. Alex is getting upset.

GARY: Let’s go. (glares at BOGUE) This ain’t over, mate. (Eventually he leaves quietly with AHMED and MICHELLE as they head to the alcohol-free hill on the other side of the ground.)

BOGUETTE: What happened?

BOGUE and AIDEN together: Nothin’. Look. It’s about to start.

(Todd Carney kicks off to begin what was an incredibly one-sided game in the Sharks’ favour. By the end of the first half, the score was 24-0 in favour of Cronulla and BOGUE, 8 Jim Beams in, was getting increasingly angered)

BOGUE: Fark this. I need a smoke. (goes to light up before being tapped on the shoulder by MARK, a tall and muscular security guard).

MARK: Sorry mate. Remondis Stadium is a no-smoking zone. We have a smoking area behind the ET stand, if you could please take it there.

BOGUE: Urrghurghrughrughrughrkurnt! Mate, it’s a free country, I’ll smoke where I farkin’ want to!

MARK: If you continue to smoke here, sir, you will receive a $1000 fine.

BOGUETTE: Babe, just go to the smoking area!

BOGUE: Fine. (makes his way around to the smoking section, before hearing someone yell “That’s him!” and turning around to see his old mates AHMED and GARY, who has his hand on ALEX’s shoulder, only this time with backup. Said backup consists of ICEMAN (a 6’10” giant with two full tattoo sleeves), FRANKO (a Serbian bodybuilder who cracked his knuckles as soon as BOGUE turned around), DONNIE (a short but muscular individual with an earring) and BAZZA, a greying but bearded and scary looking gent wearing a Hells Angel jacket, All four were wearing Cronulla Sharks Supporters Club shirts.)

GARY: I told you it wasn’t over.

BOGUE: Whaddya want? I need a smoke.

AHMED: Get your kid to apologise or you’ll be dead.

BOGUE: Hahaha. Roit. Like youse will do anything here. They’ll kick you out.

BAZZA: Mate, we run this place. Security won’t do shit to us. Now you get your boy to apologise to my nephew, or it’s not gonna be pretty.

BOGUE: Foine. (puts out his cigarette). I’ll get him here.

FRANKO: Good.

(BOGUE leaves to fetch AIDEN)

AHMED: Thanks guys.

ICEMAN: Ah, anything for you mate.

DONNIE: So how much did Gaz run his mouth?

GARY: Oh I went fuckin’ off at him. It was an amazing rant.

AHMED: It was. And you know I don’t usually give him credit. But he did well.

DONNIE: Nice.

GARY: Bazza, scab a smoke off you?

BAZZA: Fuck that mate, you owe me like two packs.

GARY: Look, when Matt gets some money in this universe and he pays me what he owes me, I’ll get them for you then. Until then…please?

BAZZA: Fine. (hands GARY a smoke as BOGUE shows up with AIDEN, who walks up to ALEX.

AIDEN: (insincerely) Sorry.

BAZZA: Sorry for what?

AIDEN: Sorry I … called you a cripple. And a spaz. (ALEX just nods).

ICEMAN: Good. Now leave.

(BOGUE moves away)

ICEMAN: I mean leave our stadium.

BOGUE: What?

ICEMAN: You heard me. Leave our fuckin’ stadium or we’ll have a word with security and have them kick you out.

BOGUE: (too stunned to get angry). Orright. (heads back over to BOGUETTE and family) Honeybunch, we’re leaving.

BOGUETTE: Leaving? Why?

BOGUE: Ah, Panfers are too shit this week.

BRAIDEN: But Dad, you always said that leaving a game early was for fag-

BOGUE: Braiden, for once in your life just shut up and do as I say.

(The family leaves quietly, with DONNIE nodding towards them as they go. The car trip back to Glenmore Park isn’t much more enjoyable, as the Sharks continue to build on their lead and keep the Panfers out. At the final siren, the score ended on Cronulla 38, Penrith 10).

BOGUE: (in the passenger seat, nearly passed out after 16 Jim Beam mid strength cans) Urrrghurrrghurghurghughrughrughrrghkurnt.


Episode 77 – Gang Aft Agley

If I should die, think only this of me: that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(THE SCENE: Early evening in the lounge room of BOGUE and BOGUETTE‘s McMansion. The children AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN, KAIDEN, TYLER, TYSON and TYRONE are all playing on their video consoles in the upstairs bedrooms, leaving BOGUE to watch Today’s Affair Tonight on Channel 8 in peace. BOGUE arises from his six-seater cream velour sofa, goes to the fridge which is covered in postcards from Nambucca Heads, Narooma, Nimmitabel and Narrabri.

BOGUE sits back down on the sofa, guzzles from the can and lets out a massive belch, just as BOGUETTE and her sister NARELLE come in through the front door carrying a load of shopping. BOGUETTE is clutching a postcard and some letters in her hand.)

BOGUETTE: Honey, guess what? We’ve got another postcard from Cliff.

BOGUE: What, another one? Where’s he and Colleen this time?

BOGUETTE: “Greetings from Trangie”, it says on the front.

BOGUE: Trangie? Where the fark’s Trangie?

BOGUETTE: Stuffed if I know! Anyway, here’s some mail for us, can you open it while me and me sis put our shopping away?

BOGUE: Umm, yeah, sure, like a bloke’s got no right to relax after bustin’ his gut all day. (takes the first envelope) Hmmm, this one’s got “Personal” printed in the top left corner. That’s gotta be the Tax Office. Maybe it’s a refund? Naah, can’t be a refund, it’s not even tax return time yet. (opens it) Let’s see here …. What? Notice of Demand? What the fark? Let’s read this … “Dear Sir, it has come to the attention of the Australian Taxation Office that you were jointly and severally with your spouse in receipt of a payment totalling $360,000 from Eddy Edsberg Consulting Pty Ltd in the 2011/2012 financial year. As your several share of the aforementioned payment is $180,000, an adjustment has been applied to your 2011/2012 tax return and we seek immediate payment of $76,547.32 in full and final satisfaction of your tax debt for the 2011/2012 financial year….” (screws the notice of demand into a tight little ball and throws it at the television) Urrghgurhgkurrghnt! Did you hear that, honey?

BOGUETTE: (calls out from the kitchen) Hear what, sweetie?

BOGUE: The farkin’ Tax Office is tryin’ to charge us tax for the payment we got for the books and the telly interviews we did after we got back from Singapore? Can you believe it? Can you farkin’ believe it! I mean, how the fark is it income? Why didn’t Eddy Edsberg deduct tax from it? That’s it, I’m gonna sue that sleazy little shitbag! (gets his phone out of his pocket) I’ve still got his number stored in me phone, just you wait until I give him a piece of me mind! (dials EDDY’s number) Ehh … hello? Eddy, mate! Yeah, it’s ol’ mate here, you represented me an’ stuff after me and me missus got banged up in Singapore … Remember me? … Oh, you remember me? Good! ‘Cause guess what, you slimy little c#$t, I remember you! And I’ve just got a letter from the Tax Office sayin’ that me and me missus have gotta pay income tax! Why didn’t you tell us we had to pay tax? …. What, not your responsibility? Waddayamean, not your farkin’ responsibility? … What, so me boss has to take me tax out of me pay each fortnight but you don’t? … What kinda f@#ked-up rule is that? …. It was a private contract? Really? … What’s that noise I hear in the background, sounds like you’re in a bubble bath or sumfint … Listen, Eddy … What’s that I hear? Some gigglin’ slappers tellin’ you that you’re so big, so strong? Christ … You coulda told us that we were meant to pay tax on it, I thought it was like winnin’ Lotto or sumfint … Waddayamean you don’t care? You made a crapload of money off me, you greasy little arsehole! Don’t hang up on me! I’m gonna farkin’ sue yo– Christ, he hanged up on me! (throws phone at the wall) Urrghghrghrkurrghnt!

BOGUETTE: Well, what do the other letters say …. (opens up second envelope) Christ … oh Christ. Oh Christ. Oh no! I’ve got the same letter too! (starts weeping with tears streaking mascara down her cheeks, sits down next to BOGUE and hugs him) Sweetie, what are we gonna do?

BOGUE: Well, what’s this other letter here … (opens up third envelope) Hmm, this one’s from Centrelink. And …. oh crap. “Under the Social Security Act 1991, Centrelink is authorised to request information regarding a $360,000 payment we believe you received in 2012. To ensure that you receive the correct payments for Family Tax Benefit Part A, Family Tax Benefit Part B and the Schoolkids Bonus, you are required to respond to this request within fourteen days” … Oh shit. Oh sweet mother of shit! (tears it up into shreds) Urrghgurgurughkurrghnt!

(The doorbell rings)

NARELLE: It’s OK, I’ll answer it for you, it’ll probably be one of Tyson’s new friends he’s made at school, Eduardo … (opens the door to find a very impressive-looking, square-jawed man in a smart suit) Yes, can I help you?

PROCESS SERVER: Would the owners of the house be here? I need to speak to them.

NARELLE: Ummm, sis, I think it’s more bad news.

BOGUE: More bad news, my arse! (storms up to the door) And wadda YOU want?

PROCESS SERVER: (shoves papers in BOGUE’s chest) Sir, you have been served.

BOGUE: Served what?

PROCESS SERVER: I’m from the Commonwealth Attorney-General’s Department. You’ve been served papers under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002. A little something about a book advance and media interview payments regarding your imprisonment in Singapore.

BOGUE: (reads it) “The Attorney-General seeks the reclamation of three hundred and sixty thousand Australian dollars in full being the unlawful indirect proceeds of indictable criminal acts committed in the Republic of Singapore on February 10, 2012 …”

PROCESS SERVER: Well, that’s my job done. (turns smartly around and gets back into his Commonwealth fleet car)

(BOGUE stands there, looking outside the still open front door into the dark street, visibly shaking)

BOGUETTE: Honey, are you OK?

(BOGUE’s head bobs up and down while clenching his teeth)

BOGUETTE: Honey, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll get through …

(BOGUE clenches his fist)

BOGUETTE: Honey, it’s OK, we’ll pay them back somehow …

BOGUE: (runs up to the lounge room wall and punches a hole into the weak, jerry-built gyprock wall) Urrghgurgururughkurrghnt! (runs into the kitchen and punches a hole in the wall) Urrghgurughguirhgurhffdskurrghnt! (runs into garage and punches a hole in the wall) Urrghrugurhgdafshkj321kurrghnt! (runs into the rumpus room and punches a hole in the wall) Urrghjsdfuioyfah@#@&(#321hjf98ekurrghnt! (runs into the laundry and punches a hole in the wall) Urghrughkurgghджлфцяизkurrghnt! (runs onto the stairwell and punches a hole in the wall) Urrgughrguhkurrfurgugghkurrghnt!

(BOGUE looks up and sees AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN, KAIDEN, TYLER, TYSON and TYRONE all standing on top of the stairwell looking at him with mouths agape)

BOGUE: What? Well, WHAT! What do you fink youse little shithead brats are lookin’ at? Get back into your rooms.

(The children hesitate)

BOGUE: NOOOOOOW!!!!

(The children all hide in their rooms)

(BOGUE collapses onto one of the stairs and sobs copiously while BOGUETTE sits beside him and puts her arm around his shoulders)

BOGUE: Boohoo, oh boohoohoohoo … Pride and joy. Me pride and joy! This house … me farkin’ mansion … it’s me pride and joy! I’ve worked so hard for it, bustin’ me gut on the roads and now at the Holden dealership just to meet me repayments … Boohoo … And if the gov’ment ever tries to take it away … me pride and joy! … Sniff sniff sob sob … Well, I may as well destroy it. Startin’ wiv me walls …

THE END


Episode 76 – Motherhood Statement

Brothers, sisters, can’t you see? The future’s owned by …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(THE SCENE: The main living room in BOGUE and BOGUETTE‘s McMansion in the late afternoon. BOGUETTE is sitting on the largest sofa with NARELLE, who looks very much like her with straight blonde hair and coal-black eyelashes and eyebrows, except she’s fifteen kilograms heavier and wears K Mart instead of Supre, glitter eyeshadow instead of Napoleon Perdis, and pink plastic bangles rather than Michael Hill.

NARELLE’s three children, twelve-year-old TYSON, ten-year-old TYLER and eight-year-old TYRONE, are running around like chickens with their heads cut off around the living room, rumpus room, kitchen, dining room, back patio and backyard along with BOGUETTE’s own children AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN, KAIDEN.)

BOGUETTE: Oh, Narelle, when you get a job and get settled down a bit, you just HAVE to come to my noyyyyyle salon!

NARELLE: But will I be able to afford it? I need to save up for a bond and stuff first.

BOGUETTE: Oh, I’ll give ya a full set of gel noyyyles – for the price of acrylic noyyyles! Don’t worry, come in when the boss ain’t in, and she won’t know nuffint, believe me! Teehee!

NARELLE: Sounds good to me! Hey, oi! Tyson! Tyler! Tyrone! Will youse quit yer bloody runnin’ around and cryin’ out loud, we’re tryin’ to talk here, for f#$k’s sake!

(BOGUE pulls into the garage in his company car, a lime green  SS Commodore, after a hard day’s work busting his gut at the Holden dealership, and stomps through the internal door and to the double-door stainless steel fridge. He retrieves a can of Jim Beam & cola, opens it, guzzles half the can and swaggers into the living room.)

BOGUE: (lets out a massive, eardrum-perforating belch) Oi! Who’s this bitch?

BOGUETTE: Do you mind, this is my sister you’re talkin’ to here!

BOGUE: Oh, Narelle, is it? (glances derisively down at her stomach) Christ, you’ve put on a bit of pud since I last saw ya.

NARELLE: Well … umm …

BOGUETTE: Like you can talk!

BOGUE: So, what brings you ‘ere?

NARELLE: Umm … err …

BOGUE: Well? Cat gotchya tongue or sumfint?

BOGUETTE: Honey … umm …

BOGUE: Umm, what?

BOGUETTE: Well … we’ve decided that … umm … Narelle can stay here for a bit …

BOGUE: What? What the fark? WE’VE decided? We haven’t decided nuffint!

BOGUETTE: Listen, sweetie! Narelle and her kids won’t be here for long. She’s decided to move down to Sydney to try and find some work until she can get a flat of her own down here.

BOGUE: What? So Narelle, you got sick of sittin’ around all day bludging on the single mum’s pension, you lazy bitch?

NARELLE: Umm … no … but …

BOGUETTE: Listen, honey … Narelle’s gotten kicked off the single mother’s benefit, that bitch Julia Gillard’s kicked single mums off when their youngest turns eight, it used to be sixteen. Tyrone’s just turned eight now, but the dole’s not enough to live on …

BOGUE: She got kicked off the solo mum’s handout? Good! If I was Proim Minsta I’d kick bludging bitches like her off the dole too. They can starve on the streets for all I care!

BOGUETTE: … but, she can’t find any work up in Newcastle that will fit around her kids’ school times, so she’s decided to try her hand at finding work in Sydney.

BOGUE: She ain’t tryin’ no hand in my house, believe me! Christ, it’s not enough that she lays on her fat lazy arse all day bludgin’ on me taxes, now she’s bludgin’ on me mortgage as well!

NARELLE: Listen, I’ll chip in for groceries and your power and stuff whenever I can if you want …

BOGUETTE: No, sis, you don’t have to chip in for nuffint! Listen, honey, what about when Ryan got divorced and got kicked out of house by his bitch of a missus, we gave him a place to stay. So it’s OK for your bruvva but not for me sis?

BOGUE: What the fark? I didn’t want that nerdy smart-arse snobbish c#$t stayin’ in me house. You’re the one who bugged me and bugged me to let him stay, I just let him stay here to get some farkin’ peace and quoit from you! I don’t want slags like your sister in my house, spreadin’ her legs on the pool table down at the RSL, come one come all, spittin’ out three kids to three different fathers who she don’t even know the name of!

NARELLE: Two different fathers, it was! And I had relationships with them, I was even engaged to one but I had to go to a women’s refuge and get an AVO out on him! (gets up off couch, starts gathering her luggage) Listen, I’m sorry, it’s OK, it’s not too much trouble to catch the train back up to Newcastle tonight …

BOGUE: Great idea! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!

BOGUETTE: (grasps NARELLE by her forearm) No, sis! It’s all roit. Don’t listen to my pig of a hubby here, I said that you could stay here, and that’s that!

BOGUE: Fer Christ’s farkin’ sake! A bloke can’t even go to work, bust his gut all day to put a roof over the head of his missus and four kiddies, without comin’ home to see that he’s gotta put a roof over the head of four more people! Where are we gonna find the room?

BOGUETTE: Well, there’s the rumpus room which we hardly ever use. We can put a couple of spare mattresses down in Jaiden and Kaiden’s rooms. We got a couple of camp beds and airbeds. Also, there’s that sofa bed, we can drag that out onto the patio, put the glass panels up on the patio screens, use that as a bedroom too.

BOGUE: Man. I never thought I’d see the day when me own missus would try and force me to give a home to some dole-bludgin’ slag and her three snotty-nosed brats. Fark this for a joke!

BOGUETTE: Listen! Narelle and the kids are family! We gave Ryan a place to stay when he needed one, me own olds gave us plenty of loans loans back when we were gettin’ repossessed an’ shit, the very least we can do is help me sister out when she needs us! That’s what families do!

BOGUE: (guzzles the rest of his can of Jim Beam and throws the empty can at the wall) Yeah. Whatever you reckon. Whatever you bloody reckon! (stomps out of the front door and stomps all the way down to the tavern)

THE END


Episode 75 – Such, Such Were The Joys

I met a traveller from an antique land, who told me to read …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

(THE SCENE: A complex of low-slung, yellow-brick buildings set among sporting fields and ringed by wire mesh fencing on a suburban road not far from BOGUE and BOGUETTE’s McMansion. In front of the complex is a slip lane full of Toyota Prados and Honda Odysseys busily disgorging children who are too lazy to walk or whose parents are too paranoid to let them walk six hundred metres to school on the first day of Term 2.

BOGUE pulls up in the slip lane in BOGUETTE’s silver Ford Territory. They get out along with their four dejected, downcast, slow-moving children AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN and KAIDEN.)

BOGUE: Ahh … boys … look at this! It’s beautiful, innit? It’s the … (gazes into the distance while speaking in hushed reverential tones) … Holy Redeemer of Sacred Light Biblical Christian College!

BOGUETTE: Honey, are you sure this is a good idea? It’s gonna cost us eleven grand a year and—

BOGUE: Oh Christ, don’t get started on this again!

AIDEN: But Dad, I don’t want to go back to the Holy Redeemer of Sacred Light. I was going to be the captain of the under-14s league team this term!

BOGUE: Well, you can be captain of the rugby league team here then.

AIDEN: But it’s too late to try out, Dad. I want to be captain back there!

BRAIDEN: Awww, but Dad, I want to go back to the normal school. I was a prefect this year!

JAIDEN: I wanna see my friends again, Dad. I wanna go back to my friends. I promised Eduardo that we’d swap Yu-Gi-Oh cards on the first day of term! Please, Daddy, let me see Eduardo and me other friends. Please. PLEASE!

KAIDEN: (hugs BOGUETTE’s knee tightly) I want my Miss Connors … I want my Miss Connors …

BOGUE: For Christ’s sake, kids! You’re going back to the Holy Redeemer of Sacred Light whether you like it or not and you’re gonna be happy about it. Y’unnerstand? I’m yer father and you do as I say or I swear to God you’ll get a clip around the ear when I get home from work. Ya hear me?

(BRAIDEN, JAIDEN and KAIDEN burst into tears and pine for their state schools)

BOGUETTE: Honey, it’s not too late to pull out, we can get a refund. Besides, the local state school has got a special education unit that can help with Jaiden’s dyslexia and Kaiden’s little tantrums—

BOGUE: (nudges BOGUETTE with her elbow) Oh, fer fark’s sake, woman, I told you not to get me started!

BOGUETTE: And Mr Hancock reckons that Braiden will get into a selective school next year fer sure—

BOGUE: Honey, I told you to—

BOGUETTE: And the local rag reckoned that the state high school scored higher than the Holy Redeemer of Sacred Light in last year’s HSC—

BOGUE: Urghgurghrughhhkurrghnt! You don’t farkin’ get it, you stupid dumb slag. I’m the one who busts his gut down at the car dealership day in, day out while you’re just a bludger painting bitches’ nails for some pocket money three arvos a week down at the Westfield. It’s MY money that I make from MY job, I’ll spend it how I like, thank you very much, woman! Y’unnerstand? Oh look, here’s the principal coming now, let’s act real smart and proper and stuff.

PRINCIPAL: (approaches while rubbing his hands obsequiously, immaculate in his thick-rimmed square glasses and salt-and-pepper beard and tweed coat with leather elbow patches) Sir! Madam! It’s such a pleasure to see you again. I’m so glad that you made the right choice! Here at the Holy Redeemer of Sacred Light Biblical Christian College we are committed to providing a supportive, child-focused learning environment in which every student can achieve their potential—

BOGUE: (folds his arms) Mate, spare me the advertisin’ bullshit. I just wanna send me boys to a school where all the other kids are Aussies too!

PRINCIPAL: Umm … err … sir … surely you are aware that the grace of God is available to everyone regardless of their race or nationality if they choose to receive it? As long as it’s in accordance with His predestined plan, of course!

BOGUE: (looks around the playground) Well, God must be a little racist shit, then, ‘cause I’m only seeing white kids here!

PRINCIPAL: (strokes his chin, clenches his jaw, looks defensive) Umm … err … (doubles up while clutching his stomach as he bursts into hysterical fits of laughter)

BOGUE: Hahahaha hawhawhaw … what’s so funny, mate?

PRINCIPAL: Hahahahaha … you know what, mate? You’re right. You’re bloody well right. Yup, only Aussie kids here. Maybe God is a little racist shit!

BOGUE: Hawhawhawhaw snort snort … Yeah, that’s the only reason why I’m sendin’ me kids here. I’m sick of all them ragheads and dagoes that me boys bring home to play video games wiv. Haw haw …

PRINCIPAL: (hugs BOGUE) Hahahaha haw haw hahaha … Yeah, and the minute we start letting them reffo kids in, all you parents will start sending your kids to some other Christian school and we’d be out of money and I’d be out of a job! Hahaha …

BOGUE: (hugs PRINCIPAL back) Hawhawhaw … yeah … I don’t care if it costs me eleven grand a year. I don’t even care if you waste it all on foreign aid and buildin’ that massive butt-ugly dogbox church that opened last year.

PRINCIPAL: Hahahahaha … yeah, it’s a total bloody eyesore, isn’t it? But still, you should see the size of the car park! It’s big enough for all these gullible schmucks who come every Sunday, putting wads of fifty-buck notes into the collection bucket! Hahahahahaha …

BOGUE: Oh mate, it’s so good to be back here. About that shit where you called DOCS about Aiden and Kaiden … all water under the bridge, mate. It’s in the past …

PRINCIPAL: Hahahaha, yeah, it’s great to have you back too. Pleasure doing business with you!

THE END

(So, The Bogue & Boguette Show is back. I’d like to welcome my readers back into my life again. I can’t promise that B&B Mark 2 will be as funny as last time. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to do another seventy-four episodes. I can’t promise that it won’t get stale. I can’t even promise that I’ll be able to write one episode a week.

But I promise that I’ll try.

And in this election year, where it appears from a glance at the comments on any News Ltd online article or any political argument on Facebook that people are becoming even more unhinged – a fact I had hitherto thought impossible; where our nation’s leaders are doing their level best to suck up to the most ignorant and reactionary members of our society in a scramble for each and every marginal seat; where people’s accumulated nasty little resentments towards others less fortunate than themselves seem to be rapidly approaching boiling point – I am confident that I should find enough material to work with.

It’s a pleasure to be back entertaining you. I missed the creative challenge of writing a weekly serial documentary/sitcom/soap opera/satirical sketch and hope that I’m up to it.

Pleasure doing business with you!

Yours,

Regional Reverie.)