Vignette - List. PG-13.
Another meme thing. Set in Season VIII. Thanks to kahvi for discussions that relate to the subject.
Rimmer finished a final line in a painstakingly neat hand. He settled back and looked at the list. Not bad. Not bad at all! The guards, for some reason, confiscated all of his writing material - including his junk mail - and so the only writing surface he could find to use for this purpose was the fabric care instruction tag from his pants, but he had compensated by writing as neatly as possible, and - oh, yes. He would underline each line. That would just set things off perfectly, give it a little of a the punch-o-roony!
Once that was done, he smiled the grin of a vulture and walked the two steps to the bunkbed with as arrogant a swagger as one can cram into two steps. "Here you are, miladdio."
Lister was lying on his bunk, doing crosswords and chewing on the edge of his blanket. The guards didn't take Lister's scrap paper, Rimmer noted, irritated. Lister looked at the small scrap of cloth that Rimmer was waving. "What's that?"
Was Lister truly that stupid? "It's a list, you git."
Lister rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I can see that. What's it a list of?"
"Haircuts," Rimmer proclaimed.
"Haircuts," Lister repeated.
"Yes, you smegging goit, haircuts." Rimmer shoved the list at Lister, and the bum took it dubiously. "Like we were discussing."
"Oh, yeah!" Lister said, grinning. "This must be about last Wednesday, at dinner, yeah? When you were mouthin' off about professional haircuts and gettin' your arse kicked."
Rimmer's mouth twisted. "They proved their lack of culture and civilized manners perfectly. My point to a tee!" He sniffed. His nostrils still ached a bit when he did, but proper nostril-flaring was critical to a good delivery of a devastating bit of argument.
Lister squinted at the list, reading slowly. "George... Bush. Captain... Archer. Stephen... Col.. bert?"
"Colbeeeaarh," Rimmer sighed. "You don't know any of these people, do you?"
"They're all fictional, yeah?" Lister asked, looking up.
"George Bush the Second was not fictional! He was the King of America, leading it into a new age against the forces of hippie liberalism!"
Lister sighed. "What is yer point, Rimmer?"
Good god, the man was dense. "My point is that the great leaders of our past - the stars in the firmament of military combat - have all had left-hand parts! It draws attention to the left side of the brain - the rational side, the masculine side. It is a naturally leaderly haircut!"
Lister giggled in his obnoxious snorty way and flopped back on his bunk. "A haircut don't make ye a leader."
Rimmer sighed as he sat on his own bunk. "Well, of course not! A haircut alone won't make you a leader. You need more - a properly pressed uniform, boots polished to a mirror shine, cigar-smoking technique, and the proper red wine to sip while watching the little people carrying out your military orders. A good, manly, short, left-part haircut is necessary - but far from sufficient!" Rimmer sighed and lay back on his own bunk. Well, it was a false hope that Lister might actually understand. A man with girlie hippie locks like that? He was no leader. He was practically a woman, with hair like that. Which explained perfectly why Rimmer sometimes had the urge to kiss him with a little Tommy Tongue, bend him over the table in the middle of the room and give him a little of the old Rimmer rinky-dink. If Lister had bothered to cut his hair in a proper military manner, such things would not happen.
Rimmer sighed and adjusted the pillow under his head. Such irresponsibility.
Rimmer finished a final line in a painstakingly neat hand. He settled back and looked at the list. Not bad. Not bad at all! The guards, for some reason, confiscated all of his writing material - including his junk mail - and so the only writing surface he could find to use for this purpose was the fabric care instruction tag from his pants, but he had compensated by writing as neatly as possible, and - oh, yes. He would underline each line. That would just set things off perfectly, give it a little of a the punch-o-roony!
Once that was done, he smiled the grin of a vulture and walked the two steps to the bunkbed with as arrogant a swagger as one can cram into two steps. "Here you are, miladdio."
Lister was lying on his bunk, doing crosswords and chewing on the edge of his blanket. The guards didn't take Lister's scrap paper, Rimmer noted, irritated. Lister looked at the small scrap of cloth that Rimmer was waving. "What's that?"
Was Lister truly that stupid? "It's a list, you git."
Lister rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I can see that. What's it a list of?"
"Haircuts," Rimmer proclaimed.
"Haircuts," Lister repeated.
"Yes, you smegging goit, haircuts." Rimmer shoved the list at Lister, and the bum took it dubiously. "Like we were discussing."
"Oh, yeah!" Lister said, grinning. "This must be about last Wednesday, at dinner, yeah? When you were mouthin' off about professional haircuts and gettin' your arse kicked."
Rimmer's mouth twisted. "They proved their lack of culture and civilized manners perfectly. My point to a tee!" He sniffed. His nostrils still ached a bit when he did, but proper nostril-flaring was critical to a good delivery of a devastating bit of argument.
Lister squinted at the list, reading slowly. "George... Bush. Captain... Archer. Stephen... Col.. bert?"
"Colbeeeaarh," Rimmer sighed. "You don't know any of these people, do you?"
"They're all fictional, yeah?" Lister asked, looking up.
"George Bush the Second was not fictional! He was the King of America, leading it into a new age against the forces of hippie liberalism!"
Lister sighed. "What is yer point, Rimmer?"
Good god, the man was dense. "My point is that the great leaders of our past - the stars in the firmament of military combat - have all had left-hand parts! It draws attention to the left side of the brain - the rational side, the masculine side. It is a naturally leaderly haircut!"
Lister giggled in his obnoxious snorty way and flopped back on his bunk. "A haircut don't make ye a leader."
Rimmer sighed as he sat on his own bunk. "Well, of course not! A haircut alone won't make you a leader. You need more - a properly pressed uniform, boots polished to a mirror shine, cigar-smoking technique, and the proper red wine to sip while watching the little people carrying out your military orders. A good, manly, short, left-part haircut is necessary - but far from sufficient!" Rimmer sighed and lay back on his own bunk. Well, it was a false hope that Lister might actually understand. A man with girlie hippie locks like that? He was no leader. He was practically a woman, with hair like that. Which explained perfectly why Rimmer sometimes had the urge to kiss him with a little Tommy Tongue, bend him over the table in the middle of the room and give him a little of the old Rimmer rinky-dink. If Lister had bothered to cut his hair in a proper military manner, such things would not happen.
Rimmer sighed and adjusted the pillow under his head. Such irresponsibility.