Pretty Paper, Pretty Ribbons Of Blue, Wrap Your Presents To Your Darling From You

As featured in Third Sunday Blog Carnival

After that scatty little detour – haha! – I’m back functioning to the best of my abilities again and putting all the words in their proper order. Praise be! 

Christmas didn’t turn out too bad after all despite Mother inviting Uncle Dudley, who, at this time of year, gets pissed every day from the night of Children In Need onward till he’s stone broke a few days after New Year’s and he can drink no more. I would suppose that he is drunk more so between this period as it is fair to say he is drunk generally most the year round. 

In this very drunk state he tends to antagonise people, crossly accusing them of engineering plots to bring about his downfall. Trying to get them to own up to these conspiracy’s – or he'll at least, finally, pleadingly, request some abstract clue as to how to avoid ruin.

As well in attendance were that fucking holyjoe moonbeam Nirab, who before Christmas Dinner tried to fucking rap grace, then gimmie a wink after like I’d think he were fuckin boss of the bus or something. Earlier to that, to freak Nirab out, Uncle Dudley held one of Mother’s many crosses over the flame from the cooker in the kitchen then stuck it into his forehead upside down branding himself with it, like Glen Benton outta Deicide. All through dinner Uncle Dudley sat staring out Nirab trying to freak him out with his mad upside down cross, but that dirty snake Nirab, cold and barren as a nun’s cervix, didn’t take him on at all – making me think it mattered to him neither way the wanton sacrilege of the Gentle Jesus’ Club pin badge.

After dinner Micheesha, Stupid Peter and their kids came in. Micheesha’d told Mother on Christmas Eve Eve that she was on some special diet and that she couldn’t have the usual X-mas fare. But that was all lies, cos she told me, in secret, that Mother’s turkey when she did it it was like plasterboard garnished with sawdust and wrapped in sandpaper going down, which is exactly how I’d described it last year, and was exactly how it were this year. That selfish cunt Nirab went through a jug and a half of water on his.

Over brandy and Christmas pud’ Nirab turned his attentions to Uncle Dudley and beat him in the staring out game. Uncle Dudley began to cry like he does when drunk/emotional and got the better of. Then Nirab nearly choked on the penny in the pudding and everybody laughed, apart from Mother, who beat Nirab’s back rapidly, squealing and trying to get it up…

We retired into Mother’s lounge to get pissed and I asked Micheesha what she’d had for dinner instead.

 - We stapped at thuh fuckin Muck’Danalds over utt Connswater!

 - Lucky packa cunt’s, - I went. – You have any burgers left in the motor?

 - Do I fuck! – Went Micheesha. - Fuckin kids gobbled em up like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Me and Stupid Peter only hod a carton of chips between us! I'm'Ah be starvin, Danny! And so'll Stupid Peter. And he cant hold his liquor at thuh besta times, nevur mine when he's boozin! 

I went outside and got into Stupid Peter’s car and sniffed some empty McDonald’s bags to get my taste buds working again after getting them terraformed by Mother’s dry bird. After that I found one of the children’s Heat Magazines and pulled one out over Tina from Corrie going to some X-mas do all dressed to the 9’s. When I were done I stared into the sky and resolved to get some authentic muff in 2012. Then I went back inside.

In the short time I’d been out Nirab had recruited Stupid Peter into his God cult. I tried to renounce Nirab and his fairy tales and tell Stupid Peter that Christ the Messiah was most likely a prototype EBE*, a forerunner of common man – now broke from the shackles of apeman impulses by being imbued with Space Genes, transforming us into the fast thinking, imaginative and above all compassionate specimens we are today…

 

But Stupid Peter was well gone, all the way along Nirab’s Yellow Brick Road. I give up on him then ruminated on Nirab’s powers of persuasion, his stealth and speed and cunning in getting the simple minded to get on his side. And I also begun to wonder had I found our front man in me and Party Time’s Credit Card Fraud scheme…if so, the first stop was getting to see if he were in any financial dif’s one way or another…Maybe a drab, hopeless Christmas and a ominous New Year were beginning to look up, the fortunes flipping, an inversion of fate, as in like Uncle Dudley’s upside down God’s cross stuck into his noggin.

*EBE: Extraterrestrial Biological Entity

So Hold Me Mom In Your Long Arms...In Your Military Arms

When I was 16 I started bucking this gagging-for-it 41-year-old mad 'un. She was bottle blonde and called Jude. She was a friend of my mother’s from her PTA days and she introduced the two of us (my mother) over a game of Buckaroo.

Apt.

I think it was the mechanical jerking of that bucking plastic donkey or whatever it was got me so turned on to begin with. As the game went on Dirty Jude started playing footsie with me, inching her little foot up the inside of my leg straight up to my cock. That foot of hers had a great dexterity and could even grip things; probably with the same strength as a baby monkey.

Dirty Jude’d had no babies and as a result of this her skin, especially round her torso, was smooth and firm and her tits were round pert classics. I liked to put one of them in each hand close my eyes and imagine I were carrying two baldy midgets under each arm.

This pink smooth stretch of MILF converged at her bald round cunt. It rose from the valley of her stomach like a Mayan temple on a faraway hill and was a source of fascination and pleasure for me.

The thing I really dug Dirty Jude for most of all though was her giving me an education. The most appreciated lesson was in how to give and receive anal.

She used to say – You want to come in through the VIP entrance tonight, lover? – in her cracked and ruptured girlie falsetto. Then she rolled onto her stomach and spread her cosy little arse cheeks apart while I poured Baby Oil all round her opening which were like a soft spongy crater in appearance.

While this were her most appreciated lesson, her most cherished trick was her big shaking, squirting climaxes. Her ejaculate would fire out of her like a fireman’s hose. She would wriggle in my arms like she were in a seizure and flap her tongue about. I liked to hold her in the middle and squeeze hard, like I were getting toothpaste outta a tube.
Yeah: Dirty Jude.

It was over Christmas ma reminded me of her. We were sitting over a reasonable Christmas Lunch, all the usual things there, turkey like fucking plasterboard trying to swallow it (or it could’ve been my nerves) and she says:
- remember that dirty auld hoor Dirty Jude? –
- yes, - I said – remember you give her a thick ear when Micheesha told you what we’d been doin’ together?
- Wish I’d’ve given her a thick head. You’re a dirty pig, Danny. Goin’ with a hoor like that, older than your mummy.
- What about cousin Uganda (cousin I haven’t mentioned before. A gaming success – make of that what you will). He married one 14 years older. He married her. And he’s rich as fuck. He got trapped, dear. I was desperate for a fuck, 16 and all. Which makes him he fool in my eyes and me just…
- Don’t talk about your libido in front of your mummy. C’mon now, play the game!

Later Micheesha came in. Sat all night making eyes at me but didn’t say anything because Mother was sitting there.

When mother started to nod off she said: - That auld hoor Dirty Jude, - out of the blue - but really a culmination of her annual Christmas Night eyebrow plucking ‘settling of an old score’ in her militaristic brain.
- Dirty Jew! – exclaimed Micheesha. – Don’t be anti-Semitic. Its Christmas!
- Christmas is when its nearly ok to be anti-Semitic. – I said while watching gentle Jesus on the tele getting all his presents from the magi.

Forgive Everybody And Remember

I ran out of all my money today at the same time I realised my motor had been sitting up there in that multi-storey car park in town for so many weeks (two), probably encased in ice and snow like some modern art resemblance and now it would probably never start again.

So I yet again returned to Micheesha’s looking my money. And if she didn’t have it, the slippery little poisoned eel, I would wreak a vengeance.

I had to go into town to get a bus to her’s. On the way to the bus I nearly went on my hoop twice on real slippery shiny patches of ice, - made so slippery thus dangerous by the fact they were the result of leaking gutters from the buildings all around, dripping all manner of shite and sewerage down onto the footpath to collect in big pools to then freeze in the -10 climate today.

3 old women went down like they’d been shot by Nazi sharpshooters on D-Day. Straight onto their backs. The first two were attended to quickly and graciously by passersby. And in those cases I would’ve done my bit there if it were required. The last old doll I saw falling though, she cracked her head on a jutting out brick from a building. Cracked her head like an Easter Egg and blood poured out everywhere and I being so mortified couldn’t even make believe it were syrup pouring out of like a Cadbury’s Crème Egg (and it were red instead of white anyway).

So I crossed the street and turned the corner, and was glad to find the bus to Micheesha’s was just about to take off. I was glad because if I’d’ve stopped to help the old doll I would’ve missed it. So it was a good thing I ignored her and a sort of inverted evil fate that allowed me to continue my mission.

Again at Micheesha’s the bitch stands there, shoulders flexed. Entry blocked, shoulders deep, upper half bouncing slowly from side to side off either side of the doorframe like a speedometer in flux.
- where’s my money, cunt.
- I don’t have it. I only have what I have. And you can’t take it off me! It’s Christmas!
- I’m gettin my fuckin dough today. I’ve no food for me nor the cat. I can’t get my motor outta the fuckin multi-storey in town. I’m fucked Micheesha.
- dunno how you’re fucked, Danny, cos I’m nat givin em out mate. As in I don’t give a fuck. Nat one. And I saw you comin’ up the path and I called Stupid Peter (her ‘partner’) and his brothers. So I suppose in that case you are fucked, Danny. And you will be by them!
In response to this sisterly petulance I kicked her right in the hoof (the vagina) and went booting into her house. Before I could get to the living room she grabbed my ankle (she were on the floor winded at this point) and pulled at my trouser leg imploringly.
- Please, Danny. What are you doing? – she wheezed. - Please don’t. Think of the kids! Here, - she wheezed some more while getting to her feet and handing me a tub of green face paint. – rub this on your face and put this woolly hat on and your eyes are all glassy and red so that’s good and go in there and tell em you’re The Grinch and you’re here to steal their prezzies cos I know that’s what you’re going to do ain’t it? but more than that: you wanna keep the FANTASY of Christmas alive for em Danny, don’t ye?
- I’m gonna steal em and sell em, yeah. Cos I gotta you silly bitch. But yeh to the other thing, too.
- right then, - she whispered, forlornly.

So I went in there and stamped all over the toys and dogshit and scared the kids half-to-death.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh, - I went.
They squealed.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh! Yahh! And I’ve come to take all your prezzies from under the tree cos you’re good-for-nothing mother ain’t paid her drug debts so now she can’t pay Santa for your toys. So I’m the Grinch and I gotta take them.
- No! – they screamed. – No! Please Don’t!

But I did and that’s all there was to it.

And later at home after another nice warm & tingly act of onanism it finally dawned on me that always, without fail, after I pull one out, I like to listen to a good tune. So I thought I’d create a Facebook page called ‘wank:tune’ then realised I couldn’t cos I don’t have an account.

Happy x-mas to one and all!

And here’s that tune I heard, one of empowerment and defiance, my gift from me to you:

I'm Not Terrific But I'm Competent

As I was getting sick of Bosco’s obsessing over his ‘Bosco Base’ speed I decided to risk going back to mine to see if I’d any post like my bi-monthly porn subscription for example.

On the way up Tate’s Avenue the snow began to fall heavily and above in the sky I could see, through the slowly drifting graceful flakes arranged thick as television static, the headlights of an aeroplane shining through the squall.

I stuck my thumb in the air, hoping to flag it down, and I reminded me of this track:

Glad of the snow when I got to my street as I thought it might camouflage me from any pigs I nevertheless shuffled along ever on-the-lookout for phlorescent jackets, but then began to worry when I chanced upon the possibility the sneaky bastards might go undercover this time.

Next door the kids had built a large snowman which I didn’t notice at first but when I did it made me jump. It was a grotesque thing in its resemblance to a thalidomide humanoid and by the fact there was a slim possibility that there might be a pig inside it waiting to pounce.

I got in the house and was glad and calmed to find my porno had arrived.

I turned the heat on and got myself all snuggled up in bed with my porno. Then the fucking door is rapped. My boner shrivelled up so quick and actually I think retracted a little into my body so afraid was I all of a sudden.

I crawled on my hands and knees into the front room where I keep my ironing board and very stealthy like sneaked a look out the window at my car, the driver’s side window to be precise, to see in the reflection who it was.

What it looked like, my caller, was a girl, indeterminate age, blonde. Couldn’t rate her ass under her big heavy duffel coat, nor her tits as I could only see her from behind.

And completely forgetting they might have sent a sow round undercover (my dick getting the better of me again) I threw on a dressing gown and went down the stairs to answer it to her.

She were around 16. Lovely rosy cheeks, pinched by the cold, reasonable tits, even under the duffel coat, and hips round and plentiful like a rising sun.
- Hi.
- Hi.
- Did you know its 22 days till we celebrate the birth of our Lord and saviour Jesus Christ?
- I was vaguely aware yes. I’ll have plenty of time till get him a card, won’t I? But with the Post Office and the state of it, you never know.
- Oh hahaha, very funny. You’re a very funny man...Well anyway, its Jesus’ birthday soon, and the younger members of the local Methodist are canvassing the area seeing if people around the ages of 16-35 –
- That’s me, - I nearly lied.
- Yes well, if you’d be interested then in joining us some Saturday evening in the church hall for some fun & fellowship?
At this I look my cock out and let it hang there like a poached armadillo.
- You know the only fun and fellowship you can have without no beer and drugs? I said, squeezing it to hardness, - this kind, - said I, nodding down at my now capacity length 6 and a half inches.

The girl’s eyes big as saucers and protruding out of her lovely sweet teenage face roughly pushed me back into the hall, threw her clipboard at Boke the Cat, who ran upstairs, got down on her knees and ate it greedily. Wet, smooth and deep.

I thought to myself, I don’t want to cum in this grotty hall of mine, so I led her by the hair into the living room, over to the curtains, pulled them, then put this one on the turntable and blasted it. To. Fuck:

X-mas Earth Mother

I fucking hate Christmas. To me it appeals to only two sorts: the simple minded and people of a mean and nasty disposition. For the simple minded it is all the colourful lights and binary renderings of ‘Old Christmas Classics’ delivered through the genre of Musak that sets the synapses in their candy floss brains reeling. They temporarily regress to an infantile mindset and they grin and glow like an over the hill (5 yrs old) orphan when introduced to his new parents (who are probably part of a satanic cult who will slow roast him and serve up his marinated (in goat's blood) corpse to their coven), when met with the glistening of tinsel or the aroma of chestnuts roasting...

For the mean and nasty sort Christmas presents to them ample opportunity for verbal and psychological combat. With all the get togethers of friends/family, and all the alcohol drank, freeing up the constraints of good manners and protocol, this sort will engage in malicious and spiteful snipping on all fronts. Or they will sit in stony silence for the duration, like a constipated walrus, psychically transmitting to all about them that they are not to be approached. I am a little bit like this. I choose not to engage in any form of festive feeling. I sit like a deaf mute – in a semi meditative state, willing myself into oblivion – impervious to the enforced smiling and grating false cheer & insincere egalitarianism. I have often claimed to be a Jew or a Jehovah’s witness when Christmas comes around so as to avoid Christmas parties.

Today in Sainsbury’s (where I haven’t been in a while) I was nuked by Christmas visuals and awful pan pipe Christmas hits. At the top of the mall there is this fenced off Santa display. It is shit – standing around Santa are what have to be the ugliest elves I have ever laid eyes on. The look like haemophilic Cabbage Patch Kids. Santa I really didn’t notice much, so mesmerising was the ugliness of these elves. Around the elves feet, in very poorly arranged snow, is lots of money. Mainly silver and pounds. I imagine this is for some charity, but having not noticed any signs or anything, I am at a loss to say which. But whichever it is, this display with Santa and his ‘Make a Wish Foundation’ elves is an insult. I was so tempted to steal some of that money today to buy myself a bottle of beer. Next time I will bring a magnet and attach it to my shoe. I have narrow feet so I will slide one foot between the railings and suck up the money. But is money magnetic?

Also noticed in Sainsbury’s: Speciality Cheese. How is it speciality? What can it do other than be cheese? scour your saucepans too?

As well: Having fished enough change out of my back pocket to buy my bottle of beer I stand in the queue watching the customer in front of me who is at the till. She has one of those flakey ‘I’m Not A Plastic Bag’ canvas bag jobs. She takes out a bottle of wine and says ‘I have 3 of these’ then gets another bottle out ‘and two of these.’ She was asking the girl on the till to have a little too much trust in her I think. What did she think, this customer? That because she was a card carrying Earth Mother hippy flake the girl should believe she didn't have more wine in her poncey bag? Had the roles been reversed and the Earth Mother was on the till and the millie doing this, would Earth Mother have so quickly trusted her? Maybe she were trading on the Season Of Cheer’s ethos of Goodwill To All (Wo)Men? She can get fucked!

Is it cliched to be cynical at Christmas?