Once upon a time in the blustery land of ‘Epic-fail-istan’, a duo of unquestionable hilarity, Codename: Fish ‘n’ Chips (otherwise known as the Defense Ministry) teamed up with the country’s very own band of crime-fighting superheroes, the ‘Israel Defendy-Wendys’ or IDWs for short, to deliver an unexpected message to the citizens of their somewhat obscure northern township affectionately named ‘Eight Beer City’.
This snug town, sitting plush along the border of their friendly neighbourhood, ‘Lamb-anon’, found itself caught in the eye of a strange whirlwind. Now, Eight Beer City was no stranger to a Friday night rodeo with their party-loving counterparts from across the border, but this time around, the stakes seemed much shiftier than a game of charades gone wrong.
On the morn of the fated Friday, Fish ‘n’ Chips and their loyal IDWs, in their zany spandex costumes, knocked on every door, chimed every bell, let loose every town crier to announce their grand plan. “Run! Run, as if you just saw your uncle in a bikini!” they pleaded, making sure the commotion simmered down to a tremor in every household of Eight Beer City.
The townsfolk, taken aback by their heroes’ sudden outburst, dropped their lamb skewers and freshly brewed beer, gobsmacked. Recovering, they eagerly bent their ears to the uncanny call to arms – or in this case, a call to legs. The north was beautiful this time of the year – but not so scenic that they enjoyed the idea of external forces playing Chinese whispers over their white picket fences.
And so, packed with their trusty survival kits (workable peace treaties, a bouquet of ‘this too shall pass’ roses, and a crate full of broomsticks to apparently poke the behemoth in the eye), they set off from their moss-laden armchairs, dragging their woollen slippers across the pot-holed city streets.
As the last grandpa hobbled past the town gate, clutching his walking cane and worn-out handbook titled “How to handle a Friday in Eight Beer City,” the heaving breath of Fish ’n’ Chips and the IDWs grew less anxious. The bumbling heroes watched the exodus proudly, one hand on their hip, the other wiping a tear of relief. All eyes were glued to the horizon, the setting sun casting long, caped shadows, much like the unwritten promise of a safe return.
In the end, whether this made any sense to our heroes or our donkey-riding, beer-loving inhabitants of Eight Beer City is up for debate. But what’s certain is that in every kerfuffle and pickle that comes their way, they’ll hold their heads high, recite the national anthem in four part harmony and continue on, forever bound by the universal belief – ‘Nobody messes with Epic-fail-istan!’
