All Fucked Up, And We're All In It Together

This last couple of weeks I all but dispensed with conventional time-telling ('all but' meaning apart from those times I left the house and couldn't help seeing the big public clock near to where I live). Instead, as a means of telling the time while indoors, I relied solely upon the order my favourite programmes appeared on the television and planned my day and mealtimes around these.

For e.g:

9:45am – 10:30am – The Jeremy Kyle Show

The Jeremy Kyle Show served as my wake-up call in the morning. Party Time, with his supposed bomb making skills, was able to wire the TV set up so that it would come on at a designated time, just like an alarm clock. I would woke up every morning to that sponsor's great theme tune:

'All fucked up/ /'

We're all in it together/

Bang-Bang Smack shoots up my vein/

This woman walks along the edge of a swimming pool pregnant with an enormous bingo ball, big as Moby Dick's eyeball, holding her belly and swooning. In the pool loads of other mothers' Bingo Ball Children are bobbing away contentedly. Said expectant mother suddenly stops, lets out a yell, then gives birth to her own Bingo Ball Child right into the swimming pool. Amazingly there is no placenta. Then the new mother chucks herself in on top of them, probably killing a few, including her own.

What I think this is communicating to the TV Buffoon's subconscious, the underlying symbolism fashioned in shrinks' labs to latch onto the tic-tac-toe of their innerminds, is: 

'All you single mothers at home, just dropped one, another already in the oven. So far gone it's starting to brown round the edges. You got better turnover than a Leeds' McDonald's at lunchtime getting them out there...Yes all you single mothers, what do your children represent to you? Bingo Balls, and you're all hoping your one's the 'Full House' or one with 3 bedrooms and central heating anyway...So You! Yes You! Kill yourselves, and take some of your Bingo Ball Children with you!'

It so happened the other morning that while having a good old laugh at the expense of Jeremy's menagerie of half-mad creatures, I get a call on the telephone from Bosco:

- Hello, you cunt, - I say, - what do you want?
- That's not a very nice way to greet a pal after all this time, Danny?! - he went with inflections.
- You still selling your base, Bosco?
Oh yes, but that's not why I'm calling, you see I read your fuckin' wee girl diary Danny, only fuckin' emo's and trendy's, and fuckin' mongo's who're told to cos they've special needs and it helps them get over it, keep fuckin' diary's, Danny!
- So what, Bosco? What you getting your gusset in a twist over?
- Well, seeing your boasting all the while about your big cock, why'nt you put it up for the world to see? Give us all a big laugh. Cos I've seen your cock, Danny, and it ain't all that!
- You fuckin' wanna bet Bosco! I'll post it online and it'll go viral faster than fuckin' diarrhea through a UN refugee camp!
- Fuck me! Think I hit a nerve...hawrhawrhawr!!! - Then Bosco's laughter petered out and was replaced by this whimpering, like a kicked dog, and I asked him what was the mater...
- It's one of those adverts, Danny. The one about the starving in Africa...and you talking about getting the skids in a refugee camp and making jokes...you fucking bastard!
- That's what you call synchronicity! What channel's it on. I Love those adverts.
- Channel 4. Cunt!

I watched the ad for a bit, and while ruminating on the synchronicitous circumstances, a feeling swooped over the landscape of my soul...and I had a brainwave which I think might one day solve All African Hunger – something that not even a million Live Aids could achieve: Why don't they eat the flies! There's fucking loads of em!

I relayed my divine revelation to Bosco.. 

- So what I propose is you gas the villages with something that will knock out the flies but will be harmless to the starving villagers' malnourished and depleted immunity systems. When all the flies are knocked out you get all those child-pimping UN soldiers in there to shovel them up and put them into cauldrons. Then, and it doesn't take a Jamie Oliver to solve this one: You boil all the flies up in the cauldron, to kill whatever diseases they may be carrying, add some, I don't know, palm leaves or whatever to garnish, and Bob's Your Uncle...Fanny's Your Aunt...!

- You're a sick cunt, Danny...get that cock of yours online...give the world a laugh you pathetic bastard!!!

Beat Me Outta Me

After a night of cheap vodka and bad coke I woke up this morning with a headache so heavy, deep and painful that it made my eyes water. Luckily I had to counterbalance this a big stiff hangover horn hard-on, and as soon as I was fully awake I stared stroking it long, slow and smoothly, long, slow and smoothly – so smooth from spitting onto the palm of my wanking hand, as lazy lube.

Afterward, having conjured this girl I were bucking from back when I went to tech, I laughed to myself when I remembered how after the first time I sliced her she wanked me back to hardness and she goes, gripping it like a joystick: Danny Pongo, its so beautiful, and big – you go right up in me, so deep and far I can nearly feel it in my stomach…it’s soooo biggg! --- And I waited a while, let the comic timing stretch for pace, and say: We’re gonna need a bigger boat ---

I rub me semen into my skin, as it’s supposed to be good for it, then get my little Tinkerbell vanity mirror out and put some in my hair and style it how I like. Short of gel, there’s nothing holds like semen.

I go out for some Rice Krispies and in the grocery store nearly have a cry when I go to the cat food aisle for Boke the Cat. But after paying the girl I distract myself from sad thoughts of mourning by having a lightbulb moment concerning my personal hygene and ideas of self preservation.

Now, my thinking on this matter followed this course: I have a lovely, spunky wank this morning…it goes all over me, I rub it all into my skin and put it in my hair, and I leave the house without washing my hands…I pay the girl in the grocery store for my shit using cash, and inevitably our hands might touch (which they did) and now she’s gonna have traces of my semen on her. The problem is then if she’s say raped or murdered by an opportunistic crazy, the pigs are gonna examine her corpse afterward and find my seed on her. The chances of this happening are not completely remote, either her being murdered or me being caught. She has a few stalkers alright. Such a sweet fresh wee thing, still in school, but legal for sure…for after all, as Party Time observed: Old enuf tah sail Thah San, Old enuf far wan app Thah Bam!

So, yeah. Lesson being wash your semen off your hands before you leave the house. Pigs will work harder to pin it on you than to find the culprit. Less work that way. But sometimes they go all out to find a patsy, cos they gotta, cos who really did it can’t be done – usually due to the perp’s standing or for other esoteric reasons.

When I got home I found Rhonaldo in the kitchen doing the dishes. He was in nothing but a pair of tight little day-glo green cotton boxers. I sat there and put one leg over the other and watched his full round arse point and jut and tense while he squelched away in all the soapy suds with all the plates and cutlery clanging.

And I pulled out another one, a sneaky one this time, imagining that soft young arse of his rise up before me, full and round and plentiful as a rising sun. Then I imagined that sexy wee bit from the grocery store joining us as well and us all having a sexy, sweaty dirty threesome.

And I proceeded to beat me outta me!