Mullumbimby Madness #1



  Mullumbimby Madness #1

  Never Trust a Book with a

  Colour Cover

  Words and Pictures

  By

  Neil Dobbs

  Copyright 2011Collingwood Gallery Publishing

  Published by

  Collingwood Gallery Publishing

  Free teachers’ notes are available at https://www.collingwoodgallery.com.au/MMTeacherGuide.pdf

  Rave Reviews

  “If this book was just a bit more boring, we would put it on the school reading list.”

  Education Department

  Winner

  Mullumbimby Readers Award for Morally Uplifting Storytelling (Formerly know as The Prissy Lit. Award)

  Winner

  Critics’ Prize for Deft Plagiarism

  “I have borrowed freely from this book” –

  Winner of last year’s Critics’ Prize for Deft Plagiarism

  1

  It was just another boring week at school.

  Monday was National Endangered Species Day. We were sent off to the local river to count the numbers of a rare endangered frog only found near Mullumbimby. To make sure we didn’t count the same frog twice, we clubbed them to death with a baseball bat. When we returned with a plastic bag full of dead frogs, Mr Farrer our science teacher, praised us for our “rigorous scientific method”.

  Tuesday was National Kidney Disease Day. In art class we competed to see who had brought the most colourful urine specimen. Duncan won, but some spoil sport bad losers reckoned he had cheated because there were tadpoles in his specimen jar. Duncan explained that because his great-grandfather was French, there was bound to be a little frog in him.

  Wednesday was National Heightened Awareness of Short People Day. The theme this year was that short people aren’t as boring as they look. (Well they couldn’t be, could they, we thought.) Famous short person Arthur Taylor, gave us an inspiring talk about his career as a stand-in for sick and holidaying ventriloquists’ dolls. Duncan said he had seen one of Arthur’s performances but he though it was a bit wooden.

  Thursday was National Syndrome Awareness Day. We had a lesson on how to have a syndrome named after you. Duncan’s trick of dribbling from his ears impressed the teacher no end.

  “Duncan’s Syndrome has a nice ring to it,” said the teacher.

  “Pardon Miss. I can’t hear,” replied Duncan.

  Friday was National Celebrity Appreciation Day. A clergyman came to assembly to lead us in prayer for the well-being of all celebrities.

  “And remember,” he said. “When celebrities choke to death on their vomit, it’s like losing a member of your own family.”

  Duncan raised his hand.

  “Please sir, do they ever choke on someone else’s vomit?”

  2

  So by Friday night I was all tuckered out from this week at school acquiring vital knowledge and core skills.

  Mother, father and I were engaged in typically witty and sophisticated conversation over din dins.

  “No, no, no,” replied father. “I beg to differ. I would argue in the highest court in the land that baked beans and stale eggs make for the stinkiest fart.”

  Outside, thunder crashed and lightning lightninged – or is it the other way around? Rain beat against the dirt on the windows.

  There was a spooky knock at the door.

  “Did you hear that?” whispered father. “That sounded like a spooky knock at the door.”

  “Yes,” said mother. “Those spooky knocks at the door are always so spooky compared with non-spooky knocks at the door.”

  Being sticklers for family tradition, father and I hid behind the sofa while mother went to answer the door.

  “Hurry up,” father called out to mother. “If something hideously awful is going to happen to you when you open the door, I want to get it over and done with.”

  Father and I clung to each other, each thinking that the other would steady his shaking, but our combined momentum caused major structural damage to the house.

  We listened as mother opened the door. (We were too scared to look.)

  We heard the door close behind her as mumsikins went out to confront some fearful spooky-dook in the Godless havoc of the stormy storm.

  Lightning blinded us, even with our eyes shut tight and underpants over our heads – this is a great way to confuse home invaders, if you can stand the smell.

  After a moment, somebody started knocking at the front door.

  “Don’t answer it,” whispered father. “It could be anyone.”

  “Or anything,” I replied hauntingly.

  The knocking continued and became louder and louder.

  Someone started shouting: “Let me in. Let me back in.”

  “Sounds a bit like mother,” I said.

  “Cunning devil,” said father. “To think we’d fall for a trick like that.”

  The shouting grew weaker as the rain became torrential.

  Father and I were eventually cosied to sleep by the comfort of a warm, dry house during a wild, full-cycle rain storm.

  We awoke, just as Mr Sun’s friendly rays reached out to embrace the ‘umble ‘amlet of Mullumbimby for yet another day.

  People are always bitching about the sun just because some other trumped up stars are 300 time its diameter, but I reckon any lump of stuff that radiates across the entire electromagnetic spectrum deserves credit where credit is due.

  A whimpering sound came from the front door. We went to investigate.

  We opened the door to be confronted by the sight of a golden cage within which was huddled a naked boy.

  A green-gold shaft of light lit the cage. An angelic choir swooned from the sky above. A white dove swooped down and gently placed a silver envelope in my hand.

  I opened the envelope and read aloud a note written in elegant copperplate on parchment: “The lad you see before you was lost in the bush when but a baby. He has been raised by us dingoes. Unfortunately, he has of late, been eating more than his fair share of babies, so rather than spend the rest of his life hanging around tents, we have placed him in a proper home with you, the Atkinson family, whom we know will provide him with a caring, Christian environment. Yours etc, King Dingo.”

  3

  The Atkinsons are a goody-two-shoes family who live next door.

  “We’d better take him next door,” said father.

  “Can I keep him, huh? Can I? Huh? Can I? Can I? Can I?” I requested graciously.

  “Well, I dunno Neil.”

  “But Papa, you were going to give me a puppy for my birthday. Can I have Dingo Boy instead?”

  “Well, I guess we got him for free…”

  “I’ll keep him on a leash in the backyard. I’ll train him.”

  “O.K. Neil. He’s all yours. As long as he keeps out of trouble. And you’ll have to have him de-sexed.”

  Just then, what looked like a pile of wet rags on the front lawn started moving. It stood up. It was mother. Her clothes were wet and raggedy. Her hair was plastered all over her face. She looked like she’d crawled out of a washing machine.

  “Geez girlie,” exclaimed father. “Just look at you. Don’t you care what the neighbours’ll think?”

  4

  I named my new pet ‘Eddie Patterson’ which is Aboriginal for ‘Dingo Boy In Golden Cage Who Is An Orphan Of The Storm’. So I guess it was a fairly apt name.

  I started training him that very Saturday morning, which demonstrates the high activity level of boys in books. (Real boys watch television on Saturday mornings.)

  Eddie was a slow learner. I began by teaching him the basic functional vocabulary of the typical Australian lad:

  ”First word. Say after me – ‘woodyaturntheradiototr
iplej?’”

  “Woofya…”

  “Second word – ‘alltheyotherkidsgetmorepocketmoneythanme.’”

  “Allthewoof…”

  “Try – ‘everyoneelseisallowedto.’”

  “Everywoof…”

  5