A finger in the bum: A Story for the Ages

Spread the love

dates of doom

April 2017
M T W T F S S
    May »
 12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930

Let’s go out together

The ApocolypseJuly 27th, 2017
29 days to go.

The Designer Cracked one out While Watching My Little Ponies

The designer beckoned me in to the Great Hall and said:

“Word-demon! Come hither and write me some excellent farkin’ words for my ‘blond take-away’s’ whatsit!… And make em’ the best farkin’ words you ever doth conjure, or I’ll send you back to the cesspool I found you in – back when you were so poor and despised, you were sucking sailor-cocks for an old apple or taking’ one in the back burner for a fist-full of stale biscuits. I’ll never let you forget the depths of depravity you endured that time in Brazil just to get your grubby little spaz-hands on half a cup of stale breadcrumbs, you whorey-eyed prose-compiler!”.

Then, in between taking huge bites from the roasted flank of something resembling a wildebeest, he suggested a blurb that roughly reflected the following:

“SpasticRembrandt” is the testing grounds for brands/artists to test out their designs before officially launching them through their own… something something

He also added, while guzzling dark ale from a tankard as large as a pumpkin:

“Need to word it in a way that makes it sounds more awesome than that… Like you want people to feel like they are getting something a bit special… not sure if that’s possible”

MY SOLUTION?

A SHORT STORY by Alfred Jingoes Ringflesh III

Black in the Saddle Again

Or: Mr Munto finds his Joy Again (but can’t remember how to use it)

Living with us the last few months, in the town house on King Street, is this old guy who wandered in one night during a street party, helped himself to a beer, passed out on the orange couch and just never bothered to leave. We’ve kindly asked him to fuck off at least fifteen times now, but on each occasion, after exiting the front door pretending he’s a tugboat, he has promptly hidden himself under the house. After a few days of watching the TV through a hole in the floor boards, and fighting the cat for garbage scraps and insects, he has sauntered back inside the main house, morning paper in hand and singing an old Navy tune about how it’s a right hoot to be fucking your mates during a world war.

As he’s never given us his real name, nor spoken to us at all in fact (not including his use of exaggerated hand signals), we started referring to him as Mr Munto. While no one remembers who of us first used it, it stuck right away, like shit on a new pair of grundies.   

When Mr Munto needed something to wear one day, after discovering that his only shirt was infested with large, yellowy-brown beetles, and needed to be washed, dowsed in turps, set on fire, wrapped in biohazard tape, and then buried beneath 100 metres of nuclear-proof reinforced concrete. Thankfully, the beetles were easily destroyed, as they are particularly vicious (They have evolved to lay eggs in the eyes of small animals – after hatching, the new beetles eat their way out), and we’d already lost one puppy that year (during a prank on the golf course that went particularly wrong). Also, Bad News Mr Tiddles was our favourite of all the puppies we haven’t yet killed, and we were desperate to keep him alive long enough to be relieved when he finally died or ran away. 

After handing the old cunt a t-shirt without looking at it – in the hope that he’d quickly cover up the horror that was his 300-year-old elephant skin body – I noticed that it was one of a handful that I had gotten specially printed years before.

The t-shirts were in honour of a friend we’d lost during the 90’s and read, “The hardest thing is moving on. We love you Rob”. People were very touched by the sentiment of the message and would often come up to whoever of us – in the friend group who knew him – was wearing the t-shirt and ask what it referred to. We’d tell them, and they’d get all weepy eyed and ask, “Where can I buy a t-shirt, to show my support?”. It started to look like we’d stumbled upon a goldmine. All of a sudden, I was fielding calls from journalists, negotiating sponsorship deals – as well as publishing deals – and wading through so much mail each day that we had to get a Private Box just to hold it all.

This went on for 9 glorious months. We were making so much money that we hired an accountant, two security staff and even a trainer (for my dick – a dick trainer). But like all excellent things that involve no skill or effort, it was too good to last. The end finally came thanks to the meddling of a middle-aged human-shaped bosom called Trudy Fishcakes. Trudy, one of many groupies attracted to the stench of desperation and gullibility, made a discovery while cleaning our newly built offices that changed history forever…  During a particularly busy day of fielding marriage proposals from gold-digging whores, I had accidentally left some opened letters on the corner of my desk. Unfortunately, they were near enough the edge of the desk to fall victim to Trudy’s 4th layer of fat clearance zone, and were promptly knocked to the ground as she walked past carrying a vacuum cleaner.   Staring up at her, having fallen from one of the envelopes, with his face frozen in that shit-eating yet strangely arrogant grin only a cunt like Rob could attempt without wanting to kill himself was a postcard that had arrived that morning – a postcard from Rob himself. He looked good – healthy; smiling and waving to the camera without a trace of self-consciousness. He looked happy too, like a tall happy cunt, with happy hopeful cunt thoughts in his calm, cunty happy as a fuckin cunt mind. Trudy, after almost destroying another pair of ‘tent’ pants in the process, picked up the postcard and stammered, “Is that… ROB?”. Because I was feeling particularly jaded, instead of coming up with some plausible lie, I said, “Yeah, look at him the smug asshole! Look at how he wears his socks pulled up like a total homo.” Seeing the look on her face, and beginning to realise the danger I was in, I quickly added, “Wait hang on – you didn’t think he was DEAD, did you? No, no, he’s not dead, we just lost him at the Kmart food court one weekend in the mid 90’s, and couldn’t find him again L Sad Face (I said this to her as I made an exaggerated sad face to try and encourage sympathetic feelings – a la self-help books about turning your loser life around at 60. “It’ll never happen Kevin, you’re too stuck in your ways mate! You can’t teach an old dog new tricks Kev! And you’re as old as they come!”) She left in a hurry – red-faced and muttering like Mr Munto – and by midday the following day, the whole enterprise was sunk.

The fall out that followed, marked a momentous transition in my existence – it was both the beginning of something new and the death of something not old enough yet to be called old. The subtle interweaving of two distinct, and, up to that moment, equally possible lives.

Simultaneously, in the aftermath of my great destruction, came an event of such significance that it should be given a title of its own. For our purposes here, that of informing the reader, I shall call it

‘The Day that I Stopped Fiddling like a Child and Started Wanking like a Man’ Or: ‘the day I had my very first revenge wank’

The day I had my very first revenge wank, with full explosive ejaculation, was round the back of the High School bike sheds with Bertram and Suzy looking on with horror. Straddled over the lifeless form of Trudy’s dead and disgustingly rotund body, I discovered my true gift…  Working away on my cock like a pro, I didn’t let my vengeful feelings overcome me too soon. I drew it out, like a hunter stalking the kill. I maintained eye contact with my audience – not an easy thing to perfect –  alternating between their unblinking and petrified eyes, and my throbbing, dark purple member. I could feel my insides churn with excitement, as my balls threatened to burst with warm, white angel-power! Finally, when the moment of climax felt right, I bellowed with abandon, “Fallen down!!! Fallen down!!!” at the top of lungs. I have no idea what it means but it had the desired effect – Suzy was so spellbound that she threw up her librarian slut-master dress and fingered herself like a horny walrus.  

Remembering it now, I can still feel the rising torrent of ecstasy and lingering joyfulness. It was here, in this warm pit of carnal fulfilment that I decided I wanted to become a t-shirt designer…

This chart describes the relationship between sales of SpasticRembrandt t-shirts and nightly access times of subscribers to their online account at www.kittenporn.com:

Subscribe to Blog via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Add to the carnage