Sudden-Onset Boganism

We had saved for millennia for this meal. It took five centuries just to save enough for the reservation fee! Now, finally, we had a table for two at the Restaurant of the Universal Mindscape, a product of the combined spare processing power of every human mind in the galaxy, all jacked into one stunning simulation.

Our table, labelled The Winners, had an uninterrupted view of the Aurora of the Feeble Minds beneath our feet. It was spectacular. The glow of the aurora lit us from below, and we could feel the warmth of the dying neurons.

Behind us, the Apellate Nebula promised vindication for the wronged and victimised; however, the more you focus on it, the less you could see. This nebula is the last recourse for the frustrated and angry. Just avert your eyes, then kick off into the heart of the luminescent cloud for summary judgement. If your cause is just, you'll be rewarded with the mindscape's most stunning revelation, right before your mind implodes into a raw, uncut diamond, back in three dimensional space. If your cause is selfish or wrong, your mind is lost forever, adding its insignifcant light to the nebula.

The star of the show, the reason we're here and the reason we've paid for the best table in the house, is the Blackhole of Angst and Hate. This marvel absorbs all negative thoughts and feelings; all you have to do is acknowledge and release them. As those emotions are destroyed, they sparkle and fuse into a light show, creating rings of unrivalled colour and beauty around the centre of the blackhole. We stared, speechless.

Eventually we became aware of another diner. She was sitting alone at a table labelled The Crone, dressed elegantly, her platinum white hair butchered into a short, ragged cut, reminiscent of retro Britney Spears on a bad mental health day. She faced the Appellate Nebula. Was she poor? Troubled? Was she planning to seek final judgement? Whatever the case, she'd find no judgement in us.

"May I call you Madam?" her waiter asked, bobbing in space next to her table. She nodded. 

"Has Madam always been a madam? How do you self identify?" the waiter queried. "Chef needs to know for your personalised meal. With Madam's haircut, the answer is ambiguous."

The diner glared at the waiter construct, her face reddening. The waiter waited patiently, his smile never faltering. "I have always been a woman," she said, her voice roughly emulating an elegant, cultured accent. Her gaze matched the cold vacuum of space. 

"Excellent. And what would Madam like to order?"

"To start, I'd like some Empty Threats. For the main, Perjury, and for dessert I've heard great things about Frothing at the Mouth."

"Wise choices, Madam. And to drink?"

"What I'd like is the Blood of my Tenants, but I don't see that on the menu, so I'll have a jug of Bitter Tears."

"Of course, Madam." The waiter construct faded and sank from view.

Time passed; we're not sure how much. The music of the spheres flooded our senses as we followed the stunning rings of the Blackhole of Angst and Hate, which extended up over our heads and swirled down to our right and left, striking a glancing blow at the Aurora of the Feeble Minds before completing their circuit back at the centre of the blackhole.

Suddenly, our menus appeared. They shimmered and slowly rippled, drawing our attention. The selection was vast! I must admit, I’d been planning to order Frothing at the Mouth until I saw the disclaimer:

MAY CAUSE BOGANISM IN BIOLOGICAL MALES

I decided to try another dessert - I'm not a risk-taker. We discussed the menu and marvelled at the range and, the moment our decisions were made, the waiter construct phased into view.

"What would Messrs like to order?" he asked. "Our special today is the Nest of Narcissists. We've had a glut of them, of late."

"Oh hell no,“ I said. “We’ve had more than enough of narcissists lately. Could we please have Snatching Defeat from the Jaws of Victory, Grinding Teeth, and Hurled Abuse? We'd like to share our dishes, and they can all come out at once."

The waiter construct nodded graciously. "Of course, Sir. And to drink?"

"A jug of Bitter Tears sounds good."

"My apologies, Sir, but the lady at The Crone has ordered the last one."

"In that case," I paused briefly, checking the menu, "We'll try the Sweet Taste of Victory."

The waiter construct smiled and faded from view, once again exposing the stunning Aurora of the Feeble Minds. We sat in silence, the only sounds the sparks of misfiring neurons.

Before long, The Crone's meal arrived and we gasped with envy. It was remarkable, a crescendo of lights and colours and sounds, all dancing in synchronised chaos above her plate. She attacked her feast with gusto as we turned back to the blackhole.

Suddenly a noise captured our attention; a noise that didn't belong in the Universal Mindscape. The Crone started speaking to herself. Her voice became higher, more shrill, and quite nasal. She lost her cultured accent, and her lip curled into a sneer. We tried not to stare, but it was hard to resist. We'd never seen someone devolve into a bogan. To complete the transformation, her arms twisted into an unnatural fold, giving her the appearance of a cranky tyrannosaurus rex.

The waiter construct phased into view next to The Crone, bobbing and nodding in a calming manner. "It appears that Madam wasn't completely honest with me," he said. What followed next was a string of obscenities from the mouth of The Crone that would make a 21st century writer blush.

The waiter attempted to soothe the raging bogan with aplomb; however, she craved release. She kicked off into the Appellate Nebula, seeking final judgement. We turned and followed her progress, hoping she'd be vindicated and die as a diamond. Unfortunately she sailed deeper into the nebula, becoming just another tiny pinprick of light.

"My apologies, Messrs." The waiter appeared next to us, his transition into substance quite abrupt, this time. "Here is your meal. For your inconvenience, we've included free servings of Shut the Fuck Up and Just Do Your Job."

The food was delicious.