Rocket Roger Part 21 (I'm 21 on Sunday : )
edb39...@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au
Room, mostly from Americans who wouldn't know a hoon if it recited Hamlet to
them backwards. Even so, "One man, one vote", "The show must go on" and
"Don't wash your hair in lard." The readers have spoken and here beginneth
the episode. God, I hate trying to pad out a line so it reads right to the...
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Our valiant group stood before the door to the Hoon Room. "What's a Hoon ?"
asked Chadwick. "I'm not sure, " said Tris as she retouched her hair after
the ordeal of the last episode.
Roger shook his head in mock pity. "You two really take the cake. No, I take
that back: You've run off with half the world's confectionery. A hoon, as
all properly trained Heroes know, is a small animal from the Kalkkian Rift
with pink fur, big brown dewy eyes and a tendency to pose for cute posters.
It's cornered the market in making people go "Awwww, isn't that CUTE !" Come
on, this'll be as easy as cake....if you two bozos have left us any cake !"
With bravery possessed by only the truly ignorant, Roger flung the door open
and strode into what he predicted would look like a soft toy warehouse. This
prediction turned out worse than Hitler's famous "Look, Hermann, I'm tellink
you, nobody cares about Poland !" How much worse ? Double it, then add
"Laughably bad choice","Way off" and "Not even close, matey."
He stepped onto the lush thick grass of a huge outdoor stadium. Filling the
stands to the brim were thousands of Hoons ! Were they pink ? No ! Were they
cute ? Only to a female Hoon after a six pack or two (or seven).
The average Hoon thinks about two things: sex and cricket, but never
simultaneously. The typical Hoon can't do anything simultaneously, and
sometimes has trouble with whatever single task occupies their minds (a small
gland just above the right thumb.) But it must be said that the Hoon has
revolutionised the otherwise deadly boredom of cricket.
Cricket was invented by Englishmen with more time than women on their hands.
Having no social skills, these weirdos found it preferable to go and stand in
a massive field for the five days it takes to play a match. To the average
spectator (who sits about half a mile from the pitch) the game constitutes
watching twelve white suits standing still, while another white suit runs
about hurling a tiny red dot at speed towards some fool's head. Occasionally,
one of the white suits manages to bring a big stick between him and the red
dot, which becomes a ballistic car window smasher, or a remover of children's
heads.
The average spectator didn't mind, however, because he (only men can
`appreciate/understand' cricket) was invariably an Upper Class Twit (Tm) and
got bored by anything that didn't involve killing peasants. This situation
plodded its aristocratic way along...until the Poms invaded Australia !
After a quick bout of genocide on the locals (a scruffy lot who should have
been glad they'd been rescued from 40 000 years of their own civilisation),
the new Aussies spent two hundred years checking the place out and seeing
where God had hidden the interesting bits of this otherwise extremely dull bit
of dirt. It was soon proved without a doubt that Australia's future in Real
Estate was as black as an Abo's bum at midnight (a little saying the Aussies
made up to relieve the boredom). Having consigned themselves to relative
poverty for the rest of eternity, they decided to rebel against all that was
British/Upper Class/Posh. ie. Cricket.
When the British plucked up enough courage to send a cricket team over, the
Aussies revealed their plans for revitalising cricket: The Hoon. He is a low
browed, pot-bellied, loud, self-opinionated piss-artist who doesn't mind the
cheeks of his arse to be seen smiling at the world. Ninety five thousand Hoons
turned up to the first match and the Poms got slaughtered. They couldn't
concentrate on the ball because of various sections of the crowd singing,
belching, rioting and brown-eyeing the poor genteel English.
Ye Gods ! I've crapped on for 63 lines ! Where's the plot ?! Think fast.
Roger was hopelessly surrounded by thousands of the above Hoons. He turned and
waved to Tris and Chadwick to join him, so they could die together. But even
as they ran to Roger, the Hoons did something potentially plot/life-saving.
They mimicked Roger's wave exactly. (Note to Non-Aussies: A certain cricketer's
warm up routine is always copied by the rowdier elements in the crowd. The
press love it as much as the Hoons.) Roger's nimble mind completely failed to
notice the thousands of hairy armpits stinking up the sporting atmosphere. He
called the other two into a huddle, and as they formed a circle, little triads
of Hoons formed beer-gut meeting halls, copying our intrepid but trapped Heroes.
Chadwick pointed this out to Roger.
"Hmmm, this could be our ticket outta here." said Roger. He contemplated,
wondering just why he always had to talk in cliches, and announced his idea:
"OK team, let's exercise !" So saying, he began to reel off jumping jacks,
push-ups, sit-ups and all manner of "Things Students Never Do." The crowd
hoonishly followed Roger's example....but not for long. This next bit is best
illustrated by example.
Thus, the camera closes in on Hubert Q. Hoon, the healthiest Hoon of them all.
His brain saw the three strangers on the pitch starting to move very quickly.
He recalled his father warning him about such subversives over a six pack of
Demon Lager. "Son, " H.Q. Hoon Snr. said, "*buurrrpppp* and don't you ever
forget it !" But Hubert was weak and began to cavort and strain like all the
other Hoons in the stadium. After thirty seconds he was still barely alive
(much to his surprise) but started to worry as all around him, his Mates
clutched their flabby chests and sank to the ground, twitching pitifully. With
a final sip at his faithful beer can he let out a final burp and snuffed it.
Roger stood up and gazed happily around. " Just like the Engineering Student
Olympics back in '65 !" The scene, which was the result of a huge special
effects bill that makes Terminator 2 look like one of the flying silver potatoes
in Dr Who, began to shimmer, wobble and generally explain how I managed to fit
an entire cricket ground into a space station. Roger, Chad and Tris found
themselves (sounds like a Zen camping trip) standing in another dull metallic
room with three doors. Each was obviously the entrance to another overdue
episode. Take your pick from: The Noon Room, the Saloon Room or the Buffoon
Room then carve your vote onto the back of any spare gold bullion you have lying
about. If anyone writes 'None of the above' I will personally congratulate you
for lateral thinking before painting your fingers to look like mini beer bottles
and releasing the alcoholic Dobermans.
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Will the author think of anything interesting to put down here ?
Where have the cliff-hanger endings gone ?
Will I get more votes than the Pope in the Baghdad mayoral elections ?
You may wish to subscribe to this nonsense. If you are so inclined, email to
the above address and hope that these things get back to being weekly events
before the Sun goes out, or I finish my exams; whichever comes first. Also,
people have been known to laugh at the Toxic Custard Workshop Files though no-
one has satisfactorily explained why. I can't remember the address (sorry
Daniel) but there's probably an episode lying around this newsgroup.