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Edited by Tartan 118: 2/4/2014 9:41:08 PM
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Doctor Moo - A Parody

Yeah, it's a question thread so that I can highlight the rest of the story. Deal with it. So I can't say any of my posts is the answer. Great. [b]Episode 1 - The Eleventh Hour, the Fifty-Ninth Minute and the Fifty- you get the idea. [/b] Lamelia closed her eyes and hoped. She hoped for a lot of things: being Scottish, a deep-fried Mars bar was top of her list, but also bag-pipes, haggis, and chronic heart disease. Yes, this was a Scottish lass through and through, with stereotypically ginger hair draped over her adorable little shoulders as she knelt beside her bed, hands clasped. “Dear Santa,” she begged. “I know you aren’t real, despite only being a little gurrul, but this just feels good anyway. I have a request…” Lamelia opened her eyes and glanced at the abomination. “...There’s crack on my wall.” She turned back to her prayer. “Auntie Morag says it’s nothing to be worried about, but then she took a look at it and… well… it was really weird, I’d rather not say. ...So if you could send someone tae help, that’d be really, really, really…” She paused: yes, she had been speaking over something. It sounded like a key scraping up and down piano wires. Weird, she knew, I know, whatever, but it was the only way she could describe it to herself. Or I could. No. Never mind. Let’s have a look out the window, shall we? Lamelia toddled over and peered out. A large, dark blue box appeared to have taken up rather permanent residence in the place of her garden shed. Lamelia titled her head curiously: apparently, this was a ‘Police Box’. What was a Police? She’d never heard of such a word in her Scottish upbringing. Okay, maybe that’s an incorrect stereotype. Or maybe she was from Glasgow. This isn’t Glasgow. “brb” she told god or whoever the crazy little thing was talking to. “lol” she added, so that the fairy-tale entity knew she had been enjoying their discourse. Scampering into the garden in a red cardie and brandishing a torch with copious lens flare, Lamelia peered curiously at the box, barely big enough to hold one adult and maybe a public payphone too. It appeared to be lying on its side, a flat bottom, void of handles, facing her. Suddenly, the lid flew open. Lamelia stumbled backwards, staring at what was now clearly a pair of doors. Steam billowed out, and a grappling hook flew through the vapour, clanging on to an old garden ornament. Lamelia watched, transfixed, as the rope tensed: something was coming. A hand appeared on one side. Then another. Then a head popped up. With a chin. Blimey. The man looked pained. “Where’s the toilet?” Lamelia frowned. “What?” “The toilet, I really need to go.” The man hauled himself up onto the edge of the box, revealing a tattered blue shirt and loosened necktie, keeping his legs crossed tightly as he perched on the edge. “Ooh, blimey.” He looked into the box, apparently quite some way. “That was a climb, especially on a full bladder.” Lamelia shone the torch at the man. He held his hands up to avoid the light. “Are you alright?” “Do I look alright?” the man asked. “I’m bursting for the loo, look at me: a… sweaty mess, holding in my business. Nhh!” He twitched and jerked, collapsing off the box and onto the ground. Lamelia watched him. “Are you a policeman?” The man leapt to his feet. “What? No. Why?” Lamelia shone the torch at the box. “It says ‘police’ on it.” The man looked around. “Where are we, Scotland?” “No.” “[i]Exactly[/i].” Lamelia frowned. “How did you know that?” The man winked. “Just a hunch.” Lamelia frowned again. “Are you here about the crack on my wall?” This time, it was the man’s turn to frown. So he did. “Crack? What crack?” “It’s weird, it makes… weird things happen.” “Alright, then. Time to have a look,” the man concluded. “But first thing’s first: I’m the Doctor. Now, where’s your bog?”

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  • Despite spending more than five minutes in continuous hosepipe mode in the toilet, the Doctor still looked uncomfortable, glancing around the kitchen anxiously, twitching and ticcing. Ticing? Even that’s not a word. He had a lot of tics, basically. Lamelia hoped a little food would calm him down. She handed him an apple. “You read my mind,” the Doctor smiled, and sank his teeth into the fruit. Then, he spat out a chunk of the flesh. “Nope.” “What?” “Do not want,” the Doctor insisted. “Fruit. Blech. Gimme ...gimme, gimme biscuits.” Lamelia opened the cupboard. “What kind?” “I dunno. What have you got?” “Custard creams, pink wafers…” “Pink wafers, always a winner.” Lamelia handed him a wafer from the tin. He took a bite. “Funny,” he crunched. “You remember things from your childhood, stuff you really liked. Then you try them as a grown-up and they’re rubbish.” He stuck out his tongue, wincing, and wiped off as many pink crumbs as he could. “Next!” Lamelia returned to the cupboard, uncertain of what else the sweet-toothed Doctor may reject. Then, she spotted it. “Ah, yes!” the Doctor beamed. “Clever girl! Chocolate!” Lamelia grinned, handing the raggedy man the bar. He ripped the packet open and took a monstrous bite. “A Bounty? Really?” He frowned at her, irate, and his skin pulsed with a faint patchwork of patterns. “Blimey, I really didn’t like that. Come on, get your act together! You’re Scottish, fry something.” Lamelia pouted. “That’s racist!” “Nope, just xenophobic,” the Doctor returned. “Sorry: new mouth, new rules.” Rolling her eyes, Lamelia set to work on some bacon. “There we go!” the Doctor cheered, drying the back of his head with a towel he had grabbed off a rail. “Wait, this isn’t water, it’s sweat. Yeugh.” He tossed the towel away and awaited his din-dins. “Bacon is the bacon of food. The chocolate of the savoury world, with no nasty coconut surprises!” He devoured the meat hungrily. Then spat it into his hands. “I know fat is the lifeblood of Scotland, but do I sound Scottish?” This time, Lamelia huffed, and cranked or whirred or otherwise verbed open a can of beans. “The musical fruit!” Soon, the pair of them were gagging on noxious fumes. “Beans are evil!” the Doctor coughed. “Bad, bad beans!” “Let’s try something uncooked,” Lamelia suggested, whipping some bread and butter out of the fridge and larder respectively. No, wait. Wrong way round. “Ah,” the Doctor nodded. “The bread and butter of… literal things.” Said bread and butter was soon flung out of the door by a very repulsed Doctor. “And stay out!” he cried. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dealt with the Sandwichons before!” The Doctor returned to the kitchen, clearly quite miffed. “Is there nothing in this kitchen I can eat? Not really a very good kitchen, is it?” “Well, I’ve got…” Lamelia scanned the remains of her fridge, which was evidently not very well stocked to begin with. “...Fish fingers… and custard.” A short while later, the Doctor sat at the table, contentedly mopping up thick, yellow custard with a battered finger of cod. “Perfection.” “I’ve never known anyone who likes fish fingers and custard,” Amelia observed. “[i]Together[/i].” “Then you’ve never known me,” the Doctor concluded, a custardstache accompanying his delighted smile. “So… what’s your name?” “Lamelia Pong. I hate it.” The Doctor snorted. “So you should, sounds like something out of a parody. No!” He slapped himself around the face. Lamelia started. “Bad Doctor!” the madman scolded. “Sorry. Wibbly-wobbly mouthy-wouthy.” “Don’t worry,” Lamelia sighed. “I’m used to it.” “You shouldn’t be,” the Doctor countered, pointing at her with a custarded fish finger. “You should ignore them all. Stand up and own your name. Make it mean something great and amazing, not a way for them to beat you down.” “Maybe,” Lamelia pondered. “No,” the Doctor asserted. “Definitely. Trust me, I’m an adult. I think. Maybe not. We’ll see. First, let’s have a look at that crack.” He licked his lips suspiciously.

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