Saturday, 17 July 2010

She Delivers Right On Time, I Can't Resist A Corny Line

Today I received some news. It has become crystal clear – the life altering inconvenience Kimba presents to me has now reached its optimum potential. For she is not only going to be the father of my child, but the father of my children. She returned home from her scan this avo’ to tell me she is stuffed with triplets.
- Triplets? I repeated.
- Triplets, she said. That’s three.
- I know how many it is, fuck’s sake. Jesus, we’re going to have to make at least a snuff movie if we’re to get through even three months feeding and clothing them and keeping us in fags, booze, and drugs.
- We’ll get through it. Love will see us through.
- There’s no such thing as love, bitch. Love’s that threshold you cross moving between lust and disillusionment. Plus what you call love brings no returns. No, baby – I’m maybe gonna have to turn you out AND put you in a few sick pornos.
She started to cry and heave like she does.
- Good, I said. Good. Your being stressed will harm our babies. You might miscarry and all our problems will be over.
- Or they might be born with water on the brain and taking care of three mongo’s’ll cost us 10 times as much.
- Jesus! Well stop crying, then, I screamed at her.

I stormed out of the house and sadly traipsed down the street, stumbling on the footpath where it rises imperceptibly. I hoped I would fall out in front of a bus, but then conceded the fact that I hate pain and would only invite death if it were instantaneous. Luckily (the only good thing that happened to me today) as it was raining I got to the bus stop just as the bus arrived, and as a bunch of old cunts were getting on in front of me I didn’t have to haul ass and sprint with my big fat frame before it drove off.

As I waited as the old cunts swiped their OAP cards and tried to inject a bit of colour into their lonely lives by talking with the bus driver (who was obviously African, in the sense he was black) about the 12th and the riots, I remembered the other day, reading in the paper, about this 97 yr old granny that was raped by this mentalist burglar she’d caught rifling through her jewellery box. I remembered how I laughed and laughed and how it helped me to put my problems into perspective and how also, I realised, there would always be sexual violence against the elderly that would keep me amused however dark the dark night of the soul got. Then I finally realised that people raping granny’s (and granda’s) was just like paedophilia, only hilarious.

By the time I got off in town my earlier mirth had deserted me. My progeny dilemma was once again front and centre of my worried mind. A mushroom cloud swelled on every horizon. Every corner I turned presented me with a hill.

With nowhere to go, and with nothing I could think of doing, some otherworldly bit of something threaded itself through the hole where my burdened heart used to be and pulled me, after a fashion – a case of like attracting like – to ‘Spoons where other sad fuckers with long faces sat staring into the cloudy foamy dimensions of their scrying pints like washed up and washed out Nostradamus’s trying to divine their own awful fates.

I stood at the bar eyeing up this sexy Aussie barmaid when I felt a darkness descend and 99% expecting it to happen a hand arrived on my shoulder like an eagle returning after a centuries long journey and a voice whispered in my ear:
- I’m The Mistress. Kimba told me I’d find you here. She’s very worried about you. She wants you to come home.
- Kimba told me there’s something you could help us out with?
- No…well yeh. Kimba filled me in. Involves me getting some people together. I’ve never produced a porno before, but with my sex nonce I don’t think it’s gonna be exactly rocket science, do you?
- No.
- So go home, Danny Pongo. And leave your worries here at the bar. It’s that you gotta Let It Loose – sticking her earphones in my ears and mouthing the words – “Just Let It Loose!”

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