It emerges from its cave. Primed for a successful hunt, the patient bogan is aware that it can sometimes take hours to find its desired prey. It searches down in the valleys and up on the hilltops, eyes alert, scanning the landscape, limbs supple, ready to spring. Despite countless potential distractions, the bogan remains focussed. By now the sun is high in the sky, and the bogan is becoming thirsty. Up ahead, it sees something, half-obscured by a bush, shimmering in the heat haze. Could it be what the bogan has searched so hard for? The bogan reaches for its weapon, and with adrenaline coursing through its veins, it sees that its 4 cents off fuel docket is still in date. The bogan pounces.
Petrol is more important to the bogan than anything else. A one cent rise in the price of petrol will cost the bogan numerous cents per week. Cents that could be used purchasing a vehicle with a more maxtreme fuel-swigging engine, or on upgrading to an even more grotesque McMansion 10km further from its workplace. While the bogan is perfectly happy to spend alarming amounts of money on anything Harvey Norman is offering interest free, domestically produced foreign label beer, or whatever Christian Audigier is foisting on it this season, subtle movements in the price of fuel induce a level of horror equivalent to that produced by multiple current affairs program segments running on multiple channels simultaneously.
The field of Boganomics is a landmine-strewn paddock with no defined boundaries, no farmer, and a mob of rabid beasts head butting each other intermittently. While the bogan has a vague awareness that petrol prices are the Arabs’ fault, it also knows that it’s the government’s fault. The greedy oil companies also get a healthy slice of the bogan’s blame. It’s certainly not the fault of the bogan’s penchant for energy consumption, or the economics of the earth’s geology. All that the bogan needs to know is that it’s getting ripped off, and wants justice. The kind of justice that delivers unto the bogan an endless stream of awesome, whilst simultaneously ensuring there are no consequences for its cretinous actions.
After idling in a queue for ten minutes, the bogan’s patriotic Chevrolet contains an extra 30 litres of fuel. As the proud bogan strides towards the counter, it knows that its financial prudence, along with its lengthy suburban hunt, has saved it over a dollar. But pride leads to complacency. The bogan’s previously steely focus is scuttled by the drinks fridge to the left, and the magazine rack to the right. It is reminded of its thirst. 90 seconds later, it waddles out clutching to its chest the massive cans on the front of a $6 lad’s magazine, and two massive cans of Mother.