Myself: And now, here they are! The most daredevil group of daffy drivers to ever whirl their wheels in the Wacky Races! Competing for the title of the world's wackiest racer! The cars are approaching the starting line. First is the Turbo Terrific driven by Peter Perfect. Next, Rufus Roughcut and Sawtooth in the Buzz Wagon. Maneuvering for position is the Army Surplus Special. Right behind is the Anthill Mob in their Bulletproof Bomb. And there's ingenious inventor, Pat Pending, in his Convert-a-Car. Oh, and here's the lovely Penelope Pitstop, the Glamour Gal of the Gas Pedal. Next, we have the Bouldermobile with the Slag Brothers, Rock and Gravel. Lurching along is the Creepy Coupe with the Gruesome Twosome. And right on their tail is the Red Maxx. And there's the Arkansas Chug-a-Bug with Luke and Blubber Bear. Sneaking along last is that Mean Machine with those double-dealing do-badders, Dick Dastardly and his sidekick, Muttley. And even now, they're up to some dirty trick. And they're off... to a standing start. And why not? They've been chained to a post by shifty Dick Dastardly, who shifts into the wrong gear. And away they go on the Way-Out Wacky Races!
Prodnose: An ironic statement on the madness, magic, melee and maelstrom that was the last afternoon of the Premiership season yesterday?
Prodnose: Achingly arch postmodern allusion to what Guy Debord called the Society of the Spectacle?
Myself: Afraid not.
Prodnose (increasingly desperate): A chilling indictment of bourgeois hypocrisy and a plea for rigorous intellectual self-examination!
Myself: Wrong again. "Those medals you wear on your moth-eaten chest, should be there for bungling at which you are best."
Entire Company: So stop the pigeon. Stop the pigeon. Stop the pigeon. Stop the pigeon. Stop the pigeon. Stop the pigeon. Stop the pigeon. Howww?
Nab him. Jab him. Tab him. Grab him. Stop that pigeon now!
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