Short skit - Bogesville shooting

Newsreader: “…And now to news closer to home. There’s been another shooting in Sydney’s west overnight, with a drive-by shooter firing four shots into a family residence in Bogesville. The incident brings the total number of shootings so far this year to nine. In this latest incident, a poor garden gnome was obliterated with a single bullet and although no one was hurt, the gun fired was quite loud, disturbing at least one local resident in the street. The resident said they awoke to four loud shots and later discovered a garden gnome lying in pieces on the neighbour’s front lawn. Our reporter, Sam Smiles, spoke to the resident earlier this morning”: Roll tape showing local resident speaking to Sam.

Resident: “I awoke to four loud shots and later discovered a garden gnome lying in pieces on the neighbour’s front lawn.”  End vision. Back to newsreader.

Newsreader: “NSW Police say that although this is the second such incidence this month, the rate of occurrences for the year is actually down by 50%. I spoke to senior sergeant Bo Nrain of Strike Force Get those Guys out West earlier today and here’s what he had to say”: Roll tape showing the senior sergeant speaking to newsreader.

Senior sergeant: “Although this is the second such incidence this month, the rate of occurrences for the year is actually down 50%.” End vision. Back to newsreader.

Newsreader: “Yes, in case you didn’t spot it, the only difference there was that I said “down by 50%”; whereas, the senior sergeant just said “down 50%”. Close, wasn’t it? We leave you tonight with images of two cute kittens tandem skydiving on a sunny day before softly landing in a lush, green meadow in rural France right in front of a nice saucer of milk. Thanks for your company. I’m Mae Bea, the best newsreader in the world. Stay with us now for Vac You Us, the new hit reality show about a vacuum store and its employees. Goodnight, Sydney.” 

Can I Help You?

It’s a cracking summer’s day along the strand. A man with a patchy red neck pops into the local fish ‘n’ chips shop.

Afternoon, says the shop keeper, raising his head to meet that of the stranger’s. Can I help you?

Yes, I have this rash on my neck, he replies. You see it here? he says, twisting slightly sideways to show the affected area.

Yeah, right, acknowledges the shop keeper with a polite look. But can I help you? Do you want to place an order?

I dunno, do you think fish would help?

Are you hungry?

No, I mean for the rash.

I can’t help you with the rash. But, if you want something to eat I could definitely help you.

Well… I suppose I could eat a little something. I’ll take a small California roll, can of Coke and two steamed dumplings. Pork.

Except this is a fish ‘n’ chips shop – we don’t sell sushi and dumplings.

But they might go well if you did.

Maybe so, but –

– then you could’ve at least helped by selling me something to eat. I mean you did ask if you can help me, without firstly specifying any semantic parameters.

Well, this is a fish ‘n’ chips shop, so that logically should’ve helped to set the context and therefore scope of my question for you.

Really? People assume so much these days. They expect so much of others in an increasingly complex world.

Well, I still can help you but only with the food we have on the menu. So, can I help you?

Yes, I’ve got this rash on my neck, he says leaning forwards. You see it? And on top of that now I’m hungry. I’ll have battered cod, two potato scallops with extra vinegar and salt, and a pineapple fritter. Pineapple fritters are the best. A little bit of tropical sweetness to contrast the saltiness and highlight the summer’s sunshine.

He stops looking up at the huge order board in front of him, then drops his head back down and stares blankly into the face of the shop keeper.

Oh, good choice! lied the shopkeeper. Although, I’m going to need your help, he confessed with an air of light and crispy embarrassment.

What’s that?

I’m out of fish. Do you think you could duck over to the fish shop in the arcade up the road, and pick up a nice piece of cod for me?

Duck. Fish. The road. And pick. Plus a bunch of prepositions. Why should I have to do all this?

I’ll give you a discount! he sprouted, clawing back some cheap ground.

With the prospect of saving money, aware he was yet to buy some sort of cream to relieve his rash, the man with the rash darts out and hurriedly walks over to the fish shop in the arcade. In the meantime, the fish ‘n’ chips shop keeper magically transforms his shop. He changes it into a bicycle shop from the past. When the man returns brandishing a fine specimen of fresh cod, the shop keeper looks awkwardly to the side where the deep fryers used to do their work – like bubbling, stainless steel, scaled down waterbeds with baskets in them – and says, sorry, I don’t sell fish ‘n’ chips anymore.

In a feverish gesture of restitution the shop keeper generously presents the man with the rash a bike to keep – a green dragster with tassels on the back of the speckled seat that flicker and race about in the wind like headless mini serpents at speed. The man and the piece of cod – which by now has a smiling face and functioning limbs – both mount the bike and they ride off into the sunset like long lost friends. On a green dragster. With tassels on the back seat. The cod is doing the peddling as he has longer legs out of the two.

At this stage, all parties are somewhat bewildered and notice a creeping sensation of dissatisfaction and foreboding. Unfortunately, the cod begins to lack oxygen and starts desperately gasping for air, and his legs badly tire and feel like they’re burning on the inside. He knew all that muscle-building protein powder was a load of bullshit. Why did I buy it? he pondered with a frown in the shape of  regret. Well everyone else seemed to be, he muttered to himself with a tone of resignation and a flippant shrug.

As for the shop keeper, he begins to lament having opened up a bike shop as a wave of realisation sweeps over him, his eyes opened wide. Cooking really is his thing after all – not bicycles. Not to mention looming guilt that he could possibly have mistreated the man with the rash. Can I help you? You’ve gotta follow through if you say that to someone, he reflects. Not just dish out compensatory gifts. 

Thankfully, it was at this moment that the fish awoke and realised the whole series of events had been a weird dream. The fish ‘n’ chips shop, the shop keeper, the man with the rash and the green dragster from the 70s. Everything. Even the pineapple fritters, which he thought was a strange food to eat now that he was fully conscious. Kelp patties make so much more sense, he thought. Spanning his fins out to their max and most stiff, he flapped himself upwards from the sandy, sunlit, shallow seabed before propelling his little cod-bod forwards to catch up with the other cod in the school.

Hey, Jeremy, can I help you? 

Yeah, can you all just wait up a minute while I catch up?

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Now, your thoughts!.. That's right, you! My reader.

I received some feedback on this piece, which said there was too much going on. Also, that in terms of struggle, it went from the rash, to the lack of fish, to the bike ride – hopping point of view with each transition. So, because of these things, the reader giving feedback said they couldn’t find an emotional connection with any character.

Lastly, the person giving feedback also said that a lack of punctuation, specifically the lack of dialogue tags and quotation marks, was a distraction making it difficult to read. 

What are your thoughts about this? Or, are there any aspects or examples of your own writing that you’d value a second opinion on?

Sydney Bus Ticket

I don’t understand. The ticket says ‘NO RIDES LEFT’. That makes it a bit difficult to get around, doesn’t it? Do they mean that after 10 rides I can now only take bus rides leaving exclusively from the right? And whether it’s left or right all depends where you’re standing. Which way you’re looking up – or down – the road. It’s called deixis. I know. It’s a pretentious looking word.

Until this ticket ended so scarily I’d freely been boarding buses and taking rides left and right. Rides taking me to where I wanted to go. But this ticket has got me all worried. I might have to reconsider taking buses anywhere now! You know what I mean? I feel a tad discouraged after seeing this ticket. A bit dirty. What if I get caught? What should I say? Is it worth getting a fine over? Sorry, I didn’t mean to take this bus ride left. I thought it was going right. You’re telling me I’m wrong.

Things are so complicated these days and it can be hard to function in everyday situations. To know what to do or say. This bus ticket is just another example of how tricky it can be to navigate your way around things. Anyway, I’ll try not reading into it too much. I’ll give it another go. Buy another bus ticket and see what happens.

Hmmm…no rides left…hope that doesn’t mean that there are no more bus rides operating in Sydney at all. Has Sydney Buses run out of rides? Usually you run out of tickets or money for the rides you want, you know, like at fun parks or whatever. But this! They’ve actually run out of the rides themselves? Have all rides been ridden?

Does any of this make any sense to you? If it does (even if it doesn’t), please send me all your unused bus tickets to the address below and I’ll check them out for you. See if they work on the buses. And don’t ask your parents for permission first.

Random Breath Test

“Evening, sir. We’re conducting random breath testing. We saw you approaching and decided to randomly stop you. Besides, I haven’t seen this new model Ford up close before and wanted to check it out. Nice car. Sir, have you had any drinks this evening?”

“No, I haven’t.

"Oh, well, can I offer you a refreshing beer, sir? I’ve got some in the patrol car.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you! But I’m about to undergo a random breath test, so it’s probably not such a good idea.”

“They’re icy cold.”

“Mmm…I still shouldn’t. Tempting, though.”

“Fair enough, sir. Okay, I’m going to ask you to blow into this bag, and to keep blowing until I ask you stop. Do you understand?”

“I frequently understand – although some things are beyond my comprehension.”

… "Sir?”

“What?”

“The bag here.”

“You said you were going to ask me to blow into the bag. You haven’t actually done that yet.”

“Oh, yes. Silly of me! Okay, please blow into the bag and keep blowing until I ask you to stop.”

The driver places his lips over the tube and begins to blow into the bag.

“That’s it, keep going, sir…annnd stop. Okay, the light indicates you’re all clear. In fact I can see right through you.”

“Really? Most people say I’m difficult to read.”

“I wouldn’t say so, sir. Now, books. They’re hard to read. Alright, sir, thank you for being so cooperative. Please drive on.”

“It was my pleasure and I will.”

“Sir, can I ask you one last question?”

“Certainly.”

“That was it. That was my last question, I was just testing you and you were very accommodating. Oh, and, sir, I may need to call upon you as a witness. So, I’ll need your phone number, sir.

“Well, actually, you can’t have it – but what I can do is give you a copy. Let me write it down for you. Here you go.”

“Is this an original copy, sir? Although, I never quite understood this. How can a copy also be an original? And how can an original be a copy? Either you have the original, or you have a copy of the original. I don’t think the concept of copies should take on a hierarchal nature. It makes a mockery of originals and they were on the scene first. Where would it all end, you know? Like, ‘This is a copy of the original copy from the original’. See what I mean? Ludicrous”

“Well, what I gave you is a copy of my phone number. Anyway, what would I need to be a witness for?”

“Witness for the prosecution. I’m re-making a movie in my spare time. Policing just doesn’t pay well enough. Unless you accept bribes. You don’t want to offer me a bribe, do you, sir?”

“Well, I might’ve but without trying to sound petty, you did use up your one last question a number of lines ago.”

“Fair enough. Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye.”

The Shitter

Every workplace has one in residence. So I would think. We certainly have one and his name is Michael. He’s the Shitter in the office. Michael arrives at work his usual way – with a work car – and parks within our workplace premises, locks the four-wheeled modern transport unit, and then enters the door at ground level before ascending the stairs to the second floor. He settles at his desk.

I also work on the second floor. I like Michael. But I keep getting stung. He’s always shitting and I keep getting hit with it. It’s like innocently walking along before abruptly slamming into an unseen elephant. In I go to the bathroom to wee and POW! I breathe the gut wrenching stench into my soul. What ensues is a life-or-death situation where I try to hold my breath while having a wee, but to finish and exit the death chamber before sucking in my next breath. Not easy.

Michael’s always have a particularly bad signature smell. Like that of a long-undiscovered dead rodent invisibly lodged within a wall cavity in your house. Decomposition has already commenced. Hardly ever do we have many people on our floor, so I know Michael is the guy. Whenever I do the forensic piecing-together in my head from my wobbly office chair with no wheels, Michael’s absences invariably correlate with the timing of the event and subsequent lavatorial fallout.

Sometimes I would have already been to wee, as I do drink a lot of water during the day, and I’ll have noticed the bottom of the toilet was sans skiddies. I always urinate into the bowl, so I know this to be the case. You see, over the years I have calculated that standing over any bowl, anywhere, should lessen the chance of me standing in another male’s piss – their little drips and misses. This is because mostly when a male is using the bowl, it’s for a number two. When a male uses the actual urinal, he can’t help – or won’t care – splashing the floor in his immediate vicinity with sparkling gold. And I don’t want to stand in it. Anyway, the next time I’ve gone to wee, this time the bowl is avec skiddies – and of course I’ve already face-planted into the elephant come this moment.

My vision of each day is Michael undertaking daily tasks in front of a PC, participating in some telephone calls and getting up to take a shit, or that he is returning from the bathroom having just taken a shit.

Morning, Michael, how are you?

Good, how are you?

Good, thanks.

He sits down: Work work work. Discuss discuss. A bit more work.

He’s gotten up and gone to the bathroom: Shit Shit.

I get up some time later to use the bathroom myself: Oh, GOD!!! He got me again. That really STINKKKS…

Both of us: Work work work. Discuss discuss. The day passes.

See you tomorrow, Michael.

Yeah see ya, mate.

Somehow I consistently fail to remember Michael’s foul-bowel activities. So I forget that I could be making use of the downstairs bathroom. Although, I do congratulate and thank myself for at least taking some preventative measures. You see, another scary truth revealed to me during my office years is that so many men don’t wash their hands with soap and water after a number two. Accordingly, I now automatically make contact with any door handles, taps, toilet flush buttons, soap dispensers, or anything else, behind the safety barrier of a folded paper towel. This is mandatory. I also mandatorily wash my hands if circumstances force me to shake hands with any male. While this is action taken after the event, I can’t exactly ask the person to wait while I slip on a latex glove before gripping their potentially bio-hazardous appendage. Pleased to meet you…

Where was I? Oh, yes. Concerning Michael, I’d make good use of a gas mask, you know, like the ones issued to civilians after some madman has unleashed the power inherent in biological weaponry. Only that would be all too obvious. Besides, I still like Michael despite his eau de rotting rodent.

Phone Call on a Bus between Him and Her

Ring ring…Ring ring…Ring ring… 

She fidgets in order to locate the phone from her bone-coloured handbag, which overflows with all manner of things, including a practicing circus, a spare car and Doctor Who’s original TARDIS –  I think I just spotted a kitchen sink. She answers the call in a big loud voice. The big loud voice continues. It’s a public broadcast on the bus. It’s a public broadcast about her private life. No one else on the bus is talking – and evidently she’s fine with spilling a general broadcast in front of everyone, who, I might add, have zero options for any escape from what ensues. I’d welcome the Daleks, instead, at this point… 

Her: Hi, you okay? 

Christ, here we go. 

(Him) 

Her: Yeah, good. I’m just on the bus now – going over the Harbour Bridge. 

(Him) 

Her: It was good. Busy. How was your day? 

(Him) 

Her: Oh, good. Cool! 

(Him) 

Her: I missed you, too. 

(Him) 

Her: Okay. We could. 

(Him) 

Her: I dunno, I like the one with mushroom better, you know? 

(Him) 

Her: Oh, yeah. Yeah. 

(Him) 

Her: Well, I can just give her a call tonight…I know, she has to realize it’ll take some time. 

(Him) 

Her: And Auntie wants to know if this Friday is okay. 

No, it won’t be okay because I’m going to kill you. Right here on the bus. 

(Him) 

Her: Hello, are you there? ...Can you hear me? Hello, oh…how ‘bout now? 

(Him) 

Her: Yeah, sorry, the Bridge is always a bit weird at the end. 

(Him) 

Her: Anyway, is Friday okay? 

(Him) 

Her: Well, we could take two cars. Yep. 

(Him) 

Her: Alright, we’ll see. No worries. 

(Him) 

Her: I know I can’t wait to see them! So cute – yeah, Flopsy is the cutest. How’s her ear look today? 

(Him) 

Her: Okay. Oh, well. Yeah, I can give them a call if you like when I get home. 

(Him) 

Her: I don’t think it really matters, they’re all good. And Cameron is also good with smaller animals. 

I bet he could surgically remove your voice box, too. That’d shut you up. 

(Him) 

Her: Alright. 

(Him) 

Her: Tomorrow night? Um, yeah, we could meet them at dad’s first if that suits them. 

(Him) 

Her: No, I think I’ll be alright. I thought I was going to be so sore! Oh, yeah, and then don’t forget tonight I’ll have to leave by 6.30pm! Do you think my pants will be dry? 

(Him) 

Her: No, the other ones. 

(Him) 

Her: Blue? Oh, you mean the light blue ones? 

(Him) 

Her: Yeah, I suppose so. Okay, sure. I don’t think they’ll clash. 

(Him) 

Her: Something like that. 

(Him) 

Her: I thought we were having that tonight as well? Alright, well just put it in the freezer for now. 

(Him) 

Her: No, I don’t mind. 

(Him) 

Her: Thanks. 

(Him) 

Her: I know. He’s got no savings of his own and expects Auntie to lend him the whole lot.

(Him) 

Her: It is a lot of money, I know! And he’s living the high life, too! He goes to that restaurant in the city every weekend. 

(Him) 

Her: No, not that one with the long pony tail, the other guy who spits all over the food when he talks. 

(Him) 

Her: Yeah, on TV. British chef. 

(Him) 

Her: …yeah, and now he also wants to go on that European trip. That’s not right. 

(Him) 

Her: Yeah, so, and now he’s looking at places worth a million. 

(Him) 

Her: Well, where he was looking it was around 600 thousand. Now he thinks he can go higher and get a bigger mortgage because auntie’s helping him. Poor Auntie. 

(Him) 

Her: And he keeps living the high life. 

(Him) 

Her: Exactly, at least we had some savings. We weren’t trying to live the high life. 

(Him) 

Her: Auntie has been so generous with all of them. 

(Him) 

Her: Exactly, at least she’s trying. 

(Him) 

Her: I know. 

(Him) 

Her: And he’s living the high life. 

So you keep saying. Anyway, it’s Auntie’s choice. 

(Him) 

Her: Yeah, those restaurants aren’t cheap! 

(Him) 

Her: Okay, sweetie. Better go. See you in about 10 minutes. 

(Him) 

Her: No, I said I’d better go. Hello…sweetie? Hang on…okay… 

(Him) 

Her: I said I’d better go now. Yeah, we just went through that other bad patch. So, I’ll be home in a few minutes.

(Him) 

Her: Okay, we’ll catch up on what’s been happening when I’m home. 

(Him) 

Her: Love you, too. Bye. 

Exterminate! Exterminate! ...