I know I play make-believe a lot, but this is presented without word of a lie. However it’s been well over 10 years, so details may be fuzzy. Names and haircolours have been changed slightly, but anyone who was in my graduating year may know who I was talking about.

Without further ado,

An Ambient Cacophony presents The Chevy Chase Story.

The year was… well, early 2000’s at a rough esimate (I’ll let you do the Wayne’s World-esque hand-motions). Y2K had come and gone, I was still being a smug prick about going to New York, and I was nearing the end of six torturous years at a school which proclaimed itself “A Centre of Excellence in Performing Arts”. A laughable tagline, considering that the acoustic guitars had strings missing and more than one hole in them.

Like any teenager nearing the conclusion of his or her high-school tenure, my friend -whom we shall call John, had a gig at a local pizza place as a delivery driver. One night he asked me to come along to alleviate the boredom of driving around, feeding the hungry. It was kinda fun, listening to the latest in shitty gangsta-rap (John’s choice, not mine) as we drove around, bullshitting and delivering pizzas to people with more money than us. Automatic-gates-and-big-driveways sorta money.

Towards the end of John’s shift, he comes out and taps on the window.

“Hey, we’re driving some famous guy home.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Chevy Chase.”

“Chevy Chase? The National Lampoon guy?”

“I don’t fucking know. Get in the back.”

For some reason, Chevy Chase in an Australian country town made perfect sense in my mind and I thought nothing else of it. Perhaps because we already had our own celebrities littered around the place so it wasn’t a far stretch, or perhaps because my hometown was so shit-boring that I’ll believe anything if it’ll keep my interest. Final shift came around, and this Italian-looking bloke joins John and I in the car.

“Thanks for the lift guys. I’m just at [blah blah address]. I’ll direct you.”

I immediately played it cool and didn’t tell him what I thought of Fletch, or The Chevy Chase Show, instead just sat there a little dumbfounded that plastic surgery in America was that advanced that you could make an American white guy look like an Italian-looking, Australian-sounding guy.

Again, this made perfect sense to me.

So we drove Chevy home, when we realize we were being followed. Our stalker was another highschool friend, Steve and a mate of his. Steve’s car drives up past us and moons us, then drives ahead of us. John turns off into what looks to be yet another big house with an even bigger driveway, where Steve and Chevy have an altercation with Chevy threatened to swipe Steve’s buttcrack with his visa, or words to that effect. We all laughed the whole thing off, Chevy thanked us profusely and headed inside. Steve, John, Steve’s Friend-whose-name-escapes-me and I all sit around and have a catchup.

It was around this point that it would be a good idea to stuff Steve and I into the boot of the car for the drive back to the pizza place. So that happened. The trip was a blur aside from the occasional pot-hole and avoiding being kicked in the head by Steve (we laid head-to-toe to avoid catching the gays or whatever we were worried about catching, which somehow made it even more awkward with our respective junk being closer to our faces). The drive seemed like forever and a day before finally, the car stopped.

We got back to the pizzeria and John clocked off. He and Friend-of-Steve forgot we were in the boot, so they let us out and John dropped me home soon after.

“Oh yeah, that wasn’t Chevy Chase, by the way.”

“Oh? The fact he was less Lampoon and more Godfather didn’t give it away?”

“Yeah. Turns out it was some guy named Geoff Jansz”.

For those not in the know, Geoff Jansz is a celebrity TV chef and -incase it wasn’t glaringly obvious already, looks nothing like Chevy Chase.

We laugh, call eachother dickheads as friends do, and -whilst nursing a particularly bad bump on my head from an equally nasty pot-hole, I wondered how he got ‘Chevy Chase’ out of Geoff Jansz.

I guess I’ll never know.


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