Official Orange Week Fiction

Chapter 1.
One day there lived a very naughty little boy. His name was Andy. His parents had realised at an early age that he was trouble. No matter how mcuh they tried.
Andy prided himself on his record. 15 times in and out of Juvy by the time he was 15. Despairing, his parents turned to electro-shock therapy - 3 sessions a week. It did nothing but aggravate his passion for petty crime. He stole chocolate from the IGA, wrote "Math sucks" on the school desks, glued two 5 cent pieces together in order to trick the vending machine into thinking it was 2 dollars, and worst of all.... an unhealthy passion for Baroque music.

Chapter 2.
Over the years Andy went from bad to worse. He had to change his naughty ways for good, or else become a delinquent forever. (pause for effect) Then one day he framed the pure hearted Robbie in a vicious waterfight, resulting in a detention for the both of them.
THen detention remained a permanent mark on Robbie's record. He was expelled, and after a few months discovered Islamic extremism, joining the Jihad. Jealous of Andy's impressive record concerning theft from teh IGA, Robbie decided to do Andy one better - he blew up the IGA and the surrounding buildings.
ASIO had been following RObbie's movements for a while. They caught him in a seedy bar betting on a cockfight. He was shipped immediately to Guantanamo Bay.
3 years later, images were leaked to the press of prison abuse cases. Butt-naked on the top of a pyramid, surround by several snarling Alsations, was none other than Robbie Elisabeth James. While the Australian Governement will not help or accept him, he has applied for citizenship in several other countries. None of them will accept such a hardened criminal.

Chapter 3.
Just for the sake of mentioning the fat kid.
Andy stares longingly out of his maximum security cell like a fat kid looks at chocoalte cake. He's not really hungry, it's just habitual now.
Alternitively - like a fat kid stares at another fat kid, because you are what you eat.
LIke a fat kid stares at Kirsty Alley before and after Jenny Craig.
LIke a fat kid stares at a double burger with cheese... it's a gland problem.
Like a fat id stares at pistacio nuts (don't laught at that, it's really not funny).

Good afternoon passengers (and more specifically Andy)
Connex would like to appologise for any inconvenience caused, in cancelling EVERY SINGLE train that you wanted to catch on thursday teh 23, after that wonderfull excuse to exercise your vocal chords, choir. Connex understands that you wanted to take the trian home quickly. Connex was alsoa choir nerd. There are many things taht connex understands, one of which is your pain, andy, while you were sitting on teh platform in total dispair, Connex was too, in a state of toal dispair. (although Connex does not have a wierd fettish for smoke of the tracks, Connex can make your wildest dreams come true). Andy, Connex was doing everything possible to get the train runing just for you. Yes it may have seemed that Connex was looking after the other commuters, but Connex only has eyes for you Andy. Connex does not want to make more people jealous. Yes Andy, there was someone before you (but never after, promise). He was a wonderful kid, but he took advantage of me and my services, and it lead to his own downfall. Never walking anywhere, he steadily gained weight. Andy, I didn't want to discuss this so soon in our relationship, but my ex can strike anytime, in fact it was he who sabotaged my "perfect" rail system Andy.
When ever you see a fat kid, turn the other way and run. Because if he looks at you like he looks at those walking escalators at the airport or how he looks at all the temptation food on the biggest loser, your life would be at great risk! Andy, I think we have a wonderful future together, don't worry, I can stop fat kid from vandalising the trains, and even if I can't I'll still be watching y ou!
Good evening passengers (and Andy). The next train to depart from platform 2 will be dedicated to Andy. Please remember: THAT CONNEXT LOVES YOU

Cara and Jock meet when desks which had been so particularly arranged according to ocial heirarchies, ha dbeen moved, forcing the social cliques to diverge, resulting in the brainy, loserish, yet sweet and (once she removed her glasses, overalls, and got a makeover from teh jock's attractive, skanky, yet somehow tasteful when dressing someone other than herself's sister.) I had a point... Yes, Cara is attractive. And now sitting next to spunky, yet wholesome, sporty, all round stud jock Xavier, or Zac. He'll be having problems with his dad who puts so much pressure on him because he wants to go to college but his dad wants him to carry on the family business.

Prepare yourself for a tale of love, loss, and blossoming insecurity...
It was the summer of 1982, some American president was president, we can't keep track, there's been so many, does it really matter.
Our story takes place in an isolated hole where people have started wearing thongs with trackpants, socks with thongs. Australia. Melbourne was a thriving city, depending on your definition of thriving. It was the 80s, what could you expect... We had Kylie.
School-children everywhere were emulating their favourite popstars; sporting mullets, waist high pants, leg warmers and all manner of stereotypical 80s gear.
One particular 2nd Alto Sax in this typical suburban school had combined every facet of the 80s culture into one hairdo in a vain attempt to attract attention fromt eh love of his life. 2nd trumpet Cyndi (no second name, nothing sounded right).
She was the prettiest girl, with the prettiest perm, the highest pants, and the warmest leg warmers. Cyndi was the coolest cat in school. Her solos were amazing and all the boys, yes all the boys, (except Jeff, who was slightly effeminate and never went swimming with the other boys... just watched) were in love with her. Even our protaganist, Ben Sullilvan had his sights set on her.
Background on Ben Sullivan /clues to deep-seated insecurity.
-Underappreciated by his family despite being an only child.
Shocking speech impediment he was not to overcome till his late 20s. (insert demo from cora-irish lisp)
-Premature development of widows peaks. Rapidly receding hairline.
-Secret, underlying desire to dress in women's clothing.
-Closet George Michael fan. Are we seeing a pattern.
-Years of therapy- this failed due to numerous rounds of experimental electroshock treatment. (It may have worked, we don't know hwat he could have been like without it.)

To return to a plot of sorts. Cyndi was not an easy person to get close to. She was constantly surrounded by trumpet 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, all of who were male, ridiculously good looking, amazingly devoted and confident enough to wear INCREDIBLY tight pants and walk around topless. They could also sight-read, finish notes at the same time, and just had that downright cool, instinctive Jazz feel that the sax section was lacking.
It was Gambier, Ben was all set, his mullet, though strangely identical to the 3rd trumpets, was superbly over-the-top. Coincidently any competition for the 2nd alto sax position had consumed a few too many laxatives prior to their audition.
All through Cyndi's funky awesome solo, Ben was staring at her like a fat kid stares at a lolly that's fallen on the floor, contemplating the merits of the 3 second rule.
Then it was his turn. He launched into his solo, his face flushed deep red (tell me you can't see it) the sweat accumulating on his forhead while his mind was racing furiously.
What if he screwed up? What if Cyndi never noticed him? What if she never loved him? Actually it'd be okay if she loved him without seeing him. In fact it was probably better that way. What would he do if she never spoke to him ever. What if he ended up a moody, bipolar, bitter, twisted, high shcool music teacher, waiting to torment his students, particularly the trumpets HOWDARE THEY TAKE HIS CYNDI AWAY FROM HIM. How dare they sneak off with his darling Cyndi at the post Gambier celebration to a dark room for a steamy trumpet orgy, leaving him to drown his sorrows in dip. The two friends came later, much later.
Poison consoled him on the bus drive home while he watched Cyndi frolicking with her new trumpet playing boyfriends- and later girlfriends. She was experimental and he was still interested.
To this day the screeching guitar solos reminiscent of Poison evoke memories of sweary shirtless trumpet men... Male skanks...(that was for Jena and Cara.)

• like a fat kid stares at a smorgies restaurant (there's so much more at smorgies)
• like a fat kid doesn't stare at the sunshine lady from music camp.
• like a fat kid stares at another fat kid, because you are what you eat.
• like a fat kid stares at Kirsty Alley, because you are what you eat.
• like a fat kid stares at a whopper with cheese...it's a gland problem.
• like a fat kid stares at the cookies on the bench. He's not hungry, it's just habitual now.
  

Labels: like a fat kid stares at cake

Cara and Jena, brains throbbing like heads had been inflated with the same foot pump used to inflate the kiddie pool. Or like their brains were used chewing gum or that some rhythm incompetent drummer had taken up residency in their cerebral cortex. They were in fact; nursing vicious hangovers, due to last night’s post Grammy celebrations. After taking up every single award available, miraculously being awarded the award for best rock album, R & B album, Male Artist, Female Artist, Lifetime achievement and breakthrough artist of the year award, Cara and Jena had reason to celebrate. The tour bus was speeding along highway 69 (giggle) transporting the artist to their “Best tour ever” tour.

Surrounded by multitudes of ridiculously good-looking groupies roadies. Cara and Jena were recovering from their post-celebration trauma in style. It was a source of constant bewilderment to the public that though Cara and Jena made millions upon millions of dollars they couldn’t scrape together the money to buy their roadies shirts. As a result, the unfortunate roadies spent their days half-clothed/half naked/are you an optimist?

Blond Roadie Travis (ex Calvin Klein model) was fanning the ailing heroines of this tale. Red headed roadie, Julio, was cooking up a culinary delight in nothing but an apron; it had been a stingy year. Cara and Jena weren’t too upset.

Chocolate/Black rodie Marc (must be said in French accent) was busy preparing the oils for the girls’ daily two-hour massage. And playing ‘I spy’ in the back seat was Bob. Everyone was happy, everyone that is, except Trent: the multi-Oscar winning Hollywood heartthrob, who put his career on hold to help move PA equipment topless for Cara and Jena. He was brooding in the front seat, surly, as he had not been included in the previous night’s threesome. In a fit of jealous rage Trent snapped and covered the eyes of the bus driver.

“Aaargh!” the bus driver yelled, knowing the monumentous decision ahead of him, He had driven this route many times before, for artists not nearly in the same league as Cara and Jena (i.e. the Beatles, Nirvana, ACDA, Coldplay, Queen…etc.)

He knew there were only two ways he could turn: to the right, the alligator and crocodile farm and to the left, the Ethiopian orphanage for Ethiopian orphans with disabilities. Not being much of an animal activist, the driver swerved to the right, into the swampy pits that housed the flesh-eating reptiles.

The driver was killed on impact, Leaving Cara and Jena and several ridiculously good-looking groupies roadies to fend for themselves.

Realising the crocodiles were rapidly closing in, the roadies and Cara and Jena huddled together for one last orgy heart-to-heart.

In the midst of that sweaty couple of minutes, Trent had an epiphany (amongst other sensations) He voiced for the first time to the group his jealousy, and came to terms with his feelings. Although he loved Cara and Jena very dearly (as well as a number of the other roadies) he realised that sharing was more important that all the Oscars Hollywood had to offer.

He also realised his imminent death and decided that he had to take control of the situation. He had to save the two beautiful girls, not just for himself, but for anyone else in the world that appreciated beautiful music (Better then anything the Beatles or any other semi successful band could offer)

Someone needed to be sacrificed. They were just about to do eenie meenie minie moe, when Bob interjected: “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C…no A…No C. Oh I just can’t decide! So much to choose from. Oh such fun!”

They turned slowly towards him looking at him hungrily, like a fat kid looks at cake, or how a fat kid looks at a Big Mac with coke and no ice (he gets more coke that way), or how a fat kid looks a tub of lard, or how a fat kid looks at a candy shop…(see fat kid insert)

Bob’s Death was quick. I’m sure he felt no pain.

Thanks to bob’s valiant sacrifice, the others reached safety. Cara and Jena resumed their “Greatest Tour Ever” tour. It was sold out within the first two hours and forty minutes in every state. Except in Venezuela where it sold out in two minutes, despite the language barrier.

Epilogue.

Cara overdosed two years later, locked in a toilet with various other rock n’ roll socialites, shocking the world’s tabloids and splitting up the band. She then spent the rest of her life with her rock star boyfriend communicating to the rest of the world via web cam. She still had a successful solo career.

Jena abandoned her hardcore lifestyle and consumed only herbal tea for the rest of her days. Spurning the conventions of modern life she refused to shave her legs or armpits. She became an experimental artist working only with the insides of watermelons (discarding the pips of course) and shuttlecocks (giggle). Contrary to expectations she then became the head of a multimillion-dollar corporation and became solely responsible for crushing the economy of Somalia. Jena wasn’t very upset.

Trent married a good woman and had two beautiful children, white picked fence, a white dog called snowy and a black dog called blackie. They had roast on Sundays and he sent his children to an American school with a conspicuous purple uniform and a bad wrap from the press.

How did he finance all this you ask? He sold crack to once wholesome teenagers…and Cara.

THE END