Momma Don't You Cook No Fish Cos Daddy Gonna Bring Home Enough Crabs

So we spent the last couple of weeks, me and Kimba, but Kimba mostly, devising ways to induce the oncome of our triplets before she reached full term. We’re not too sure but, if what I’ve read about Bill Clinton and his views on partial birth abortions are anything to go by, then as long as the ‘triplet miracles’ (as Kimba has come to call them in an ironic poise) are still in utero, and you kill them while they’re in there, then you can’t be done for murder.

The first idea we had was mine which was that Kimba would eat a hankie I’d sneezed into while I had the flu. The germs would go through her system and the triplets would eventually become infected due to their weak little flowering immune systems not being able to withstand them. They would thus die in utero and she would miscarry them absolving us of murder if questions were ever to arise.
- I’m not doin’ that, Danny. Feelin all that dry tissue goin down my throat, I’ll gag. I have a very sensitive gag reflex, said Kimba.
- Maybe you might boke them up then, I said.
- Don’t be stupid! That’s nearly as stupid as your hankie idea!

So sure was I that my idea would work I waited till she was asleep one night and tried to shove the hankie (which we’d kept in an old Durex box) down her throat. She shot up in bed, as if her frame were being driven by demonic possession, and boked her ring up all over my chest and face. A liquid rainbow of bile hit me right in the bare eyeballs blinding me and a lot of it landed in my mouth. I inevitably boked my ring up too covering her in near-fresh blue wicked and pastie.

I slapped her about a bit and she reached behind her getting a iron and clattering me upside the head with it. I fell off the bed backwards head over heels and landed right smack on the top of my head, rendering me dumb for a good minute. I tried to speak but it felt like my throat were clogged up with cotton, and I thought maybe this were an instance of instant karma where the suffering and torture I were to inflict upon Kimba was revisited on me.

We made up afterward and she gimmie a hug and I hugged her back taking the opportunity to stick my thumb up her bum into the bargain. She flinched, then she said:
- Show me that stuff about Bill Clinton, again?
- What for?
- I’ve got an idea. You seen those adverts for those leaf blower machines? They’re aimed at old men who can’t rake up the leaves themselves cos they’re too old, depressed or sore? She said, autisticly...
Well if I can stretch my fanny wide enough I think I could fit one of them up there, she said trying to stretch her labia far enough so’s to fit round her above average sized fist (for a woman).
- Lets go, she said urgently as a woman going into labour ---- - Get me a bowling pin from somewhere. You’re on a full strike tonight, Danny. Fuck the Dundonald Ice Bowl!

Later when she explained her reasoning to me (which I’ll post at a later date – maybe tomorrow; maybe not) I put this track on the turntable and let her enter me through the VIP entrance (take me up the arse) with her strap-on.

'Murderous Neglectus'

I took a trip to Kerry over the 12th to see an ex who needed her piano tuned. At the minute she’s staying in a little town called Kenmare after coming back from traipsing round Europe. I met the ex 4 years ago and we went out for three months before she went off travelling. I met her at the stone circle there. I was tripping on magic mushrooms when she came along. I was standing in the middle of the circle trying to catch sight of some ancient druid spirit imprints using the sharply rendered seeing of psilocybin. I did catch momentarily some fleeting figures smudge my peripheral vision. Then she came through the undulations. She was called Megan and she was from Indiana. She was a photographer and took a couple of snaps of me. She was travelling through the ring of Kerry and thinking of using it as a ‘springboard’, that was the word she used, to travel Europe. She was working as she went. Here in Kenmare there was an aunty of hers that owned a big house. Her children had left home and not long after this her husband retired. 3 weeks into his retirement the pair took a cruise and he suffered a quick severe stroke while standing admiring the view of the Med’ from their room balcony. Now the aunt has to look after the uncle 24/7 and Megan helped out when she could when she moved in.

All the talk of assisted suicide in the news had got Megan thinking on a thing she’d noticed with her aunt the last month or so. Her uncle with his stroke was limited to a strict-ish diet. He was allowed limited starch and fat and was allowed no alcohol. Megan told me the aunt gives her uncle 2 rashers on a Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night. She allowed him a pint of Guinness on Saturday night too. The doctors have upped his dose of special stroke tablets. Megan is concerned. While hardly knowing the aunt and uncle before leaving Indiana she has grown to like them in the last 6 of months. But she is concerned about her uncle’s health and her aunt’s warped behaviour. She says her aunt knows what she is doing. That she is not giving him all these forbidden things unconsciously. She thinks he is keeping some sort of log of how much fat and starch is in his diet presently. A sort of murder, she describes it as. She asks if there was a possibility that, if her uncle died as a result of this dangerous diet laid on by her aunt, if she would be done, if his death could be established as being as a direct result of this diet and if she would be charged with murder/manslaughter/criminal neglect. I said I didn’t know, but wondered to myself how many of these protracted drawing room murders take place in the world. How many people carefully and shrewdly knock off their burdensome spouse when they get to be too much hassle through neglect, poisoning etc. as I know nothing of Latin and less of the law I’ll call this phenomenon ‘Murderous Neglectus’.