You Gotta Get Up To Get Down, Baby

As I can’t face having to tell Kimba that she is to be sodomised by a pair Alsatians while she gives birth to our triplet children I have decided to stay away from our dirty little hole as much as possible in an act of foolhardy procrastination.

I landed on Bosco there on Friday night telling him my mother had died after tripping over a sleeping tramp in London and fatally cracking her head on the kerb, so would he mind providing me with a bit of company. In reality what had happened (and what inspired my telling him she were dead so’s to get into his house) is that she somehow severed an artery shaving her ‘unwomanly fuzz’ off and ended up in a psych-ward as they think it was attempted suicide. Luckily when this happened my Down’s Syndrome cousin Donatello was with her in the house installing a pump in her goldfish tank in his capacity as a goldfish tank engineer (something to do with getting everyone a job under the dewy eyed stewardship of ‘Derek’ Cameron) and he heard her squawking and was especially alarmed when, on finding her in the bathroom, the squawking got quieter with each ‘squirt of red blood’ – as Donatello put it – that shot from the slim long slit on her neck. Her cutthroat razor lay on the floor by her spasming hand.

Luckily Donatello knew what to do. He rang an ambulance immediately and give the address and a description of what had happened. And, by a grand feat of serendipity, one of Donatello’s ‘hang-ups’ as his mother (my eternally sketchy Aunt Elvira) calls it, is calling 999 and telling them that someone or other has had a terrible turn and that an ambulance needed to come right away. As Donatello goes among many of the in-laws doing odd jobs for them (in an act of pity, I surmise, as Aunt Elvira married her 1st cousin Geraldo producing Down’s Syndrome Donatello (while others say it was part of a multi generational Satanic sex thing, the reason they married)) he has a knack of memorising many addresses – which he recalls with perfect accuracy when he is on the phone to the emergency services.

My mother often has asked me if I can recall all my relatives’ addresses. I tell her I can’t and she reasons that, therefore, Donatello could probably beat me in an IQ test. She then usually follows this with, ‘Donatello’s obviously got brains to burn, compared to you Danny Pongo,’ or variations on this.

Sometimes she tells me she thinks my problems go way further than that of a Down’s Syndrome’s. And sometimes I like to think that one day she’ll do herself a terrible injury...just like she did today in fact. Which proves my powers of ‘empowerment visualisation’ (or whatever the hippies are calling it these days) are far greater than her’s.

So I spent a nice weekend with Bosco listening to ‘Acid Jazz’ and smoking pot. I had to pretend I was grieving over my dead mother while all the while wishing I could tell him what was really bothering me, which was: Kimba’s triplets, how we couldn’t pay for them, how in order to pay for them we were going to have to produce a horrible sex film with The Mistress of Kimba giving birth and how the worst of it all was that while she was in labour she would have to be sodomised by a pair of Alsatians while I had to drink some of the menstrual blood that she passed which would be collected in a dog bowl which would be held between her legs as she endured a terribly painful labour due to The Mistress kidnapping her after her waters broke then withholding painkillers while she had to endure the passing of three ‘of the worst type of STD’s you can get’ as the Mistress calls them (babies) in the course of the whole horrible perverse thing all to be recorded and sold to the highest bidder.

To take my mind off my awful life I told Bosco all about Porn-a-Likes. I told him the rules: That you had to find a porn video where the chick and/or man (pornstar) had to look like a recognisable celebrity. Then you had to make believe that the pornstar in the dirty film actually was the recognisable celebrity and make up an imaginary story chronicling how this particular celebrity descended into a life of drug dependant prostitution/sex slavery/private and bizarre sex orgies involving a particular elite/their own private individual sex pursuits which brought them to the edge of madness and/or the vulgar debasement of their own soul.

So Bosco chose this video screen cap. Bosco, like me, is a massive pornography fan, and therefore has a highly functioning encyclopaedic recall (verging on the electronic) of all (and they are many) the pornographic films that he has watched.

Below is Victoria Beckham posing so insincerely as only she can while receiving a dry frenetic bumming. The story (penned by Bosco) follows tomorrow.

After Bosco told me the story of Victoria Beckham’s descent into high class pornography he put this tune on the turntable:

and got up of the sofa to twirl dancing round the room, repeating – You gotta get up to get down, Danny Pongo. – So...grabbing me up of the sofa he started swinging his fists pendulum like millimetres above the carpet repeating – Get down, Danny Pongo! Get down! Which I did...

I *heart* Jo Wheeler

Today I met Bogdan for a smoke of weed in the park. He was telling me about how last Saturday night he met this fat girl in the Slimeshite (Limelight) who he took back to his smelly pad to buck. I asked him how fat was fat –
“She was fat as fuck,” he told me. Fat As Fuck. I’m not exaggerating. If I told you she was 27 stone I wouldn’t be far off. She'd an arse like a peninsula.”
“That’s a new one,” I offered.
“Yes. She was enormous. Surface area of about 5 and a half foot. And wouldn’t you know? I went down on her. Her insides were very spacious, I went down to her fanny, and took a look, and it was like staring through a window into a big mansion.”
“My goodness!”
“I started to worry that I should’ve brought distress flares. After finishin’ on her flares are the only way they’d find me again.”

It was my turn to talk about sex then, and I told Bogdan how I was getting fed up of Kimba and all her funny notions about witchcraft and dark side people and light workers. I told about how it takes nearly all night to fuck her with all her weird tantric rituals and warm ups etc. when all I wanted to do was bust a nut. Plus it meant I missed all my programmes like Coronation Street and Lesser Spotted Ulster with sad sack Joe Mehan.

Secretly, because I kept it to myself and didn’t even mention it to Bogdan, my emotional passionlust toward a certain Sky News weather girl has been reignited somehow. Her name is Jo Wheeler. She ticks all my boxes. She is older, around 45 (my cut off point – like the last day you could eat a bit of fruit), and has the sexiest smokiest eyes to ever kindle within a human skull. She is to eyes what Julie London is to vocal chords. Monochrome erotically evaporating perspiration, my girl. And I mean monochrome like a verb........(ignore little gimp if ad comes up)

I am thinking of writing to her again. I’d tell her I agonisingly yearn to sink my face into her slightly wrinkled cleavage. I’d describe how I’d like to spurt reams of cum in between her freckled brown tits and how I’d like to watch my spermatozoa run along that slightly wrinkled cleavage like many milky rivulets – the milk squeezed from the golden udder of a Hindu cow deity that floats around in the sky.

Then again, on second thoughts, when I wrote a letter to her a couple of years ago, when I was annoyed she’d got a new hairdo (reprinted below)

“Dear Jo,

I would like to ask you: ‘what were you thinking?’ when you asked Stacey/Chanelle the hairdresser to sculpt such an abortion of a haircut upon your skull. I am very angry. Till your beautiful natural auburn hair grows back I would like you to wear a wig. If you do not I will kill your family! Only joking ;). Love ya doll!

Your Playboy Lover,

Danny Pongo xx”

the Sky News computer security goons sent me a very terse email back insisting I ‘desist from my correspondence with Jo Wheeler’ or ‘the proper authorities would be notified.’

Bogdan tells me not to give it up with Kimba. He says, “Once you throw it away, away can’t throw it back...” I don’t like Bogdan’s glib philosophy. It too accessible.

Here is the gorgeous Julie London: