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!”

Thursday, 15 July 2010

Porn-a-Like Bumper Issue

Today’s Porn-a-Like is a double feature starring: Bruno Brookes & Michelle McManus.

One day after a particularly tough rollicking from his latest wife Bruno Brookes decides that in his constant struggle for superiority over women he has been defeated, and so, in rolling out one old chestnut after another to console himself he gets out one of his favoured index cards and writes: “If you can’t beat ‘em (and you can’t Bruno, John Law says so) join ‘em” and selotapes this to his forehead before going to his GP to get the ins-and-outs of sex realignment op.

Here he is enjoying a tryst with Michelle McManus who Bruno has signed to his new record label, Mullet in a Gusset, in a vain attempt to get back into Show Biz. Unfortunately Michelle’s first single ‘Would You Eat Lasagne With Me’ sank without a trace and the label went into liquidation. Bruno though, no stranger to failure and a genius in turning a turd into a triple layer sponge cake of cash re-launched the label as a porn outfit, married Michelle in Britain’s first ever lesbian-transgender-marriage officiated over by the newly ordained Jedward (who have also signed up to the smut label as a novelty gay-twin-incest priest outfit) and since then the bizarre porn he produces, (a screen cap of which appears below) has seen him/her amass a fortune of 100million pounds, most of which he/she has reinvested into shares in hotdogs and the people that produce the jokes on ice lolly sticks.

From the Bruno Brookes produced porno ‘An Angel In My Fanny’ a much circulated shot* taken by Gloria Hunniford of her very distended labia in which she insists you can see the face of her beloved dead daughter and ex-Blue Peter illuminati (alumnus) Karen Keating.

Today while kicking around a few ideas as to how to make money to feed the baby Kimba will be dropping soon, I drew up finally two possibilities;

1. Turn her out. ---- Downside: John’s mostly don’t go for pregnant chicks, so I’ve heard.
2. Put her in the movies, i.e. porn. The freaks are no longer on the streets and have decamped to their bedroom. There’s any amount of freaks out there looking to get their rocks off to dubious material. One facet of the freak market is pregnant chicks porno. In porn the more freakish the shit the higher a price you can sell it for.

So I put this latter idea to Kimba, telling her that if we’re freaky enough one video could pay off so much we wouldn’t have to make any more.
How freaky, she asked.
Well, very, I said. Like some sort of bestiality will have to be involved. Probably the imbibing of menstrual blood. Maybe at some point we could induce labour and when the wee scrota comes out we get the dog, some big Alsatian or Pit Bull or something, to eat it alive. Freaks dig death -
No, she squealed.
Only joking, I chortled.
I’m up for some freaky shit, she said conveniently. Me and The Mistress used to get up to all sorts of profaneness. Actually she could help us out no end in this. Let’s get her help. I’m sure she’s forgiven me for our last falling out, plus you can finally get to meet her. Yay, she went in a meek-numb faux smack head fashion.
No fuck, meet her? I said with much more feeling...No! We can do it ourselves.

* The above is mostly made up, but whoever can tell me what this really is will get a surprise baggy from yours truly, Danny Pongo. --- And so here's Bowie, Hammersmith 1972 to ruminate to:

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

On Channeling Fred West

It’s turned out I’ve had to tell Kimba I love her as a month ago she told me she were up the duff. As she won’t get rid of it (“What you wanna do?” I asked her – as per what Chris Rock said you should say when your girl tells you she’s expecting your sperm mutant (i.e. that is defo not ask her IF she’s going to do this thing/that thing: i.e. get rid of it)) and as I can’t do a runner as I live in a Housing Executive gaff and have nowhere else to go, I have had to do all the things an expectant father should do/say to the swelly bellied mother of his imminent child, by doing everything and all up to and including: telling her I love her when she is boking her ring up and I stand there by the bathroom door when she is down on all fours, her head stuck right down in the bowl like a fat thing that can’t get through a hole, flinching with each dry heave that wobbles out of her bloated frame. One night a week ago she turned to me and said:
“I feel so shitey I’m gonna take that as you being genuine for once in your rotten, smelly life, Danny Pongo. It’s all I can hold onto. I’m starving, cos you have no job and the brew’s fuckin me about on my benefits and we’ve hardly enough money to feed ourselves never mind the wee life that’s growing inside me –“
“Tumour,” I corrected. “Just like a tumour it feeds off you in utero. Just like a tumour is a parasite so is the ‘little miracle’ growing inside you. But unlike a tumour it will continue to siphon your resources: your monetary, physical, spiritual and kinetic energy well after it leaves your body and for 18 years into the future at least. And don’t think it will expand your horizons in any way, shape or form. Socially you might think it will, but the only other people you will ever meet for the foreseeable are other parents who are freaks, who are slavish disciples in the cult of their one and only lil baby. That is the class of people you will meet: People with their own portable shrine, their little gathering of immutable matter, amazing putty flesh, a plastersine avatar – a thing they’d kill, steal or suicide for.....and you’ll be one of them.”

She began to cry, bokey snatters hanging from her nose in big bandy drools long and thick as shoe laces. She were swaying on all fours and groaning and I poked her in the shoulder and nudged her a little and she cooped sideward leftwards and fell onto the tiled floor of the bathroom and lay still, her arms and legs all folded in and gathered in at her middle. She put me in mind of a comatose/stunned/dead animal. I felt bad and put the seat down on the toilet. I sat down on it, folded my legs and had rolled a smoke. I tilted my head back and blew the smoke out languorously and decided these sorts of moments I'd call my Hamlet Cigar Moments only to then feel sorry for myself when I realised a roll-up was a poor substitute for a Hamlet Cigar and, with this hard luck impasse (in the shape of a little baby) it would be ages before I could afford even one of them...