Stories That May Not Be True, Volume 2
The Place: Melbourne
The Time: Ummmm... can I get back to you on that? Ta...
Outside a busy suburban shopping centre, a group of pedestrians are busily attempting to solve the riddle of "Why the chicken crossed the road". Yet, they are being hampered in their diligent efforts by two insurmountable obstacles: 1) traffic, and 2) more traffic.
Patiently, they wait. Every so often, one will dare to press the Big Button, earning gazes of contemptuous scorn and derision from those older, wiser souls who have already pressed it.
Finally, the traffic lights change, and the pedestrians may seek the greener pastures awaiting on the far distant shore.
But, Hark - what light through yonder window breaks? It is the head of a disgruntled motorist, throwing slings and barbs of outrageous misfortune at the gimp in the car beside him, who for his part offers several pieces of choice invective designed to help not at all...
The scene escalates, as such scenes doth tend to do. Motorist A gets out of his Monaro, and advances on Motorist B's Falcon, with the light of deranged righteousness in his eyes. Motorist B emerges, and is immediately on the receiving end of a hand-picked and hand-delivered selection of blows from Motorist A's repertoire.
Meanwhile... an opportunistic pedestrian has seen the light! He has discovered the means by which he may advance from the churlish burden of "pedestrian", and acheive that most cherished state of being: "motorist".
He advances rapidly, pushing his way through the throng of lesser beings, and into the driver's seat of the still-idling Monaro. Engages First gear. Floors it. And heads joyously off into his new life, leaving behind several months worth of shreddded tyre tread as a consolation prize.
Motorist A, still mid-pummell, notes his beloved ozone-depleting steed thoughtlessly leaving without him, and ceases re-arranging the molecules of Motorist B's face. He strides boldly forward, loudly demanding arbitration and that his vehicle cease tarrying with another. From the Monaro's window emerges that finger which simultaneously advocates mono-genesis, and signifies that neither vehicle nor new owner shall return.
As Motorist A is searching his less-than-extensive vocabulary for an expletive to adequately cover the situation, Motorist B carpe's the diem, and plants a judicious Size 10 in Motorist A's buttii, then jumps into his Falcon, and departs the scene bloodied, yet strangely euphoric.
Motorist A is now left standing mid-intersection, watching as both his own vehicle and that of his recent victim disappear into the sunset, and facing the thought of a long walk home, and what his mates at the pub will say when they find out...
The pedestrians are in rapture, particularly the one who told me this story. Knowing him as I do, I fear that it may not be true.
But it should be...
The Time: Ummmm... can I get back to you on that? Ta...
Outside a busy suburban shopping centre, a group of pedestrians are busily attempting to solve the riddle of "Why the chicken crossed the road". Yet, they are being hampered in their diligent efforts by two insurmountable obstacles: 1) traffic, and 2) more traffic.
Patiently, they wait. Every so often, one will dare to press the Big Button, earning gazes of contemptuous scorn and derision from those older, wiser souls who have already pressed it.
Finally, the traffic lights change, and the pedestrians may seek the greener pastures awaiting on the far distant shore.
But, Hark - what light through yonder window breaks? It is the head of a disgruntled motorist, throwing slings and barbs of outrageous misfortune at the gimp in the car beside him, who for his part offers several pieces of choice invective designed to help not at all...
The scene escalates, as such scenes doth tend to do. Motorist A gets out of his Monaro, and advances on Motorist B's Falcon, with the light of deranged righteousness in his eyes. Motorist B emerges, and is immediately on the receiving end of a hand-picked and hand-delivered selection of blows from Motorist A's repertoire.
Meanwhile... an opportunistic pedestrian has seen the light! He has discovered the means by which he may advance from the churlish burden of "pedestrian", and acheive that most cherished state of being: "motorist".
He advances rapidly, pushing his way through the throng of lesser beings, and into the driver's seat of the still-idling Monaro. Engages First gear. Floors it. And heads joyously off into his new life, leaving behind several months worth of shreddded tyre tread as a consolation prize.
Motorist A, still mid-pummell, notes his beloved ozone-depleting steed thoughtlessly leaving without him, and ceases re-arranging the molecules of Motorist B's face. He strides boldly forward, loudly demanding arbitration and that his vehicle cease tarrying with another. From the Monaro's window emerges that finger which simultaneously advocates mono-genesis, and signifies that neither vehicle nor new owner shall return.
As Motorist A is searching his less-than-extensive vocabulary for an expletive to adequately cover the situation, Motorist B carpe's the diem, and plants a judicious Size 10 in Motorist A's buttii, then jumps into his Falcon, and departs the scene bloodied, yet strangely euphoric.
Motorist A is now left standing mid-intersection, watching as both his own vehicle and that of his recent victim disappear into the sunset, and facing the thought of a long walk home, and what his mates at the pub will say when they find out...
The pedestrians are in rapture, particularly the one who told me this story. Knowing him as I do, I fear that it may not be true.
But it should be...
posted by Dr. Keats at 7:45 pm
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