Foiled Again!

“It’s bloody bullshit babes,” Chris fumed, punching the dashboard of the Prius with frustration.

“What’s the bloody prematurely balding shit ever done anyway? And bloody Murphy and Bryce, stealing all my votes, they better make themselves scarce next time I’m about.”

Rebecca knew better than to interrupt Chris when he was in full self-righteous mode. She remembered with a shudder the time she’d innocently asked him why it was so important to separate the various plastics into their respective piles for the recycling. By the time he’d finished the slide show depicting the bloated corpses of tsunami victims, she’d regretted ever even mentioning it. And she still didn’t have an answer.

Chris was still moaning away – “none of his touches should count, his Dad was a gun at footy, mine wasn’t” – when they pulled up at the lights.

A group of hoons in a hotted up car pumping awful commercial trance music pulled up beside them. The hoons eyed up Rebecca, who was still in her stylish yet tasteful gown. One wound down the passenger side window.

“Hey gorgeous, me n the boys are going down to Flaming Moe’s in Bentleigh. Me mates Stevie and Joey here wanna know if you fancy a spit roast on the way down?” he leered.

Luckily the lights changed and the hoons sped off, cackling like rednecks with a freshly captured college boy.

Chris continued his rant as they headed down Chapel Street towards their fashionable apartment:

“When I came over here, Mr Pratt promised me he’d buy me … er, er, I’d win … a Brownlow at least every second year. And what have I got since I arrived? Bloody nothing. Bugger all.”

Rebecca turned right into their street and pulled up at the appointed complex.

“Oh jeez, I’m sorry babes, it’s not your fault, I shouldn’t take it out on you,” he said apologetically.

She smiled at him. He might be colossally thick and have a vastly over inflated sense of his own relevance in the greater scheme of things, but his heart was in the right place.

“Tell you what babes, it’s been a long night and I need to chill out a bit. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll check my emails. Leo must have replied by now. That’ll cheer me up. Maybe I’ll even get on the blower and have a chat with him.”

Chris had recently seen Leonardo Di Caprio’s monumentally shit rip off of An Inconvenient Truth – The Eleventh Hour – and had gotten it into his head that he and Di Caprio should become mates. A bromance he’d taken to calling it.

“It makes perfect sense babes, I mean we’re both young affluent guys with a really keen sense of environmental justice. It’d be great, we’d hang out and go for bike rides and talk about our ideas for wind power and stuff.”

To this end, Chris had instructed his ‘people’ to get in touch with Di Caprio’s agent and set up some ‘face time’.

Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell him that Leonardo Di Caprio had probably never even heard of Aussie Rules, let alone one of its most fraudulently overrated exponents. She was glad of the chance to sneak off to bed early. She’d had a few glasses of wine with Brendan early in the evening – he looked stunning in his spaghetti strap number that showed if his new assets to the finest advantage – and had had to ease up as she was driving, leaving her feeling a bit groggy and washed out.

She’d just about fallen asleep when she was startled by Chris shouting and what sounded suspiciously like a Mongolian lentil pot hitting a black slate floor with great force.

She went downstairs.

“What was that,” she asked. Chris had his head in his hands. When he raised his eyes, she could see tears forming.

“Look,” he sniffed, “Look at this.”

There was an email open on his laptop. She read it.

“Dear Mr Chudd,

Leo would like to thank you for your interest in his upcoming movie [INSERT NAME OF MOVIE HERE] . Leo has asked me to let you know that due to the volume of mail he receives, he sadly cannot respond to each message personally.

However, if you click here, Leo would like to invite you to become part of the Di Caprio Community by donating $US10 (All Major Cards Accepted) to his favoured sustainability project [ISENRT NAME OF CURRENT PROJECT HERE]

Yours with most awesome wishes,

Summer Stryker-Macgyver
Head of External Engagement Processes

Rebecca looked at Chris fondly. The poor big stupid bugger. He tried his hardest, that much was taken as read. In fact, she couldn’t think of a bigger try hard on the face of the planet.

“Come up to bed babes,” she said, gently massaging his shoulder, “Who needs stupid Leonardo Di Caprio anyway?”

As they slept, with Chris enduring an uneasy slumber, back in the great gambling den by the river, a council of war had formed.

Composed of those gents best placed to manage the effect of drinking enough piss in one night as the good people of Belfast in their entirety get through in a week, the brave band had convened to pursue a singular goal.

“Fucken Shtewie turned into a fucken fucken dinosaur or fucken whatever,” slurred Big Jono Brown.

“Nah, fucken Yeti or fucken Shashquatch or shome shit,” replied Colin, who had taken the loss of his friend Alan to the fanged jaws of the Dewosaurus only months earlier with admirable good humour.

“You fucken know what I fucken fucken reckon we should fucken do?” offered Danny ‘Four Fingers’ Chick, who had only turned up at the gig for the craic (geddit?).

Nah what, asked the assembled brains trust, which included Brendan, who lay back with his eyes closed, gently massaging his own breasts.

“We should fucken go fucken find fucken Shtewie” the missing digited dodgemaster continued, “Get some piss into him.”

There was a silence.

“Best fucken idea I’ve heard all night,” pronounced Brown, “Let’s get some fucken travellers and fucken do it.”

The motley crew headed out into the night, clutching bottles of tequila, determined to locate their old mate the Dewosaurus.