I Flatter And Am Flattered Too Easily

Last night I’d a dream I was taking a piddle and my bell-end fell off. I stood and looked at it for the longest time when this little tiny arm popped out of the hole, elbow first, does this big stretch, then the arm, this whole arm, begins to grow in size so it was eventually a lot bigger than I was, by around 6 times. Then it begins to wank ME off till I swell up like someone on steroids and boke up about two buckets’ worth of cum.

Then through no rhyme or reason (as is so common in dreams) I am transported to a time in the not so distant future when the Lights Have All Gone Out. I am sitting in my kitchen reading 'Witchcraft and Black Magic' by Montague Summers.

I have a feeling I am going to start some sort of After The Bomb Fell type cult. By me on the floor lies Kimba her stomach hollowed out and filled with water with goldfish swimming about in it. Out the window I can see UFOs, many of them, dart about firing proton torpedoes back and forth engaged in some epic dogfight. One of the UFOs is hit and falls at speed toward my house. The fear and shock defibrillates me awake.

Downstairs I can hear this song playing:

I get up and go downstairs going toward the music which sounds like it is coming from somewhere other than the living room, - which is where I would expect it to come from as that’s where I have my record player.

But it is coming from the kitchen so I go in there and the turntable is sitting on the table, record spinning. A letter is propped up against it. The letter reads:

“Danny,

I am so sad in this relationship. As the song says: Love don’t live here anymore.

You have taken me for granted for the last time and you have betrayed me for the last time. I know you are in a homosexual relationship with one or more of your friends. At the same time I know I have cheapened your love for me by cheating on you, but this is usually in response to your infidelity.

I refuse to reduce and sully myself any longer in reaction to your dishonesty.

I’ll see you around,

Kimba
x”

I sat and thought on this all afternoon. At some point between Loose Women and Neighbours I went to get my weed, which I keep behind in the breadbin in the kitchen. I reached back there and I took out my little coin bag (the ones you get in the bank, what I get my deals in) and found it empty except for a little post-it note folded in half, which read:

“I have flushed your weed down the toilet. Kimba ”

The remainder of the afternoon then I spent devising ways to get revenge on her. I decided on getting incense sticks, dipping them in glue, then sticking them into Boke the cat’s fortnight old litter tray (sure as fuck I didn’t give a fuck about that cat). I would put them in there, good and deep, twist em round a bit to make sure they got covered in the gritty litter she uses. I would do a dozen incense sticks this way. Then I would put them in a little box and print up a label which read “Nature’s Incense” or something and stick it on the box. Then I would send this little box to Kimba’s Satanic Cultist adoptive parents and attach a note saying it were from her for their anniversary, which I knew were week after next.

Then...out-of-the-blue...I realised I’d grown attached to the peculiar bitch and I couldn’t bear to let her go. And so I sat down to write my own letter begging for her to come back home. Back into my arms where she belonged. But the first steps taken in drafting such a heartfelt appeal were bolstered by the plagiarised lines of others...and so I wrote:

“...and regarding my infidelity I have but only myself to blame, sweetheart. I flatter and am flattered too easily.* But the taxing way of adjusting to all the thoughts that you reveal, only incites me to motion well that’s the crux of your appeal...**"

* Richard Burton in a letter to Liz Taylor.

** Mike Nesmith – Wax Minute:

Slightly All The Time

I have finally decided today to put up some curtains, as the Venetian Blinds that I have up now have become encrusted with mould over the three years I’ve been living here. Cigarette smoke, ripe BO usually allowed to cultivate over a five day soap & water free period, generally, - this funky swirling miasma of filthy air and debris that circulates continually in this little little bell jar home of mine has to be met head on, and so I am doing a gradual clearout and environmental detox – starting with the first step, the replacement of the Venetian blinds with curtains.

So I decided to go downstairs to ask Mad Otis his advice.

He opened the door wide and motioned for me to come in by cocking his head in a backward direction, like he’d got a quick whiff of shite and recoiled instinctively. He doesn’t usually do this, either open his door more than a peep, and only once has he asked me in. I will do most things Otis tells me, including going into his house with him on a slow afternoon when there is no one about......and no witnesses (therefore good for his psychopathic self).



He brought me into his kitchen and walked to the window above his sink (where there was frog spawn) and looked out at a pregnant Rottweiler. He said, “Danny, I’ve been feeling quite philosophical this last week or so. It’s like, most people wanna see the Northern Lights or a UFO, at this juncture in MY life though, all I want to see is a dog have a miscarriage.

When I told him I was not only witness to my own dog having a miscarriage, but was also privy to a story involving ANOTHER dog miscarriage – which I told him: My old French teacher lost his marbles and moved into his father’s chicken factory when he witnessed said father and his son being wiped out by an Iceland truck – a terrible tragedy also witnessed by the pregnant family dog which lay down and had a miscarriage on teacher’s well kept frosty December lawn a week or so before X-mas.



Mad Otis was most impressed with my retelling of this story. He was wide eyed but there was something of a personal incredulity moving behind his eyes as perhaps a way to keep his berserk imagination in check.

So I stood with him a while and looked out at the massively pregnant Rottweiler waddling around in the courtyard out the back and I forgot about asking him advice on curtains and instead concentrated on pinpointing the exact time when it would good to leave (while having 'Slightly All The Time' in my head for some reason).

I came in tonight from a drugs run to find Aloysius watching eccentric talkshow Guilty. Guilty hosted by Carole Malone is a tough thing to absorb. You’re never entirely sure if it is all some rudimentary exercise in mind control aimed at warping the minds of insomniac out-of-work no hopers. Aloysius wouldn’t class himself in this category but this last year or so I would.

That guest in the brown jacket is like Wogan’s discarded half brother, said Aloysius. Then his brother who’s been cheating with his sister in law Aloysius describes as looking: boring and weird his weirdness not necessarily exclusive from his boringness. Then again he is like a Brookside spectacular character – like someone Phil Redmond brings in to return Brookside to its working class roots – a trade unionist to spar with Jimmy Corkhill.

The conversation progressed to how a character from Brookside appeared in Hollyoaks, the same character, which was a first for British soap;

The Americans, however, says Aloysius, have been doing it for years...remember The Colbys? It shared characters from Dynasty – some might say it was the same show but viewed through different reality tunnels – what is true is that the characters in The Colbys either are or are related to characters from Dynasty.

Remember Fallon is abducted by aliens, I noted. From the big final season grand finale?

What do you think would be worse? Raping a 12 yr old girl or a 99 yr old woman?

...God I don’t know Aloysius...

I’ll tell you. The judge would look less favorably on you if you raped the 99 yr old woman. Her chances of survival are much slimmer than that of the 12 yr old girl...

Thank you Aloysius.