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.

I Said To Myself: Is That All There Is To Love?

When I told Kimba what awaited her at the hands of Mistress she sat there staring at me for the longest time. Her expression was one of bewildered horror – her eyes and breathing stilled and the blood drained from her face. She ceased like a just dead person – that dissociated leaden expression passing over her yellow faketan face like a snowstorm over a tropical beach – but all the time my mind is blank of emotion or thought, and I could have been sitting there 6 million years and I wouldn’t have noticed even the rising and falling of empires outside my kitchen window so guilty did I feel.

She made the first move. She went to the kitchen cupboard and got out a plastic butter knife, like what you get in café’s, and with blind manic passion tried to slit her wrists with it.
- What’re you doin’? – I said. – You’re not gonna slit your wrists with those! Anyway, you’re meant to do it up and down not from sided to side. –
She changed her cutting action to up and down then, and I stood watching her for a minute or two, safe in the knowledge she would do no harm save for lift a miniscule layer of skin off, and when I got bored I snatched it off her and threw it at her cat, Boke.
- I’d prefer to be dead, Danny! – She screamed. – Dead! Do you hear me?! –
Her earlier catatonia had given way to an epileptic frenzy and she swung all round the room and I was sure I saw sparks jump of her too. Suddenly she stopped when she started complaining of spots in front of her eyes then let rip again stomping round and round the table, her arms: angled at the wrists and leading from there too – bolting out in all directions looking like she were a marionette being operated by Michael J Fox, or like a blind person driven lunatic trying to catch a fly by only hearing alone…

It ended up I had to put this tune on the turntable - one her paedophile foster carers used to play for her when she went 'Over The Rainbow’...-

And a video of Joanna as Dorothy (interesting lines then Somewhere Over the Rainbow is sung; Leona Lewis [on X-Factor, Britain's current American Idol-type] and others have been made to sing this particular MK song also [going over the rainbow = dissociation; to escape the horrific traumas they 'go over the rainbow'/dissociate from it]), American Idol is likely full of potential MK'd candidates ready for a life under total corporate control once they "win".

to lull her into a sense of dissociation again – when she said:
- I have a plan. These are the reasons Mistress has us acting out this sick fantasy for her - she said pointing at her spherical middle with our babies inside, - and the only reason we’re going to be part of her sick fantasy is so we can keep our heads above water financially for what? three months tops? Nah! We gotta outsick her, Danny Pongo. And I got the plan to end all plans! –
- That’s why I love ya’ bitch, - I said, lying…

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!”