The Razzelberry's

Friday night at the Razzelberry Family’s home;

“Dad, I’ve got your pizza, it’s getting cold, come out of the dunny!” Lenny yelled at the toilet door.

“Just close your eyes, don’t breathe, and bring it in to me, mate,” Dad suggested. “I’m going to be in here a while.”

Lenny balanced the box on his hand as he ran in and out of the toilet like a ninja. He’d shoved the pizza at the direction of his dad’s head, heard a satisfied “cheers,” and bolted back out before the smell could catch him.

Mum clapped her hands from the kitchen and announced, “It’s movie night, people!” - to which Peach immediately suggested Sharknado 3.

The Razzelberry’s had lived in the same red-brick house on Lemon Tree Lane for as long as anyone could remember – Mum; Sharlene, Dad; Dug, and their two children, Lenny and Peach.

Every day was a new episode of chaos, including Dad’s occasional pieces of toast colliding with the ceiling fan, Mum wondering rude things about strangers (“What has she done to her eyebrows!”), Lenny taking up the whole loungeroom to practice his dance trends from TikTok, and Peach loudly narrating her life as if she were on a cooking show.

Halfway through the Friday night movie, the power went out.

Most families would panic. The Razzelberry’s simply lit some candles, then pushed the couches closer to the wall so Dad had room to perform the movie ‘charades style’ - complete with sound effects – and somehow including an improvised musical number.

Just as Dad was doing a lovely performance in his trackpants and mismatched socks of the shark flying through the tornado, there was a knock at the door ...

Mum opened it to find two, serious-looking men in suits, clipboards in hand. They looked like accountant / men-in-black hybrids.

“Mr. Dug Razzelberry?” the taller one asked.

Dad froze mid-impression. “Depends … is this about the mystery sauce raffle?”

They gave him a deadpan look. “Sir, we’re from the Department of Public Conduct. Your household – in fact, your whole town - has been flagged for… excessive nonsense.” He flipped his clipboard around to show a grainy surveillance photo of Dug riding in a wheelie bin down Lemon Tree Lane.

“That was one time,” Dad muttered.

“Well, we’ve had you in our system since you were 7 years old, Mr. Razzelberry. You haven’t changed. Would you like me to read the list of your Category 3 Nuisance offences, or shall I just summarize?”

Mum groaned. “Just summarize.”

“No need for any of that,” Dad cut in quickly, waving his hands.

The shorter man produced a yellow slip of paper. “This is an official Warning for Unregulated Buffoonery under Section 4, Paragraph 12 - Behaviors causing unexplained confusion, or alarm in the general public.”

Dad fist-pumped the air. “Yes! I’ve made the leaderboard!”

“And what exactly ...” the agents looked confused, “is this leaderboard?”

From outside came the squeak of someone pushing a shopping trolley at high speed. The agents turned sharply toward the noise ... then vanished out into the night as quickly as they’d arrived.

The family stared at Dad ... then Mum ... then the fruit bowl. Nestled among the bananas was a blinking red light - a hidden camera.

The kids gasped. Mum clutched her pearls.

“Are we being… watched?” Lenny whispered.

“I wonder,” Dad mused, pulling a supermarket loyalty card from his pocket and tapping it twice. The fruit bowl beeped, spun around, and projected a hologram of cheering aliens holding shopping trolleys above their heads.

The carpet in Razzelberry’s loungeroom peeled back like a trapdoor. An escalator appeared from the glowing darkness. They stepped onto it without hesitation, a triumphant kazoo solo was being blown in their honor as they vanished below.

“Mum… does this mean we’re aliens?” Peach asked.

“No, sweetheart,” she said, taking a swig of her wine she’d brought along. “It means your father’s a clown.”

The kids blinked at her.

“Alright, listen,” Dad said. “I’m not just Dad ... I’m what’s called a Registered Nonsense Athlete. It’s a very old, very secret intergalactic league. Whenever someone does something truly ridiculous, the aliens take notice. They’ve been scouting me for years.”

Lenny’s eyes widened at Dad. “So… every time you reversed moonwalked in the supermarket aisles?”

“Points,” Mum nodded.

“When you tried to invent soup-on-a-stick -”

“Bonus points.”

“And that time you created a disco ball and chandelier for inside our car?”

“World record attempt,” Mum said grimly.

The kids’ mouths dropped open.

“Basically,” Mum continued, straightening her blouse as they travelled further down on the escalator, “your father is a nuisance and ... an interplanetary clown. Don’t worry, we’ll be back at Lemon Tree Lane soon enough after he’s been presented with an award.”

“I’ve gone viral across one thousand and seventeen planets,” Dad said proudly as they hummed along.

Lenny snorted. “Wait, so you’re TikTok famous in outer space?”

“Worse,” Mum said. “He’s Holostream famous. It’s the universal algorithm.”

They reached the bottom of the escalator, where a man in a glittering jumpsuit and bowler hat was waving, balancing what appeared to be an inflatable llama under one arm.

“That’s Bazzo,” Mum sighed. “He’s in your father’s fan club. Do not make eye contact.”

Inside the auditorium, aliens of all shapes and sizes filled the stands. One with seventeen eyeballs was staring furiously. Another, shaped like a fluorescent marshmallow, was blowing soap bubbles that squeaked.

When they called Dad’s name on the microphone, he cartwheeled to center stage. The auditorium exploded in cheers, honks, and alien warbles. Confetti cannons went off. A giant tentacle dropped from the ceiling and draped Dad with a sash that read: “Galaxy’s Stupidest Town Idiot.”

By the time Razzelberry’s finally clattered back to Lemon Tree Lane, Dad was still wearing his sash, drawing attention from the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Peeb, who were peeking at them through the window.

After dinner, they piled onto the lounge and watched a news update - The anchor spoke gravely: “Citizens of Earth are advised to prepare for an influx of alien tourists wishing to meet a… er… genuine town idiot.” An image of Dad was shown. “He is reputed to be an earthly cultural icon ...”

“Well, that’s just perfect. We’ll need more biscuits,” Mum muttered.