RATATOUILLE - THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES

 

The little figure on the raft gazed out across the vast expanse of ocean.  "Hello", he called out, but there was no reply.  He was completely alone.  Gazing skywards, he appealed to the heavens.  "If anyone is up there, send me a signal."   A seagull circled above him, pooped on his head, and flew away.  So that was that.

Just yesterday Marcel Ratatouille lay on the deck of the Titanic, sunbathing.  The fact that it was raining at the time didn't deter him.  From the shelter of the bridge the Captain had called "Anything out there?"  "Just a couple of ice cubes", replied the little Frenchman.  Then everything went black.

When he came round, Marcel was clinging desperately to the Captain's log which, luckily, unfolded into a raft.  He sighed.  "This is the worst thing that could ever happen to me."  "Oh, I don't know", said a voice behind him.  "Have you ever had your head explode?"  Marcel spun round.  Sitting behind him was a complete stranger.  "Who are you?", asked the Frenchman.  "If I told you that, I wouldn't be a stranger", said the man.  There was a silence followed by a longer silence and suddenly it was the next day.

"My card", said the stranger, handing it over.  "This says you're the two of diamonds", said Marcel.  "Yes", replied the man.  "But perhaps you know me better as the dreaded Captain Edith Piaf of the French Foreign Legion!", and he launched into two verses of 'No Regrets'.

Marcel turned white with shock, green with envy and red with rage but it was wasted on the Captain who was colour blind.  For the second time that day everything went black.  "The nights are sure getting longer", thought Marcel as he passed out.

So he had been caught at last.  True, he HAD run away from the Legion but he never really belonged there.  He had enlisted as a mere lad of eighteen with a broken heart, 20 francs and ripped underwear.

That morning the only woman he had ever loved - Marie Antoinette Curtains - had left him in the lurch at the little chapel where they were to be married and had run off with one of the altar boys.  Marcel, unable to afford a tuxedo, and wearing an elf costume he had borrowed from a local Christmas scene, was devastated.  In a desperate bid to save face he had proposed to the priest who advised him to return to the North Pole before he was missed.

At first life in the Foreign Legion hadn't been too bad.  He didn't mind trekking across the endless expanse of the Sahara, his faithful camel, Sandy, by his side.  He tolerated rising at dawn and doing 200 push-ups before a meager breakfast of escargot on toast.  "What's escargot, anyway?", he had asked one morning.  "Snails", he was told.  "Ha, ha", Marcel had laughed.  "What idiot would eat a snail?"  "I would!", boomed the voice of his commanding officer, Major Pepe Le Pew, who loved snails so much that he slept with three under his pillow for a midnight snack.

The Major, incensed, challenged Marcel to a duel at dawn.  Marcel, thinking he had been challenged to a duet, spent several hours that day singing scales and choosing the best song to showcase his vocal talents.  When he was informed that he was more than likely going to be shot in the morning, he decided to escape.

That night when everyone was asleep, Marcel crept out of bed, kissed his camel goodbye, and sneaked off across the desert.  It was a clear, still night and from where he was he could see the Himalayas, which was impossible but he didn't know that.

"Wake up!", ordered the Captain, shaking the little Frenchman by the shoulders.  "Where am I?", he asked, opening his eyes.  "We're back at Fort Night", said the Captain.  "It took us two weeks to get here."  As he was led in to face his court martial, Marcel thought of his father and remembered the words he would always say - "Why don't you get a haircut?  You look like a bloody sissy!"

Behind a long, wooden table sat  three military men who looked exactly like the three stooges.  Marcel recognized the one in the middle at once.  Major Le Pew, determined to raise a stink, sat ramrod straight, a pair of snails dangling from his earlobes - his love for escargot having gotten so great that he now wore them as accessories.  

"Marcel Jacques Cousteau Ratatouille", read one of the officers.  "You have been charged with desertion.  How do you plead?"  Marcel had a sudden brainwave.  "I plead insanity!", he cried, pulling up his trouser legs and doing a frenetic can can across the table - ending with such an enthusiastic kick that he booted the Major in the face, sending the snails flying across the table - the fastest either of them had ever travelled.  

They gave him a standing ovation and found him guilty anyway.  Marcel knew he was doomed.  He sat in the dock and wondered how anyone could get a ship into such a small space.

A number of witnesses were called, all of whom identified Marcel as the guilty party.  When, finally, his camel picked him out of a line-up, he knew he was a goner.  He was condemned to face a firing squad at dawn.  

At first light the little Frenchman was led into the yard and asked if he had any last request. "You know", said Marcel, "I've always wanted to have a bath in milk."  "Pasteurized?", he was asked.  "No, past my bum will be enough."  But it was too late.  He closed his eyes and waited for the order to be given.  "Ready", called the Major to the firing squad.  "Aim..."

"Quick!", said a voice at Marcel's ear.  "Climb on before Scottie changes his mind and leaves us all behind!"  Marcel gaped in astonishment at the strangely-dressed man dangling at the end of a rope ladder.  "But who are you?", he asked, climbing on.  "Never mind that", said Captain James T. Kirk.  "We're an hour behind schedule and there's a bunch of bloody Klingons after us!"