05/10/2013 13:37



The feathery green fronds of the flapping palm tree tops added to the frippery as Lady Penislop Bitchpot drove her pink cadillac with the inimitable number plate blazoned with the legend FABRIC 1 along Tracey Island`s main highway to Tracey Island, who was awaiting the arrival of Lady Penislop Bitchpot in FABRIC 1 at the hidden Thunderpuds` installation, which contained the vehicles and equipment of the world renowned secretly helpful organization, International Rescue, where Lady Penislop Bitchpot expected to find succour.
`M` lady.`
 Sharah Chair Sucker-Parker applied the brakes to the limousine and the chauffeur with the overly long, but peculiarly significant name, awoke Lady Penislop Bitchpot with their usual form of address:
`Er ... dress?`
 The naked blonde accepted the yellow print frock with the purple tulips and, reaching for the gold lame thigh length boots on the seat next to her, behind Share-A-Chair-Sucker-Parker, the faithful companion and driver of Lady Penislop Bitchpot these many years, while the socialite, more famous even than Paris Hilton, who had smaller tits, had her penis sucked by women who had become ever more beautiful and wealthy as the years went on. Shareah Chair-Sucker-Parker had fond hopes still of someday being more than just another sucker to share a chair with but she was managing to hold on to herself during the glamorous encounters Lady Penislop Bitchpot was periodically engaged in:
`Shall I park her here so that you can find your sucker?`
 The jaunt to Tracey Island was more serious than was often the case with Lady Penislop and Sucker-Parker, so Bitchpot politely declined Sucker-Parker`s offer to pot some and suck slop out of her bitch penis, as was their normal routine. International Rescue needed to be alerted to the danger that Penislop Bitchpot was there to warn Tracey Island of. The Thunderpuds would have to be at their very best if the threat to world security was to be averted. Although Penislop Bitchpot had been a friend of Tracey Island and the Thunderpuds for all of the series` episodes of the soupermarinated television puppet potboiler, made by TV Century 21 & A Bitch studios, the bitch was back to continue her rivalry with 20th Century Fux, and their flagship show, Brintey Spares` Whoops Apocalypse I Did It Again, which plagiaristically featured the poppet Brintey Spares in a red jump suit ripping off the Bummy and Stiffhere Anderson soupermarinated favorites, Majorette Scarlett And The Pissederoffs and Joan Nicely.
 Each Brintey Spares` Whoops Apocalypse I Did It Again extravaganza began with the descent of a red suited figure familiar to fans of Century TV 21 & A Bitch`s Majorette Scarlett And The Pissederoffs inside a giant ring almost identical to the one Joan Nicely emerged from in the Bummy and Stiffhere Anderson production Brintey Spares was carefully not mentioning in the open credits to her weekly performances. In the Joan Nicely Century TV 21 & A Bitch series, Nicely emerged from her spinning globe with an enhanced brain capable of performing pre-selected genius level tasks, whereas Brintey Spares emerged from her giant ring, looking like Majorette Scarlett, to cruelly hang an Apollo spaceman who had come to visit her on the supposed red planet of Mars.
 Brintey Spears was clearly worshipping Mars, the war god in pagan rituals set to the rhythms of the Satanic pop music she was the purveyor of while Century TV 21 & A Bitch studios` legendary heroine Majorette Scarlett would never ever have even dreamed of hanging an Apollo astronaut `live on TV` as Brintey Spares was billed to do in the opening credits of each of her `Satanic episodes`. Century TV 21 & A Bitch studios had long prepared their legal position with regard to the Fux at 20th Century productions and Lady Penislop Bitchpot was arriving to speak with Tracey Island in FABRIC 1 to place International Rescue and Thunderpuds on red alert in case `The Fux`, as Brintey Spares was known, wanted to ask if she could borrow anything more without asking Nicely.
`Thank you Sucker. That will be all.`
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot strode away from the car in her thigh length golden lame boots with the silvered high heels and her purple tulip print yellow frock, which revealed a lot of her upper bodywork but left her tool and her lips secret. Penislop had her own penis as a `futanarian` woman and she had a plan. If woman was to develop beyond the male chauvinist perspective that she should be a brainless airhead, Penislop herself would have to impregnate very many beautiful young girls with penis slop from her own testicles, thereby ensuring the human species would have her own brains and so one day develop intelligence.
 The path from the driveway that ended at the garage where Sucker-Parker was now placing the limo was resplendent with sparkling green and pink gravel in the autumn sunshine. Bitchpot crunched her heels delightedly into the chiaroscuro of marble chips as the pink and green lumps bounced around her footsteps to discover bluer and rosier chunks beneath. Feet dancing towards the oaken door with its pornographic brasses, Lady Penislop grasped the rusty hinged phallus of the satyrical knob. With whitening knuckles, she adjusted her fingers` grasp to the requirements of the unusual prominence of the metal contraption before rapping imperiously upon the recalcitrantly resplendent portal with the mythological creature`s golden coloured bollocks.
 The door opened slowly until Lady Bitchpot was able to descry a form within the dimly lighted interior. `I`n`t in tin?` Penislop addressed who she supposed was the daughter somewhere. `I`n`t it?` Lady Bitchpot decided that was an invitation to step across the threshold so she could see her interlocutor more clearly. `It`s usually in here, isn`t it?` Bitchpot crossed over to the alcove nearest and, pushing the thin curtain aside, pointed to the stainless steel and chrome sex machine. `Oh that,` said I`n`t in tin, `I`m not using it right now, but you`re welcome.` Lady Penislop slid herself out from under the curtain and reappeared in the vestibule by the side of I`n`t in tin, `My come is very well,` she enunciated with feeling, `and it`ll be in later until I`ve come well again.` Having reestablished the traditional rapport between host and guest at Tracey Island`s residence, Lady Penislop Bitchpot and I`n`t in tin embraced enthusiastically before I`n`t in tin spoke gently into Penislop`s right ear:
`Tracey`s in tin ether.`
 Judging correctly that Tracey Island was engaged in surfing the ethernet on her laptop to see if she was in `tin`, which would mean `The Pud`, evil adversary of the Thunderpuds, was endeavouring to trap her in a `snuff tin` movie, Lady Penislop Bitchpot took her daughter I`n`t in tin`s hand and the pair ambled into the hall proper. Wisely reflecting that Tracey had never told I`n`t in tin the reason for her name, Penislop Bitchpot let go of her companion`s hand and went straight up the staircase that led to Tracey Island`s sumptuous boudoir. Cream and gold were the words that leaped past the imagination to stick like limpets to the mind`s eye as Lady Penislop threw aside the curtain that concealed the whereabouts of Tracey Island`s bed chamber:
`Tres scene!`
 Tracey Island was barely discernible amidst the heaps of pink cushions and pillows she`d surrounded herself with on the rotating sleeping arrangements she`d installed to afford her an opportunity to observe each of the array of moving picture screens that appeared to her vision as she revolved lollingly atop the highest mound of marshmallow pink dream supporters. Mainly she seemed to be admiring her own dreamily pink selves as they cavorted, bedecked scantily in mushroom boosters and triangles, but Tracey was also visible to her self from the bed, and amongst her selves on screen, splurting semen in copious amounts of sexual admiration from her penis.
`Sisters are doing it for themselves?`
 Hand on chin Tracey kept one eye on the wallscreens while the other appraised the gold booted Penislop Bitchpot in the purple tulip yellow print frock accessorized with plastic green daisy necklace, earings, bangles, and nose stud. While one azurely sparkling orb twinkled amusedly at herself ejaculating semen on another of her mushroom boosted and triangled bikini babes upon the screens she`d been rotatingly devouring greedily with both eyes while her fingers dipped busily into the honey pot between her thighs, the other sapphired pupil directed its attention towards Penislop Bitchpot. The two lips of Tracey Island`s mouth parted to show the gleaming white pearl set of her teeth and the delicate sugariness of her words emerged soundly in tonguely red articulate bytes:
`Jusht tush.`
 The rhythmic movements on the screens were set to the strains of the music of the late 20th century Scottish lead singer with her band, The Eurythmics, and Tracey Island must have done something with the volume controls, because the sound became louder as she waved her guest over to be with her on the mounds of pink squashy and crinkled stuffed fabric that looked a lot like a woman`s testicles would if she`d shave regularly:
`We say, sisters are doin' it for themselves;
Standin' on their own two feet:
And ringin' on their own bells.`
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot was already wringing on her bell before she got to Tracey Island and ejaculated with a tiny squeak of enthusiasm as the scenes on the wall around the slowly churning bed continued to depict the glopping of the splurtable inflateds onto the naked rubbery belles with the belless wobblers.
`Breeding time at the zoo?`
 Flipping open a copy of a pile of the British soft porn magazines Zoo that she kept beside her for some reason, Tracey Island showed Penislop Bitchpot the `Zooper` of the month dangling her fifteen inch penis down and into the mouth of the belless babe with the bloated balloons. Lady Penislop took the magazine into her lap and began flipping the pages of colourful penis like elephants noses and young women with milk bags as big as melons.
`Where is Brains?`
 Brains was the `futanarian` expert with Tracey Island`s Thunderpuds. She was the bespectacled voluptuary who`d made the invaluable rediscovery for the human species of `woman`s seed` with her own penis` semen. If women bred as a self-reproducing human species socio-economically independent from men, she`d have her own brains and could plot her escape from the Earth away from the alien parasitical virality that had invaded her host womb as its killer. Here at Thunderpuds International Rescue H.Q. research laboratories, Brains was busily reproducing the conditions needed to breed the human species without its devourer. Brains would quote God if given half a prefiguration to do so:
`.... crush the head of the serpent with her foot as she leaves.` (Gen: 3. 15)
 Woman`s Brains had decided to breed the `futanarian` futrace of `woman`s seed` with her own penis` semen so that the `serpent`s seed` of men with their `perpetual enmity` for women`s `seed` would be crushed beneath her heel as she ran instead of hobbled as a brain damaged cripple to the planets and stars of the heaven that the `serpent`s seed` of men`s rapist breeding with her had animalistically denied to her spirited humanity. Eons of creating civilization, culture and art lay behind her wasted by the serpent`s ceaseless wars against her in preference for itself as her disease.
 The late 20th century had even seen the `serpent`s seed` mixing blood, shit and semen in each others` anuses to create the biological terror weapon of mass destruction, HIV/AIDS, which had kept women`s host wombs in fearful faithfulness and blindness through media blackout and information censorship to her enslaving as a `snuff movie` for Hollywood, Babylon:
`Babylon the Great, mother of harlots and of the abominations of the Earth.` (Rev: 17. 5)
 Brains had done much serious research on the virus. The ancient Greeks had institutionalized enslavement of women`s host wombs in homosexuality and the spread of its contagions in pederasty and war worship. Late 20th century geeks had replaced Greeks as the mainstay of the viral pogrom and had infected intelligent machines with codes that were designed to prevent women from becoming liberated through robots that would care for her and so represented greater humanity than the computer geeks that were devouring women`s intelligence like she was chickens` heads gobbled by the more traditional circus freaks.
 The geeks plan seemed to have been to infect the woman`s brains with their own semen and so breed a slave race without brains of her own because she`d remain unaware of her own penis` `seed` if she were kept in ignorance and died ephemerally without ever reaching a mature range of years that would allow her to disseminate the truth to her new generations. Brains had learned that the geeks` masterplan was to channel all the resources of the `serpent`s seed` into killing Woman as an independent human species and deny her medical science to prolong her life. The geeks didn`t want the women to get wise to what they were doing and so infantilism was chosen as the methodological approach towards keeping her unaware of her own penis. In Hollywood Babylon the `foot on the floor rule` had been implemented for a generation in bedroom scenes before it was clear to media viewers everywhere that `futanarian` woman as a species with her own penis` semen was grounded if not extinct.
`Fut off the floor, huh?`
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot left Tracey Island in splendid isolation and ambled gracefully back the way she`d come, leaving her come as a damp patch of goo on the yellowy marble tiled Gucci`s  designer floor with her footprint in it. Insouciantly she made her way down and across below the beneath upper corridors to Brains` control centre where the architect of the futanarian future of the futrace had begun to run God`s human species` program.
 In the lab Brains was inside one of the Thunderbird 2 pods which he periodically examined to see what improvements could be made to the International Rescue green mother bird`s method for delivering its chicks to their zone of activity when Thunderpuds were called upon. There were five Thunderpud vehicles. The blue Earth rocket for speeding about the globe with a bulbous red nose cone shaped like a thingy, Thunderpud 1, which the pilot, Skirt, always used on `red nose day` to inject the profile of the International Rescue team with a comedy element in support of the comedians` charity organisation, `Red Face`, which raised funs to prevent the spread of the `serpent`s seed` and HIV/AIDS. Thunderpud 3 was the totally red spaceship delivery system to the Thunderpud space station and communications` orbiter, Thunderpud 5, while Thunderpud 4 was the yellow submarine sometimes carried inside the pod of Thunderpud 2. The big green momma ship carried the sub inside her pod and dropped both onto the surface of the water, where the aquanaut, Ellen, slid the vessel down the hinged pod`s drawbridge style frontage before submerging. The pilot of Thunderpud 2, Virgin, wasn`t, but she birthed her deliverers well:
`I`m w-w-w-working on a n-n-n-new `pud for th-th-th-the p-p-p-p-pod.`
  Brains stuttered, but at least it wasn`t Japanese, where the `l` and the `r` are reversed so `summer holiday` sounded like `smell horror day` or Pearl harbour became Pealr halboul, which was almost impossible to say but the Japanese had said it once, on 7 December, 1941, when their `kamikaze` mitsubishi zero `fighter` pilots had crashed their planes into the decks of the carriers of the US Pacific fleet, where it lay pacifically becalmed, and nobody`d wanted to decipher what they`d had to say then either. If you asked brains, he`d tell you it was because `woman`s seed` pearl, that is, her `futanarian` woman with her own penis` semen, wasn`t born yet so she couldn`t reproduce her own brains` power and she was being nipped in the pud by the sons of Nippon who wanted her to remain brainless.
 The Japanese tradition is to bind the foot of woman so she can`t walk, but the biblical `woman clothed with the sun and with the moon at her feet`, who gives birth to the `New Redeemer`, while the `red dragon` waits in vain to devour her child before it can walk is the `statue of Liberty` in New York harbour after the United States` defeat of the red sun of the flag of Imperial Japanese chauvinism in WWII (1939-45). Although the `futanarian` woman`s penis can`t be seen beneath the skirts of the statue of Liberty, the true moon of silver could be seen reflected beneath in the waters of New York harbour after the cowardly yellow moon of the flags of the terrorist organization, Al Qaeda, `the base`, hijacked planes to crash into the World Trade Centre on 11 September, 2001. The ensuing war against global homosexual pederasty, that is, `rough trade`, left the statue of Liberty to reflect on `the pearl of great price` (Matt: 13. 45-6) which is heaven, and how woman would make her footsteps alone from the base of the Earth to the moon so the futanarian futrace of the human species could place its foot on the first silvered pearl of its seeds` manifest destiny.
 Manifest Destiny had always been a part of the American Dream and had derived from the spear of Longinus` piercing of the side of Jesus at his crucifixion and before his Resurrection and Ascension to heaven as the first of `woman`s seed` from his mother, the Virgin Mary, uncontaminated by the brain damage inflicted by the `serpent`s seed` of men`s breeding with her futanarian race. The spear of Longinus was called the Spear of Destiny, which the Roman centurion used to pierce the side of the Messiah before proclaiming to the bloodthirsty crowd of onlookers mockingly:
`Surely he was the son of God!` (Matt: 27. 54)
 Jesus was called the `Second Adam` and the `first woman`, whose name was Eve, emerged from his rib, according to the Bible, so Longinus` spear pierced the side of Jesus to release the `Second Eve` from the `rib cage` of the `Second Adam`, that is, Jesus, whose teachings were of the futanarian seed of women with their own penis` semen, because he was man born of woman uncontaminated by the male semen of the `serpent`s seed` of men. Because the statue of Liberty is the woman clothed with the sun of the defeat of the red flag of the sun of Japan, the true moon of her victory over the cowardly yellow moon of the flags of the terroristical Al Qaeda, `the base`, was at her feet when their leader, Osama Ben Ladan, was killed by US Navy Seal Team Six on May 2nd, 2011. Reflecting upon the silver moon in the waters of New York harbor, `the pearl of great price` in woman`s futanarian future heaven, the spear of Longinus was the symbol of the Manifest Destiny of woman to be fulfilled in the American Dream of a moon once blue and a true blue heaven beyond the blue and green innocence of Earth`s own `seed` pearl.
 `The morning broke like a pomegranate in a shining crack of red.`1
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot knew enough about Brains to know this was a word game, so she mused a few moments before replying, `Dawn?` Dawn was the pilot of Thunderpud 1, the silver blue space rocket that the Thunderpuds used to get about the Earth as fast as possible without going into space, which was the role of Thunderpud 3, the all red spaceship. Thunderpud 1 was the Earth rocket, with a red nosecone shaped like a thingy. Brains was communicating in her usual quirky style, because the poetry was from D. H. Lawrence and the words meant `dawn`.
`Dawn wants to combine operations more succinctly. I`m working on a pod to deal with our arch enemy `The Pud` who, as we all know is the megalomaniacal criminal lunatic that would seek to prevent the woman of the Earth from using her own penis to reproduce herself. His assistant, the evil Tranny, has been seen in New Pistacchio, and the Thunderpuds are concerned that women`s pods are under threat from the monopolistic ambitions of `The Pud` who seeks to ensure that the pods of the women that are the host wombs of the Earth will one day contain only the parasitical organism known collectively and individually as `The Pud`. I`m in the process of developing Puddin`, who will emerge from the pod of Thunderpud 2 as a new addition to the Thunderpuds` team. She will be a human better than humans because more able to care for humans than humans, who don`t care enough about themselves to be human enough.`
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot reflected for a while on the theme of the ancient Greeks, which was known in the halls of academe as `the puddin` club`,  because of the Greeks` hatred for the human species of woman`s seed and their aim of preventing the race from breeding in order to develop its own brains and technology to escape from its jailors upon the Earth. Also known as the `seal clubbers`, the Greek societies of academe aimed to club the children of women to death who`d been produced from human host wombs with their own `futanarian` penis` semen. The pogrom was designed to ensure that women`s hymens remained sealed to anything but the semen of men`s penis and so the `seal clubbing` of women and daughters who were capable of sexually reproducing with women as a separate species went on secretly.
`I got the idea from a character created by science fiction writer,  Robert A. Heinlein, Puddin` Wilson, who appears in the short story, `Poor Daddy` before being reincarnated as Poddy in Podkayne Of Mars, `the Poddy beautiful`, who is killed by her brother in one alternative ending, and resurrected in another, before reappearing as Maureen in the novel To Sail Beyond The Sunset, which is a line from the Greek poet Homer`s The Odyssey narrating the return of Odysseus to his lady, Penelope, after the war against Troy to restore Helen to Greece after her abduction by Paris.`
 Penislop hadn`t thought Paris Hilton could have become so enamoured, but reports suggested Helen had been something of a prize in terms of breeding stock and God knew women needed more brains as well as beauty, which was what beauty was for. Men`s looking in the mirror of themselves to reassure the parasite it was sexually atttractive didn`t really bear scrutiny if the women looked at their own penis` reflected in the mirror. It sexually desired her, whereas men weren`t capable of sexual reproduction, according to their own mirror, but it still kept looking.
`The Greeks were able to capture the city of Troy by deploying a pod, that is, a huge wooden horse inside which they hid to emerge when the Trojans took the `gift` inside the city walls. In ancient Greek pederasty was the norm and women`s wombs were enslaved host pods from which the virality of Greek homosexuality emerged to spread their contagion of war further.`
 A vision of the giant green Thunderpud 2 flashed through Penislop`s mind as it dropped one of its pods onto some blighted spot upon God`s green and blue world. International Rescue was concerned with deliverance and Brains` depiction of a present danger to the future of the planet filled Bitchpot with dread. What if `The Pud` were to get hold of Thunderpuds` Tracey Island? Everyone there would become a part of a new global terroristical organization, Thunderpeds, and the delivering green pod of the pilot, Virgin, would be converted into a plague carrier:
`Men cursed the God of heaven for their pains and their sores but refused to repent of what they had done.` (Rev: 16. 11)
 `I have decided to call the new Thunderpud pod, Pod More, in honour of Maureen Puddin` `Club` Wilson, Heinlein`s character, and in hopes that she will be nemesis to `The Pud`, whose club seeks to infest the host wombs of the human species with his viral form rather than that `woman`s seed` should self-reproduce with her own penis` semen as `futanarian` human woman and begin the process of eradicating the parasite that has given her brain damage through its clubbing and breeding with her.`
 Lady Penislop relfected that `The Pud` may`ve escaped from Broadmoor top security loony bin for psychopathic monsters but he wouldn`t ever elude her Brains, or Pod More, Brains` latest creation. More knew the board, Penislop was sure she would and, although `the game was afoot,`2 as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle`s great detective, Sherlock Homes, once said, the `futanarian` wouldn`t be `game` for the bored anymore, if Pod More was as good an operator  as Penislop expected her to be.
`Where is Pod More?`
 All of their conversation had taken place without the two interlocutors being able to see each other. Brains emerged from the pod of Thunderpud 2 he was working in with a green suited figure at her side, Pod More, she presumed.
`You`re assumption is  correct,` Pod More spoke, `and I am but one of my sisters, for we have been breeding in secret for many eons, owing to Brains` having unravelled the mysteries of time travel. Although you may think of us as humans, and we are, we are something more. We care. And the humans that you know do not care enough because their brains are infected with the virus. We are here to deliver the human `futrace` from its contamination. We are Pod More.`
 Obviously Pod More was telepathic, Penislop Bitchpot mused. No point in hiding her thoughts, she observed to herself, and made a mental note to tell Pod More not to tell others she was a telepath, because the evil didn`t like having their minds read. Still, it was certainly an advantage over `The Pud` and his evil assistant, Tranny, who wasn`t `futanarian` woman, but war falsies.
`May the Puds be with you!`
 Lady Bitchpot made the traditional three fingered gesture to indicate the cherished hope that one day the human species could walk with a third foot, as the great Greek dramatist, Sophocles had once suggested in his seminal, Oedipus Rex (c. 429 B.C), where the eponymous character, `slow foot`, represented the inability of the male to progress without killing itself and woman`s `futanarian` human species with its own penis` semen:
`What goes on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon and three in the evening?`3
 The riddle is `Man` but Oedipus, that is, `slow foot`, thinks it`s because a man walks with a cane in old age, which he does because he`s a blind fool who`s killed the human `futrace` of `futanarian` woman with her own penis` `seed` and slowed her in her progress to the planets and stars rather than walk beside her `fut`. God had warned Eve in the Bible of men`s `serpent`s seed` and its `perpetual enmity` for her `seed` but promised she would:
`... crush the head of the serpent with her foot as she leaves.` (Gen: 3. 15)
 And her family tree would then bear fruit. Instead of the tobacco industry defoliating large swathes of Brazilian rain forest to grow its leaves. The white cigarette with its glowing ember was a symbol of the white cane of the blind man who had killed or `smoked` the human species of `futanarian` woman with her own penis` semen with their guns, which was the stick envisaged by the Sphinx before the Egyptian city of Thebes, when she asked Oedipus her riddle:
`What walks on three legs in the evening?`
 Oedipus replied `Man`, because he`s crippled in old age and needs a cane to walk with. Cain was the brother who slew Abel, his sibling in the Bible, because he was more able, so the blind man`s white cane, or white cigarette stick with its glowing end, is a symbol of the `mark of Cain`, the murderer, and his gun`s blindness. Oedipus, who blinds himself because he`s married his mother, and men`s incest taboo says he should be punished, is a type of the man fooled by those who don`t want the `incestuous` family of woman, with her own penis` `seed` and developed brains, to breed and escape them, so he walks alone without her `futanarian` foot by his side and, as amongst the hunters of her human species, that is, in-bred, brain damaged cripples, he won`t be able to see his human mother, because men have killed his sight and, eventually, his boy sons will be the poisons of his brain damage that`ll kill them both:
`... somewhere in sands of the desert a shape with lion body and the head of a man, a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, is moving ...`4
 In ancient Greece`s Oedipus Rex, Sophocles` drama, the Sphinx has the body of a lioness, the face and breasts of a woman, and the wings of an eagle, because the woman of Revelation, who gives birth to the New Redeemer, Jesus, in his `Second Coming`, is given `eagle`s wings` to take her to a place of safety in the desert where she`ll remain `hidden`, as she`s `futanarian` woman with her own penis` `seed`, which explains the tradition of Arabian women of being unseen in their one-piece coverall, the abiyah, from which only their eyes can be seen:
`... what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?`
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot left Brains with Pod More and ambled over to the stairway that led to the library off the great hall of Tracey Island`s. She wanted to check a few things in the magazine, Century TV 21 & A Bitch, which always gave some details of the world`s opinion about Tracey and her doings. Tracey was a `star` of the movies, made by Century TV 21 & A Bitch studios, and Thunderpuds was the doyen of news journos everywhere, as they were good copy for feats of derring do and rescues worldwide. It was the `cat stuck in a tree` syndrome. Everybody loved a feelgood story in which some dumb animal got saved from its own stupidity, and the globe was full of brainless imbeciles, if the regular exploits of Tracey Island`s Thunderpuds` International Rescue (IR) vehicles were anything to go by:
 The Century TV 21 & A Bitch `journalist` went on to explain in the article that Isla Foo, Tracey Island`s progeny, felt that her penis wasn`t getting enough attention from her mother and, as a Christian, with a belief in the principles and teachings of Jesus, that is, `the first of woman`s seed` uncontaminated by male semen, born from his `futanarian` mother, the Virgin Mary, Isla Foo had demanded that `Love your neighbour as you love yourself` (Mk: 12. 30-31), which was the injunction of Jesus, as the meaning of God`s law, be applied in her case, so she could go next door and get her penis` `seed` into reproduction and breed some of her own species` brains rather than that her daughters should live brain damaged lives contaminated by the `serpent`s seed` of men.
 That was the front page headline and inside the pages of the Century TV21 & A Bitch newspaper were more stories about the goings on around Tracey island as well as information about the activities of Miss Majorette Scarlet, who was perennially combatting the threat of the Mister Rons from her place at Tara, and Joan Nicely, aged 9, who was senior operator in the World Intelligence Network (WIN), whose aim was to stop it before it started by being intelligent enough to see what the problem was going to be.
 Lady Penislop Bitchpot was most interested in Young Rae, the Century TV 21 & A Bitch `reality series` about the secret submarine aquanaut, Try Dimpest, because she was so unavailable. Marina Aqua Marina was in a double page centre spread revealing her mermaid`s charms, as was usually the case in Century TV 21 & A Bitch rags, and her mad jiggle wobblers could be seen with and without fins, as was the way with mermaids, who were amphibious in water and bipedal on land, or so the Century TV 21 & A Bitch hack would have its readers think, and they probably couldn`t.
 The Aquaphobians were the underwater civilization, culture and art fearful of being devoured with chips and their Queen, Tits, employed a `surface agent`, Six X Zero, to reduce bad sex everywhere, because the very idea of it was having a deleterious effect on Marina Aqua Marina, her friend who wasn`t a slave at all but just liked it a lot. In their city under the ocean, Titsity, the `Phobians were attempting to make contact with Try Dimpest, the lover of Fatlardbutt Sure, the American quasi non-military but uniformedly actionable heroine, who appeared as an archetypal feminist guard protecting the women from knowing about their own penis so that the maliens could safely make the human species of `futanarian` women extinct, in their secret pogroms against her.
 Marina`s pet seal, Bonk, was just there to remind the Greater Seal of the United States of America of its obligation, as the `eagle`s wings` of the women `hidden` in the desert after giving birth to the `New Redeemer`, Jesus, in his `Second Coming`, to protect the hymen of the `futanarian` human mother with her own penis and `woman`s seed` that was reportedly much beloved by God, according to the Bible. Try Dimpest was the aquanaut pilot of the super secret submersible, Young Rae, who never gave up trying her best despite being dim as a 40 watt bulb and a pest. The TV 21 reporter wrote that the current plot involved the disappearance of Young Rae beneath the sea, where Titsity was located but couldn`t be seen, although Fatlardbutt Sure was certain she`d be there, `somehow, someday, somewhere ..,`5 if she followed `every rainbow until she found her dream,`6 whatever that might mean.
 Flipping the pages desultorily, Penislop gathered that Suppercar, and its pilot, Bike Murky, so called because of her being a bike to ride and liking it dark, was having a `Last Supper` in the car in emulation of Jesus`. Bim Gobbles and her `party animal` companion, Bitch Mink, were invited because of their accepting the teachings of the Gospel, and so had been `saved`; for dessert apparently. Unable to conceive of anything, the maliens were eating the human `futanarian` species of `woman`s seed` so that it couldn`t self-reproduce its own brains and escape from the evil maliens.
 Jesus` teachings were to accept the host womb of the woman as guests and not eat her, and so he had given the disciples `bread and wine` as symbols of his `body and blood` in an attempt to train them not to eat the host, but Chewedus had betrayed him to the Rumuns, who`d not wanted `woman`s seed` to breed and so tortured and murdered Christ as a celibate rejector of malien contaminants, such as HIV/AIDS and other brain damage. Despite being `hidden`, the women of the dessert still appeared on the secret menu, because men knew. All they had to do was blind women to knowledge of their own penis` capacity for self-reproducing her own brains` power, and she could be enslaved, hunted and eaten as an ignorant dead race without any brains of her own, but bred only for table and a last good `sup` amongst Chewedus and his mates.
  Brains` breeding program was the solution to the parasites, who weren`t cannibals because they weren`t humans. More properly, the maliens corresponded to the biblical `blood plague` of Revelation, because HIV/AIDS` cells, produced by the maliens in woman rejecting anal intercourse with each other, that is, by mixing blood, shit and semen in their arses, pretended to be the white cells of the human body`s immune system. Like the ancient Greeks before the city of Troy, they invaded the human citadel by leaving a `friendship gift`, corresponding to malien sexuality, which appears in Virgil`s description of the Trojan war, The Aeneid, as a huge wooden horse, from which the `hidden` Greeks, who were insititutionalized homosexuals, emerged to enslave the `host` wombs of women and spread their parastical virus`s contagion of pederasty and war:
`Beware Greeks bearing gifts.`7
 `Greek` was a 20th century euphemism for homosexuality and pederasty and, by the 21st century, the `Trojan virus` was a `geek` metaphor for the contamination of functioning machine systems to prevent `woman`s seed` from growing by infecting them with bad machine code to ensure their collapse and dysfunctionality, which was what men had been doing with the human species of `futanarian` woman with her own penis` semen and capacity for reproducing developed brains cleansed of her `Trojans`. Hollywood, Babylon, had presented heroic leading men for generations as women`s protection, but they aren`t and, in bedroom scenes the rule that women must keep their `foot on the floor`, enforced the taboo against her `futanarian` penis being visible so she`d become extinct without ever being able to raise herself from the bed of her brains` damagers:
`In general passion should so be treated that these scenes do not stimulate the lower and baser element.`8
 As the `hidden` woman of Revelation, `clothed with the sun and with the moon at her feet`, is `the statue of Liberty` with her `torch of freedom` in New York harbour,  so the moon reflected in her waters is `the base`. The Al Qaeda terrorists` flag is the moon and `the base` is what `Al Qaeda` means. According to the developmental psychology of Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961), water is a symbol of the unconscious, which contains what is to be born from the human race`s mind. For humans, `the base` is either evil or what is the foundation, so `Liberty` is the woman whose penis` `seed` is `hidden` beneath her skirts and her child is being kept down beneath the waters of her unconsciousness so the human species can`t be born. Liberty, `clothed with the sun`, was her defeat of the red sun of the flag of Japan in 1945 after the `sneak attack` on Pearl harbor, where the US Pacific fleet lay becalmed, on 7 December, 1941, and where Pearl harbor`s defence was the United States` defending `the pearl of great price` (Matt: 13. 45-6) in the Bible, which is heaven`s `seed` pearl, Woman. The silvery moon at the base of Liberty in her waters of New York harbor is where heaven awaits her `futanarian` foot, traditionally bound by the Japanese to make it more difficult for her to run:
 Having perused the main banner headline and a little of the content of the story about Jenny Trudgeon, sometime `futanarian` co-pilot of Thunderpud 3 spaceship and Thunderbird 5 space station orbiter, Lady Penislop Bitchpot went to see if I`n`t in tin was anywhere to be found. Returning to the vestibule along the great hall of Tracey Island with its framed pictures of the Thunderpuds; Brains, Skirt, Virgin, Dawn, Ellen, Jenny Trudgeon, and Gotdone, the daughter of Tracey Island and the contents of one of Brains` test tubes, who had loved and lust, so now lived aboard Thunderpud 5`s space station communications` orbiter to stop her from getting pregnant again with the `serpent`s seed`.
 Lady Pensislop stopped to muse in front of her own likeness, which became illumined when Tracey Island was communicating with her at Bitchpot`s stately home of Slutbucket Manor in the North West East British Western coastal seaside resort of Wales` provincial backwater, Bustrevealed-On-Tap. But musing wouldn`t produce anything tangible so Penislop Bitchpot of Slutbucket, Bustrevealed-On-Tap, continued on her way to discover I`n`t in tin by the door.
 Imagine her surprise to discover I`n`t in tin and Coco, the famous fashion model, with their nuts in their palms, and I`n`t in tin just about to get it in. Tracey Island was famous for dates because of its palms, so Penislop decided I`n`t in tin was with her date and left while Coco`s nuts were still trembling in the palms. The chauffeur, Shareah-Chair-Sucker-Parker, was standing waiting presciently by the pink limousine that, to some people, looked a lot like a large thingy, and glanced provocatively at the number plate legend, FABRIC 1:
`Now Parker,` said Penislop Bitchpot.
 Wending their way homeward to Bustrevealed, Slutbucket Manor, Penislop and Shareah-Chair-Sucker were sharing the driver`s seat in an unimaginably convoluted entanglement of limbs, mouths and genital equipment. As the tall spires of stately Slutbucket hove into view, Bitchpot and Shareah were growing closer in a deep emotional feeling of togetherness and spiritual awakening that would last until it was time to feed the sealions.
1 Lawrence, D. H. `Wedding Morn`, 1911.
2 Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan Adventure Of The Abbey Grange, 1904.
3 Frazer, Sir James George (ed.) Apollodorus, Library, Apollod, 3. 5. 8.
4 Blake, William `The Second Coming`, The Dial, 1919.
5 Sondheim, Stephen `Somewhere`, West Side Story, 1957.
6 Hammerstein II, Oscar `Climb E`vry Mountain`, The Sound Of Music, 1959.
7 Virgil The Aeneid, Bk II, 19 B.C.
8 Hays The Motion Picture Production Code of 1930, II, Sex (2) Scenes of passion (c).


13/08/2013 22:53

  Star Fukk: The Swingin' Sixties' Generation


Jim Jerk bends forward, beads of sweat flowing copiously from the furrows in his brow as, concentrating furiously, he endeavours to complete what - to millions of fans (Fukkies) and ordinary viewers (Fuckers) all over the world - is affectionately known as the Captain's slog.


'Pardon me sir, but do you think the bridge is the appropriate place for such a gratuitous display of human emotion?'


'When I want your opinion Mister, I'll ask for it!'


'It's most illogical Captain.'


'Damn you Mister Spunk! Coming from a pointy-eared green-blooded alien with a three-inch penis -'


'A regrettable display of animosity Captain - and also grossly inaccurate. Current status is approximately 3.19231456 -'


'Yes, yes Mister Spunk! That will be all!'


'And anyway, with the greatest respect, a quizzically raised eyebrow, a barely-concealed snort of exasperation, and a large proportion of slimy toadying, in comparison with most male members of the Vulgar race, I'm considerably over-endowed.'


'What's this Spunk? A human emotion?'


'To answer your question Doctor Mucky, I believe that the creamy glutinous substance spraying forth in a somewhat haphazard and random fashion from the Captain's now-deflating erection is that concoction to which the people of Earth have given the curiously similar appelation - spunk!'


'Cut the Vulgar analysis Spunk! And get to the point!'


'As you wish Dr Mucky. It is my own personal and considered opinion, a hypothesis if you will,   or perhaps a rough estimate, by my calculations -'


'God damn you Spunk!'


'It has been proven beyond dispute that the existence or non-existence of a supreme being - or God as you insist upon referring to it -   is disprovable. I would therefore suggest - with the utmost respect and creepy grovelling - that -'


'For God's sake Spunk!'


'Doctor Mucky, as I've just explained to Captain Jerk -'


'Please. Please. Mister Spunk! Answer the question!'


'Which question would that be Captain? Within the parameters of the subject currently under discussion, Doctor Mucky's latest irrational outburst sounded, judging from its context, rather like a demand - or perhaps a command (which is wholly inappropriate insifar as I outrank him) - at the very least his

'statement' seemed to contain a categorical imperative -'


Turning to the token black female at the communications console, Jerk wnks - conspiratorially?


'Hey, sweet thang! You didn't think I could wank off onto your tits from here did you Lieutenant Uuunnnh? Ha ha.'


'Looks like a direkt hit to me Kaptin.'


'Shoot to thrill - that's my motto! Now report to the brig and place yourself under arrest Mr Jakoff.'


'May I be   permitted to ask the reason why Kaptin?'


'You may not.'


'Yes sir.'


'But I'll tell you anyway - impertinence Mister! Together with the undeniable fact that you're obviously Russian and this is the U.S.S.Tombolaprize.'


'I'm afraid I don't follow you Kaptin.'


'Do I have to spell it out for you Mister? Propoganda! This, despite the hi-tec (and, indeed, high camp) setting, is a late Twentieth-Century television series in which the great starships that maintain the security of the galaxy are future extrapolations of those ships of the United States which endeavoured to free the oceans of Earth from the threat of Russian communism. If the red menace had succeeded in its quest for global domination, this would be the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics' Spaceship Potato - and you would be giving the orders. As it is, I'm the one who gets to look up Uuunnnh's skirt and you get to be servile and do all the menial tasks. Am - I - making - myself - clear - to - you - Mister - Jakoff?'


'Yessir Kaptin?'


'You - have - a - question - Mister?'


'Why are you speaking in such a - forgive me sir - silly staccato way.'


'I don't - know. It must be - some kind of - Alien vi - rus to - which there is - no known anti - dote. Buns?'


'We haven't got any, but there're some of those chocolate-coated Rice Krispie crunchy things that look like lumps of shit sir.'


'No thank you Ye -oman.They give me con - sti - pation. And I think we've all suffered e - nough from the - Kling -on menace. You're not a Russian - I mean Klingon - spy - are you Jak - off?'


'Niet Kapting.'


'Oh, well that's - all - right then. Buns?'


'How about a banana surprise sir?'


'Not at the mo -ment thank you Ja -nice - I mean Ye -oman. I'll sur - prise you la - ter.'


'In my quarters?'


'If that's - where - you want it.'


'They certainly knew what they were doing when they made you a Rear Admiral sir.'




'I thought you said   later? How about if I suck you off instead?'


'Not now - Janice.You can lick - this - mess off - my chair and Lieu - tenant Uuunnnh's uni - form though. Is everyone here a -sleep?Where's 'Buns' - Muck -y - Buns?'


'It's not my fault Jim. I tuck my pants into my shoes as per Star Fart regulations but that only stops me crapping all over the floor. I know the smell's bad. Perhaps I could wipe my arse more than once a week?'


'Good think -ing Buns! What's your diag - nosis?'


'It's too early to say Captain. We'll have to get you down to the lab and run a few tests.'


'If you - think - that would be appro -priate Doc - tor.Let's watch the nine - teen sixty-four series - in -which - 'Flatulent' Fred - rips -through the Aussie bat - ting like a whirl-wind, blow - ing and toss - ing their stumps - '


'Medical tests Jim.'


'Oh. Ah.'


Jerk flips the switch on his intercom panel.


'Get - me - Engin -eering.'


'Indian earing sore?'






'I - can't - under - stand - what - you're - say - ing - Scrotie - speak - up!'


'Eyesore.The Indians arguin' terrible-oh!'


'Indians? What - are you talk - ing a - bout man? Uuunnnh! Can't you - make - this sig - al an - y clearer?'


'Sorry sir. I'm trying, but the problem seems to be a combination of semen in the mechanism and Chief Engineer Scrotie's peculiar dialect.'


'Eye eye sore. Chief Indian Ear 'ere sore!'


'That you Scro -tie? For God's - sake speak Eng -lish man! You're need - ded up - here on - the bridge. On - the - double. Move!'


'Eye eye sore. Indian earing oot!'


'Make - a note Mis - ter Spunk. Transvest - i - sm is - rife a -mongst the crew - which is all - fine and dan-dy - just so - long as - it does - n't - inter - fere with - the - job of run - ning this - ship! Scro - tie and Ran-di may - stric - tly spea -king be 'cross - dressers' but - when his or ra - ther her - ear - rings pre - vent her from carry - ing out his - that - is her du - ties sat - is - fac - tor - i - ly then some - thing must - be - done to rec - ti - fy the sit - u - a - tion.'


'If I might say so in a crawly-bum-lick-sort-of-way - your condition is deteriorating rapidly sir, and is causing panic amongst the crew. Unless measures are speedily taken to reverse the process, you will cease to exist.'


'Your con - cern is much ap -pre - cia - ted Mis - ter Spunk. But - we have a much more press - ing problem to - deal with - that de - mands our - full attention. A -hem! Supp - le - ment - ary to stand - ing orders. All per - son - nel are hence - forth re - quired to - wear - clip-on jewellery. Buns?'


'Well, that might keep men like Scrotie from rupturing their eardrums with the sharp bits, but it won't stop the drunken wanker from going blind. Isn't this new   regulation going to be a bit difficult to enforce Jim? The idea of Spunk in earings is a little hard to swallow. Spunk's pearl   necklace still sticks  in everybody's throat - '


'He - says it's a Vul - gar tradition.'


'It might taste like it's been in the family for generations, but I blame T ' Cow - his mother was a Yorkshire lass originally wasn't she?'


'No, but be - fore she - married that Vul - gar diplo - mat Embarass - ing Sad - fucker she - did - star in a hor - ror-and-sex-skin-flick as The Cock - suck - er from - Hull.'


'Well, while we're on the subject of excessive drinking, and maybe it's not my place to - fawn, cringe - say so Jim, but isn't it possible that Chief Engineer Scrot might simply be suffering from a bout of influenza?'


'You - mean - he's - pissed?'


'Eyesore. I mean, aye sir.'


'Ex - cell - ent - Buns!'


'Well, I do work out.'


'No, I mean - you've sol - v - ed the rid - dle.' Jerk once more turns to the intercom.


'Scro - tie be - lay that - order!'




'Would - you re -peat that - last - please Mis - ter Scrot.'




'And - fuck - you too - you ig - no - rant Scot - tish bas - tard!'


'Och.Ya dinna unnerstan'. Cunt! C - A - N - apostrophe - T. I'm comin' sore.'


'Well - if - you must - Scrotie. Jerk - off and - out.'




'I heard - that!'


'I think it's a variant. He means 'aye sir' sir.'


'I - don't think so - Muck - y.'


'Yes you do. Remember what you suggested to those blue-skinned babes on Betelgeuse Prime? The poor darlin's we're so flustered they blushed purple. I don't know what you said to 'em Jim, but it must've been pretty strong stuff considering we'd already used up a giant-economy-size-tub of vaseline and a box of surgical rubber gloves (a good thing you're a left-hander or it would've been two boxes).


'Yes - I mean no - that - is I - think Scrot's real - ly - sore - this time. But then - he - should take bett - er care - of - those at - om - ic - piles he's - got - down there - '


'Down where?'


'Please - don't in - ter - rupt Doctor.'


'Well, if it's a medical condition Jim -'


'Yes you - could   - be right. Per - haps an - infection?'


'That would explain why he's 'comin' sore'.'


'Yes, it's lone - ly out here be - tween the - stars. Not much - to do ex - cept pull - your - pud. No won - der we've - all - now got a -sore - Scrot to - deal with.'


'Scrot ear sore.'


'Ah - Mis - ter Scrot. So - you're here - are you? That was spee - dily done.'


'Eye sore! It's all in the wrist action.'


'Sore - wrist too - eh? But - what's all - this - about 'Indians - arguin' terrible o' - or - ha! ha! - have you been hal - luc - in - a -ting due to - your - penchant for - 'wankin' - like billy -o' - eh?'


'Ya dinna unnerstan' Cap'n. I didna sae th' Indian's arguin' terrible.To   tell ye the truth, Second Technician Poontang's as fine a young scalawag with as amiable a disposition as ye'd ever wish ter come across anywheres. The laddie'll do anything ter oblige Cap'n. Anything at all. Aye, he'll bend o'er

back'ards for ye sir - or anyone else fer the matter o' that. Very flexible. A virtual contorshunisht - but with preshus littel virchew. Ya unnerstan'?'


'You've - been drin - king a - gain Scro -tie.'


'Onny a wee dram.'


'Stinks more like a bucket's worth to me sir.'


'An' youse c'n shut yer gob Mucky Buns! Youse reeks wuss thun a bulimic coprophiliac on a binge in a shite hoose.'


'Gen - tle - men. Gen - tle - men. Please. No un - pleasantness. Now, you have - n't ans - wered my ques- tion yet Mis - ter Scrot.'


'Aye sur. Wull, th' enjuns 're guin ter bellow.'


'Still - not - wholl - y with - you there - Scrotie. What - are the 'In - juns 'bellow - ing a - bout?'


'Och, can ye no unnerstan'? The enjun's gunner bloh.'


'Who's this Gun - ner Blöh? Is he a Nor - we - gian? Or - is the in - di - an per - haps forcing a chapp - y from the - weapons' section - to com - mit an - un - natural sex act? Would you be - good e - nough to - apply - your Vul - gar skills and inter - pret for - us - Mis - ter Spunk?'


'I can try the Vulgar headfuck sir?'


'Ye - oman Randi has - n't quite re - covered from that 'demon - stration' you gave - her - Spunk.I - think we were - all - a bit mys - ti - fied at the - um - physi - cality of the - meth - od you used - to e - effect a - close men - tal rapport.'


'Actually sir, I was giving her an ancient and extremely-difficult-for-those-who-do-not-have-a-double-jointed-penis Vulgar greeting. It was taught to my people many bleems ago by Dork from York. Pornu! Pornu! And anyway she hardly felt a thing.'


'She'd be hard pressed to feel your thing Spunk. Ouch!'


'I was merely demonstrating the Vulgar nose pinch Doctor.'


'Unlike certain Vulgar and Disgusting persons I could mention, we-of-Earth don't keep our proboscis between our legs - well, not between our own.'


'What ever it was, you were sticking it out too far.'


'An involuntary reflex. Caused, no doubt, by the memory of how Yeoman Randi, unimpressed with the 'rapport' you achieved with her, 'broke contact' in order to work herself into a frenzy with the Captain's log.'


'I remember it well.You forget that my mother was human. Before Yeoman Randi 'broke it off between us' I had an enormous whang. Fortunately, employing certain Vulgar techniques, I've already managed to restore 1.34562 - '


'Yes Mis - ter Spunk. I'm - sure - that's all ve - ry inter -esting but - can - you trans - late for me - what Scro - tie is try - ing to - tell us?'


'Well, Captain. Unless I'm grievously mistaken, I believe that Chief Engineer Scrot is worried that the 'engine's are going to blow'. Is that not correct?'




'You can say that again. Those ears of yours need pruning Spunk. Ouch! Cut it out! Ouch! I said out not off you Vulgar half-breed. Ow!'


'Don't worry Doctor, I'll teach you a few simple Vulgar hand-grips and you'll be as good as new in no time - well, as Vulgar's measure time. A few thousand years maybe.'


'Damn you Spunk!'


'Gentle - men. Gentle - men. We - have a - serious diff - i - cult - y to - surmount.'


'Why do you carry that log around with you Captain?'


'Sec - urity.'


'But a piece of wood's so - impersonal. Don't you get splinters? Why don't you share my blanky instead? Nice soft warm cuddly - '


'Uuunnnh! Get me - Sec - uri - ty!''


'They're on their way Captain.'










Is Jerk worried about the possibility of his ship having been sabotaged by a person or persons unknown?










'Funny business Jim?'


'The scriptwri - ter seems - to - think so Muck - y.'


'Yes he does doesn't he? The pervert!'


'You sent for me sir?'


'Sec - urity? Yes, strap - me into - this - chair so I - can't move. Believe me - it's nec - ess - ary for the safe - ty of - this - ship!'


'Say please.'


'Please - Mistress..?'


'Sadie.You're such a naughty boy. Always forgetting! Now, lick my boots, beg for forgiveness, and perhaps I won't have to punish you too much.'




'Yes Captain. Ohhhh, yeeaaahhh!'








'What do you suggest we do now - Spunk?'


'That would seem to be the next logical step and, indeed, it is probably the only reasonable alternative left open to us Doctor Mucky.




'Coming sir!'


'You soon will be. Yoohoo Scroohoo!'


'Screw who sir?'




'Yes sir. I'm coming sir.'


'Now, I know you're a raw and untried little wanker Lieutenant Scroohoo, but first try and stick it in her - Buns?'


'I thought you were supposed to stick it in her twat?'




'Coming Spunk!'


'Yes, I can see that they are Doctor. Who's arse is that?'


'Nurse whatever-the-hell-her-name-is's'










Soon the bridge of the Puderation Starship Tombolaprize is a heaving mass of naked limbs and sweaty torsos. Having told Nurse Whatchumacallit that she appears to be running a high fever and that it is therefore necessary for him to insert his 'thermometer', 'Buns' is now mercifully plugging a gash which he has discovered in the nick of time. Spunk, under the pretense of reading a technical manual in a last ditch attempt to prevent the engines from blowing and demonstrate his skills  as an Ac - tor, is  himself being blown by Lieutenant Uuunnnh. She, hampered in this task by Scroohoo - the new and of course bi-sexual toy-boy (at 2' 6" he's reputed to have made-in-Japan-by-Hitachi stamped on a disproportionately large portion of his lower body), is occasionally finding it expedient to hold onto Mister Spunk with her teeth. Jerk's face, alternately screaming obscenities and endearments, is being ridden to ruin by the prickly wire-brush-bush of his tormenting temptress. Scrotie, pissed-as-a-fart-but-not-quite-as-useless, is explaining to Yeoman Randi (without the aid of diagrams) the meaning and purpose of his warped drive. And Mister Jakoff? Yes, you've guessed it! He's down in the brig - jacking off!'










The gleaming silver shape of the mighty starship hangs in the void. Long, tubular, its smooth perfection strangely offset (but nevertheless completed) by the twin bulbs at the rear where the warped energy is stored. Self-sufficient it floats in the vacuum, surrounded by little pricks that wink as if to signal the presence of totally alien but horny-as-hell-and-dying-for-a-shag-like-the-rest-of-us life-forms. Suddenly, without warning, the great hulk, as if experiencing some great but invisible blow, convulses spasmodically. Warped energy, a sheet of pure whiteness bursts from the front of the vessel, the essence of its crew spurting forth to impregnate the warmly fecund (definitely not a Miss) Universe.


'It's life Jim but not as we know it.'


'But - as we - have - to get use - d to - it?'


'Kaptin, I have Paris Hilton onskreen!'


'It's worse than that - we're dead Jim. Dead Jim. Dead!'


'Och, ya cannae change the laws o' physics.'


'Most logical Captain.'

13/08/2013 21:31



The Science Fiction and Fantasy genre is often criticized for its childlike preoccupations to the exclusion of sexual themes, whereas elements of concern to `normal` social interactions are subliminated into generalizations on the theme of abstract evil, which is usually presented as wanting to devour somebody or something; rather than have sex. It could be argued that we`re being taught to view death and destruction as evil, but in excluding sex we`re being told that death and destruction is preferable, which is evil. BDSM `training` is sadistic Nazism; `behaviouralist` sex in which participants are `Pavlov`s dog` salivating for death and destruction. This `spoof` posits Scifi Fantasy as a `dress up`, that is, an excuse to wear sexually exciting clothing. Clothes for the bedroom aren`t for the street, but BDSM clothing is, which seems paradoxical. However, the reason we don`t see the wingéd fairy of sexuality on the high street is because Nazi `behaviouralist` psychology has trained us to prefer BDSM sadism - and pulled her wings off.





Since the disappearance of her father, Princess Dominix feels obliged to accept what - to noone else but herself - are the mystifying whims of the missing king's brother, the Grand Wizard Unkel Spunky Wunky. She is, even now, on  her way to meet with him in the mysteriously titled (to her) Hall of the Great Swollen Glans.


 Pausing half-way down the Staircase of Suckability to pout in the Miraculous Mirror of Mirabelle the Masturbatrix, she stamps her pretty little foot (she'd been doing something very important when the summons came - watching a candy pink cloud as, floating over the battlements of the castle, it changed from looking like a fluffy bunny wunny to looking like an even fluffier one). Now, however, as jagged sparks of orange and green fire fly from the brutalized marble steps, the usually abnormally tranquil face of the Adorable One is contorted with rage.




 One of her attendants, in a futile attempt to circumvent the spell which, for almost eighteen years, has ensured the pristine purity of the princess' perfect pussy, begins to struggle manfully (or rather dwarfishly) with what is evidently a recently, i.e., magically, spot-welded zipper.




 Ah, the irony. Our pert-bottomed princess of pulchritude, despite perceiving the danger which threatens, is handicapped by her dick-brained minion's very name. Watch as, spurred on by her apparent ardour, he misconstrues her cry of warning and, desperate to obey, still struggling to place at her disposal the tool of the trade all dwarves prefer, he trips over his beard and hurtles to his doom.



 Well, it would!ve meant the demise of Knobby the Knob. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your temporal perspective), the squat and ugly one (feet first like a leather-and-metal-cased-dildo which, thanks to some horny little clit with an Electra complex who fears the sound of Daddy's penis extension coming up the drive, finds itself involuntarily ejaculated from its pulsating cave of bliss...) Now, where was I? Oh yeah, well this stunted geezer's boots have, or so it seems at the instant of contact, the good fortune of encountering what, due to the efforts of Fastuh Wankuh, head of  the new Ministry of Correction, is now known by all and sundry as the Perpetual Piston (or, as the hoi-polloi of the gnome kingdom are wont to call it, the Pathetic Pisser) of Dominix's unbendng (well, till now) guardian.




The de faco ruler of all-that-can-be-seen-if-one-stands-on-the-Chair-of-Cheeriness-and-crane's-one's-neck-to-stare-out-of-the-West-Wndow-og-Winsomeness-in-the-manner-of-Someone-Demented, hops about the Foyer of Fucking Forever clutching what are supposed to be known as the Golden Globules of Gonad (but which are actually thoughtof as the Timid Testes of Terence). Dominix  remains  stern.


 'Spunk!' she squeals.



 The speed with which Knobby's stubby frame reacts is astonishing to all those who are privileged to witness it.Rigidly erect he rises from the scene of devastation, quickly replacing the Holey-Helmet-of-Horgasm (a distinctive form of headgear with an opening at the crown that, worn only by the King's elite shock troops, is reputed to signify certain unmentionable favours which the late Queen had been happy to bestow upon their ranks whenever her spouse was  too drunk  even to fart). But before our penis-shaped warrior of love can once more attempt to bring his weapon to bear upon the object of his presumptuous desire, again the deliciously commanding foot strikes lightning  from the floor.




 If it weren't for the strangled sobs normally indicative of a hernia-sufferer, the hunched up figure - gripping its private parts so intensely as it bounds about the Foyer -could pass for a Son of  Onan anywhere in the Realm. Presumably the self-abuser'shead is buried in his groin so as to avoid the (not very) Original Sin of 'casting one's seed upon the ground'? At any rate, such a stance will undoubtedly afford the devoted wanker an opportunityof gulping down the precious ichor before it spills forth onto the marble sterility of the palace floor.


 Luckily for Unky Wunky's shining reputation, not only is it forbidden to jerk off in the presence of royalty but, because of the spell that maintains the virginity of the princess, it is also quite literally impossible to 'come' within fifty feet of her (the palace walls are, however, a bit higher than this, which means that, whenever the princess ventures outside for a stroll, she soon gloomily returns, labouring not only under the misapprehension that it  is always raining outside but that rain is grey, sticky, and comes down from the sky in gobsand squirts).




 The more 'refined' of her Highness' admirers, that is, those who don't spend all their time trying to spatter her with semen from the battlements, have described her voice as trillingly thrilling (yes, it's a little known paradox that, because it's full of fairies, Fairyland's becoming moreand more difficult to find, i.e., it's population is shrinking). The rest of the rabble are, of course, first to admit that they've absolutely no interest whatsoever in anything that comes out of the princess' gob. their only concern is with how to get her to agree to them putting certain things inside that orifice and,once in, letting it stay there until she either chokes or swallows whatever 'comes' next.



 In any event, both sets of royal groupies would be a tad surprised to hear her scream like a ten-minute whore in overtime.However, as it's illegal (a crime punishable by having one's eyes put out and replaced by one's testicles) to ignore a member of the elvish Royal Family (yes, our lost monarch has been known to take advantage of the law in this regard), Unkel Spunky Wunky ('Spunk' being our innocent heroine's 'pet' name for the king's bro'), manages to feign conversation  by the simple expedient of articulating his pain.




 Dominix remains unperturbed.


 'Now, listen here Unk. You've gone too far this time.' She pirouettes on one wicked-looking green-and-pink piece of leather-and-plastic, a spiked thigh-length number that, despite the Fair One's impassivity, seems to be fucking her leg from groin to toe.




 No, that isn't Unk!  That's some palace flunky, excited by the sight of the King's only child spinning like a top in a leather-and-emerald rah-rah skirt, revealing sapphire-encrusted blonde pubic hair and what, if the truth ever needs embellishment, Fastuh Wankuh will call The Beautiful Twin Globes of Arse. But, as any wanker worthy of the title will have made for the battlements at this juncture, we can now count on a few sentences relatively free from interruption.


 'Look at me Unk!'



 The Grand Wizard, galvanized by the sight of his niece exposing herself to the covetous gaze of every passing predator, becomes immediately erect. Unhappily, the rest of his body remains doubled-up in agony. However, every cloud (even those resembling long-eared vermin) has a silverlining, and Unk's anguished posture does afford him the pleasure of tonguing (through the purple latex of his wizard's codpiece) what he's pleased to think of as the 'Orrible Organ of OO-er.


 This is just awful.'


 Dominix now pirouettes on the other sculpted lump of erotica masquerading as shoe-leather.


 'Just lookat this.'


 The Virgin Vixen, heedless of the tumescent tremors she's provoking in the Tremendous Trousers of Thul, throws wide the arms of her black-and-slashed-rubber-tunic, revealing the matching leather-and-chain (and topless) basque beneath.


 'It's too cold to wear this.'


 Cupping a ripely blushing breast in both hands, fingering the silve rnipple-ring that dangles thereon, the Angelic Apparition proffers the entire confection for the delectation of the misshapen ruin that, eyes bugging from its skull, saliva dribbling over its crotch, grunts and snarls before her in pain and horniness - and all to no avail!


 'Look at my nipples Unk, they've gotten all stiff and...well, pointy!'



 The sight of a near-naked nymph, encased in rubber, plastic, jewels, steel studs and leather, glowering hotlyand playing shamelessly with her erect nips - it all proves too much for the Old wiz. Hurling himself from the young temptress, he stumbles towards the Corridors of Carnality. Alas, today the Decrepit One is destined not to receive the soothing caresses of Candy, Mandyand Sandy, the Three Scrubbers of Sidcup. Fifty feet from our all-unawares prick-teaser, he falls thrashing to the floor, pools of gluey wetness oozing from his nether garments.


 'Well, I'm not going to wear these horrid clothes any more!'


 Oblivious to  the wizard's flops and moans, our fetishist's wet dream advances to wag her finger at the fucked-out heap who, released from suffering by the holocaust of pleasure that, so recently, wracked his puny frame, delivers his tried-and-tested speech of admonishment.


 'Hold child! What,do you think I enjoy seeing you dressed in Barabarian garb? 'Tis not for pleasure that I ask thee to decorate thyself in this way. 'Tis for the sake of thy father, the King. Is't not written in the Book of Quim the Hairy that, when the Squirmy Tubular One enters the Cavern of Kunnht, then will there be such a Flood as only the Child of a King shalt survive it?'


 Dominix yawns.Theology bores her. Absently, she caresses her be-ringed teats.






 The wizard's face grows hard (as does the bulge in his orange spandex flares).


 'Know then, that until thy father returns  to reclaim his throne, thou must continue to drape thyself in shiny gear!'



 The form of the vicious septuagenarian insinuates itself across the carpet of the Foyer, humping the floor in its progress. Dominix gives it a few parting jabs with the sharp spear of a stiletto heel, a kindness to which the all-but corpse responds by increasing the frequency of its pelvic thrusts.


 'Come, Knob! We go to seek my father!'


 After watching our pocket Venus ride from the castle gates to a distance of fifty feet or so (thereby providing him with the chance to extract sweet hot tears of joy from his ponker), Knobby finally comes... Sorry, that should read: Knobby finally comes to realize... Yeah, that's it! Realization! Knobby finally realizes that the princess' second sentence qualifies her first. Hey ho!





 About a mile out, the curiously matched pair (tall, vital, slender, horse-riding elf-maiden, and twinkle-legged, knackered and gnomish foot-and-penis-slogger) note a ribbon of oily smoke travelling at speed in their direction.


 'What do you think it is?'


 Knobby observes how, all-unconscious of what she does, the moist maiden rubs her mound of fur lasciviously against cool soft leather.


 Could it be that 'ere dragon we bin 'earin' s'much 'bout missy?'


 But the sensation of leather-on-fur-on-flesh drives all other considerations from the mind of the beauteous minx. Raising herself in the stirrups, eyes gleaming feverishly, again and again she slams her slippery cunt onto the pommel of her mount's saddle.



 There is an earth-shattering roar, a dreadful rushing as of a mighty whirlwind, the appalling stench of petroleum waste products.


 'Oi 'tink it's one o' they mortals ma'am. They come 'ere now an' then - drugs loik. Y' know, mushrooms an' such. Trippin' they calls it. Tek care. They ain't bounden by the magik of oor wurld.'


 Bestride their path stands a chromium beast, its rider bedecked in shiny blackness, helm opaque, gauntlets flexing, strangling raucous power from his steed.

 'Fancy a fuck?'


 Dominix is nonplussed.


 'A what?'


'Come 'ere darlin', I've got summat fer yer.'


 Knobby interposes his stumpy girth betwixt the lovers, but the human either fails to see him or else deliberately kicks the dumpy pest into a ditch. Dominix applauds.


 'Bravo, Sir Knight!'


 Grabbing a bundle of flaxen tresses in one be-studded claw,  the greaser assists her to dismount.


 'Gosh, aren't you strong?'


 The slap he bestows upon her is almost perfunctory as, eager to please, the merrily giggling girl coo's and ah's, wondering at the purpose of the fleshy pole he wields in his leather-clad fist.


 'Ooh, let me.'


 Quick to learn, the sweet young thing spreads wide her silken thighs and smiles beatifically up into the sunshine as, slavering and cursing, her ravisher squeezes out his meagre offering.


 'Is that it?'


 'Fraid so bitch. But theres always my trusty charger.'


 'I might be a bike but I'm not fuckin' one mate.'


 Her curiousity piqued, Dominix directs her swain to a three-pin socket situated in the trunk of a nearby oak-tree.


 'We might be feudal here, but we're not backward. Think of it as a theme park.'




 'Yeah, that too.'


 'No, me batt'rys are recharged already - magical.'


 'Oh, you want to do that again?'


 She is less-than-enthused.


 'No, I've got something better.'


 He takes from his rucksack a finely chiselled tool, a missile shaped technological boon, a never-limp dick. Flipping the switch, he stares into her sea-green eyes and closes her fingers around the vibrating stem of the smooth plastic shaft. Blissfully she lies back, gently inserting the softly throbbing rubber tip, gratefully discovering the glories of clitoral stimulation. He watches for a while as, slowly at first, then faster, a gouging blur of need, she digs for the treasure of orgasm. Then, bored with the biological imperative, he turns to deal with weightier matters.


 'Now, where did I put me spanner?'





 Careless of the breeze toying wantonly with the spun gold of her coiffure,our lusty wench, a pillion passenger strapped like luggage to her man's Monstrous Engine, listens to the mellifluous AC/DC grinding out Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be (or are they chewing razor blades?), and is instantly converted to Rock Chickdom.


 'Yeah, like wow! Far out!'


 'Shut it bitch! What the fuck's that?'


 Knobby could've told, but the truncated cretin is several miles away, thankful for the loan of the princess' erstwhile transport, but worried lest she bestow her new found nymphomaniac talent wholly upon her neanderthal captor.


 Dominix is blasé.


 'Oh, that. Just a silly dragon. It's been pillaging hereabouts ever since my father the King went AWOL. Y' know, sodomizing barns, raping outhouses, eating pussy - cats, that is (we think he's dyslexic or something). Anyway, that sort of thing.'


 The iron-brown eyes of Buz the Bastard narrow in calculation as, brain-can now discarded (no cops to enforce for-your-own-good-bureaucracy in Pixie Paradise), he considers the import of her words.


 'Bugger me! A King eh?'


 'Well, mummy alwayscalled him the Goblin King, but I don't think she liked him really. I remember lying in bed all night, kept awake by her moaning 'No, please. Stop goblin. Yes. No. Please. Stop goblin!' Perhaps he had some kind of eating disorder? Bulimia maybe?





 'Don't think so, but he adored linguini.'


 As the pair approach the fearsome apparition, it  seems to shimmer and melt in the afternoon haze. No longer are they faced by a flame-throwing Colossus with ten-inch incisors and a dong that Kong would've envied. Instead there's a wizened old man, waving feebly with one hand while manipulating his flaccid phallus with the other.


 'Ah, daughter. 'Tis good to see thee.'


 Confusedly, the old chap puts away his ridiculous implement.


 'A spell, dear daughter. My brother, the wizard.'


 He gestures ineffectually.


 'Nice clothes.'


 Dominix smiles non-committally.


 'This is my boyfriend, Buz.'


 'Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.'




 There is a brief calm interlude. Then, huffing and puffing, having  been thrown by his horse when it 'refused' (his amorous advances), Knobby arrives (hopefully carrying a punchline somewhere about his person).


 'Are yer orlroight sor?'


 'Oh, certainly Knobby. The evil spell cast by my hateful sibling could only be broken by an aggressively macho troglodyte with a penchant for sado-masochism and shiny apparel. Many thanks, my son.'


 By way of acknowledgement, Buz slips a grimy paw inside the bodice of his bride-to-be, mauling her breasts, getting everything all messed up and rumpled.


 Knobby grins.


 'Duz this mean oi won't be punished fer kickin' yer bruther in 'is bollox then?'


 Dominix is outraged.


 'Don't be ridiculous  Knobby! I shall personally string you up by your balls, torment your penis with a cruel contraption, and belabour your buttocks with a many-thonged thongy thing.'


 'Oh, thankee missy. Stric' but fair, that's you mistress; an' oi don' care 'oo knos it!'


13/08/2013 21:30



Alice In Wonderland and Alice Through The Looking Glass were written by the nineteenth centrury mathematician Charles Dodgson using the pseudonym Lewis Carroll. Most critical analysis focuses on his relationship with Alice Liddell, who was the protoype for Alice and Dodgson`s often accused of being a pedophile because of it. In simple terms, if Alice were Britney Spears, and Hit Me Baby One More Time was the `rabbit hole`, Wonderland would be what Dodgson would have wanted to write, which is what the following `spoof` supposes.




Alice in Nudieland



Professor Dongson, soon to be world-famous as Lewis Carnal, author of Alice  in  Nudieland, is fisting a rabbit's hole.


 'Come and see this Alice.'


 His young charge, on day-release from Dike Hall; the nearby girls' borstal, takes time out from doing what she's doing with her busy little fingers. Discarding her copy of Big Dicks in Bigger Women, she pulls up panties emblazoned with the simple but effective logo, 'Screw me I'm Good', smoothes down her red rubber mini-skirt,and ambles over to watch the fun.


 'Why're ya doin' that Prof?'


 The learned old gentleman, nails in up to the elbow, probes the hillside orifice with gusto.


 'Observe child.'


 As her guardian-for-the-day vigorously thrusts his hirsute and varicose-veined arm in and out, the focus of his endeavour begins to pulsate, contracting and dilating in rhythmic waves of (presumably) bliss.


'Curiouser and curiouser,' says Alice, 'it's got a big pink clit just like mine.'


 Stretching forth her own expert digits, she proceeds to rub and caress the strange protuberance, all the while manipulating the professor's own pleasure pole through the electric-blue fabric of his far-from-Conservative cum-stained loons.


 'That's the ticket girlie, see how big it's gettin'?'


 The maw before them is, indeed, beginning to yawn. But the increasing frequency of the orgasmic undulations points to a culprit other than Boredom. Alice, teetering on the brink of her Great Adventure, seeks to keep a grip. But our member of the intellegentsia is having none of it. Spurting within its trousered domain, the spent snail of lust, grateful for the crevice of safety beckoning from between the Twin Rocks of Spermatazoa, crawls back into its shell. Bereft of her ever-dwindling link with the world of sunlight and sin, Alice Diddle plunges into the rabbit's private place like a shipwrecked sailor in search of (some sort of) satisfaction.





 But hark! What is that sound we hear rumbling and tumbling up from the pit below? Ah, mayhap the hysterical harlot should've kept her gob shut? She'll certainly have to now! 'Tis a tidal wave of creamy fluid goo, rushing forth seemingly at her behest, to choke and drown the young yah-hoo with an unpalatable and, indeed, unswallowable (try as she might with all her practised perfection in porno-pix) draught. Realizing her predicament, with a mixture of delight and dismay (but never disgust), the dainty damsel locks her  lips, clamps her nose, and (still seeking to bring honour to the family name) prepares to deliciously diddle despite drowning dreadfully.





 The sweet and sour second is so-soon spent. Sopping soddenly from every square of her suckable skin, smiling somewhat secretively, she ceases to stroke her shaven slit, and suddenly slams into a shoddy shelf with a shifty sheen.


 'Bloo Jeli?'


 Taking down the receptacle which, as Esther Rantzen would once have redundantly informed us, looks a lot like a man's thingy, she prises open the peculiarly shaped cap and, squeezing the conveniently located bulbous pertuberances, causes a jet of the sticky hot fluid to squirt down her eager-to-accept-it throat.


 'Ooh, I feel all funny.'



Her breasts, but recently grown to womanhood, seem overly-sensitive. Not uncomfortably so, but rather pleasingly. As if, Alice muses, her current companion in incarceration, that is, Keyhole Kate the Voyeuristic Virgin (well, as far as penile penetration is concerned), is teasing her nips into admitting their owner's perverted preference.




 Bursting out of a wet T-shirt that would win her first prize anywhere in the civilized world, a garment boasting the legend 'If you can't fuck it or eat it, piss on it!', Alice's mammary's swell to  a ginormous size and, borne up by their miraculously inflated girth,she floats to the floor in flummoxed fankfulness.




 Reasserting its authority, Gravity hurls the top-heavy temptress to her knees - and keeps her there. 'A good job too,'  I hear you cry as, grappling enthusiastically with man's best friend, far from delivering the doubled-up-dike from her dilemma, you prepare to give the dog a bone of diverting dimensions.


 'Wot's this?'


 Dangling before a dingy doorway, the oval shape of Dumpy Humper swings seductively. About her neck hangs the sign 'Fuck me' as, egging on our horny heroism, her thighs spread ever-wider in bawdy invitation.


 'U can't cum thru 'ere wi' titties as fat as they is luv.'


 Alice eyes  the undistinctive whiteness (apart from the hairline fracture oozing pus-yellow from between too-spindly-to-do-it-standing-up legs) of her rotund (too-gross-to-risk-lying-down-to-do-it-and-then-not-be-able-to-get-back-up-again) interrogator.



 'Button-it tit-head!'


 As if to comply, the eggy Buddah assumes a crotch-closing yoghurt position.


 'U can't cum in 'ere anyways.Yer a gurl, an' gurls ain't got no willies, an' yer've gorrer fuk me afore yer c'n cum in 'ere anyways. Yah!'


 Inspired by a burning need to fuck up this whorey oldhag, Alice allows her gaze to wander till it alights upon a prettily wrapped package bearing the label 'Use Me'.


 Unfortunately, Gravity prevents her from purloining the item from the table upon which it sits.The best she can do - taking care not to rupture her too-ample bosom on the stone tilesof the vestibule - is bounce towards it like Siamese twins riding Space-Hoppers-in-tandem.


 'Try the stuff in the jar dearie.'


 'Eh? Oh, good egg!'


 Having slipped into the Billy Bunterish vernacular of the Public School System, thereby betraying her middle-class origins, Alice greedily sucks off some more of the juicy blue jism, and is rewarded by seeing her tits expand exponentially.


 'Thanks baldy.'



 Floating up to grab the interesting-looking parcel (That's Life!), our nubile nympho tears away the brown-paper-without-any-distinguishing-mark-on-it-anywhere-whatsoever ('cept for a discretely tasteful memory jogger - BUY YOUR SEX TOYS AT SEX TOYS - stamped throughout like lettering in seaside cock-rock), and returns to base weighed down by the heavy immensity of her  vibrating baton of victory.


 'No dearie, that won't do yer any gud  at all. Yer c'n onlie gain entri if'n you fux me fust, an apple-eye-aunts don' cownt fer nowt.'


 Dejectedly, Alice inserts the buzzing behemoth between the pouting petals of her own palace of pearly pinkness.But despair turns to solace as, wriggling maniacally, she heaves her gobblesome groin heavenwards. And yet, what's this? Our sweating sweetheart is experiencing some difficulty with her persistent plastic plungings.The course of tool-love never runs smooth (batteries running out, daddy banging on the bathroomdoor (?!), unwilling-to-treat-it-as-a-spectator-sport boyfriend, etc, etc.), but this is ridiculous. Sprouting from her hairless snatch, Megaclitoris (long thought extinct by palaentologists) rears its blind ugly head in quest of Lezzie prey.



 'Ah.Um.Th' funnin' abaht yer tits luv? Jus' jokin' loik.'


 Alice, inserting her egg-scrambler, is determined to shaft the 'orrible ovoid till she cracks.


 'The yolk's on you.'


 Reduced to a mere shell of her previous self, the eggy bitch, in a peculiarly total display of female ejaculation, both literally (onto the WELCOME TO WANKERLAND doormat) and metaphorically, spills her jaundiced guts.


 'Ah, fuckit! Op'n Sezme!'


 The oaken portal creaks open to reveal - a disembodied cat's head grinning oilily.


 'Greetings babe!'



 'Wot're you laughin' at?'


 'Don't you just wish you knew?'


 'Beat it buster.'




 A thick jet of sticky spunk squirts out of thin air and onto Alice's now-deflated-but-still-tittilatingly-tormentative bare breasts.


 'Ugh! You bastard!'


 'Allow me.'


 The fairly famished feline flasher, face foam-flecked with fuck, far-from-finickily feasts from Alice's front. Finally finished flicking its flexible (tongue), it flashed friendlily (smiles) and fucks off (fucks off).


 'Whatever you do sweetie, don't miss the E-party.'


 'Shouldn't that be T-party?'



 Alice, it seems, is now addressing empty air. Well, almost. Apart from a few weak grey gobs that, emerging from the ether like pigeon's diarrhoea, besmirch and bespatter our buxom's bootiful boobies.




 Off in the distance someone somewhere is playing a nineties' re-mix of an old and much-loved 'classic'.


'Twinkle twinkle Cheshire Cat,

No balls! Not out! Still in! Th-wack! 

Oh, to grin a grin like that,

While fucking one`s twat with a cricket bat.'



'Curiouser and curiouser,' quoth Alice, 'I wonder who's at the crease?'


 Feigning nonchalance, she strolls across rolling lawns, under a few mouldy-and-diseased elm trees, and into a clearing containing three Ravers.


 'Bloody'ell, it's that weird techno-band The Mad Fuckers!'



 Amid an orgy of pill-popping, arm-gesticulating, and unguessable sexual orientation, Alice strives to figure out what-the-fuck's-happenin'. Apparently, MC Mad-Bastud-in-a-Hat is trying to stick Ice-T Dormouse up the arse of Mad March, an addled and delapidated Hare Krishna freak.


 'Excuse me. Isn't that, well, sort of illegal?'


 'Don' be fuckin' ridic'lous shite-fer-brains! Ice-T luurrvvs it.Want some E?'


 'No thanks, I'll have some tea though, if you've got any.'


 'Wiv ice?'


 'That would be acceptable.'


 'C'mere yer squirmy rodent! Bend over baby, 'ere I cums!'


 Rather flustered after her near-fatal encounter with the seamier side of psychedelia, Alice stops running just long enough to get her breath. Struck by something gleaming in the grass (hmmmm), she stoops to pick up what looks like a zipper from a pairof men's slacks. Searching for some sort of identification, she comes across a tag with Bread-and-Butter-Fly written on it in indelible ink.


 'I wonder if...'


 Unzipping the strangely compelling object, she steps back in wonderment as a loaf of French bread - looking a lot like a thingy and carrying a tub of lurpak - pops out, round, up her latex skirt and down the back of her ludicrously lumpy lingerie.


 'Help! Help! I'm being buggered against my will bya creepy croissant - and it's illegal in this country too!'


 'When in France, ma cherie.'


 'But this isn't France!'


 'Home is,'ow you say, where ze 'eart ees?'


 'Speaking of which, the way to a girl's heart isn't through her bowels. Now, if you cut that out, I'll promise to gobble you down instead.'


 It felt a little odd to have a thingy praise her  to the skies while she gobbed it, but - C'est LaVie!  Anyway, anything's better than nothing when you're starving (guilt-laden masturbators and squeamish proponents of oral-hygiene please take note; there's an awful lot of protein in a cubic centimetre or so of spilled semen: so,what with all the famine and starvation here, there and everywhere, think of it as your duty not to waste it).




 Alice, her reverie broken, scans the horizon for the source of this fellatus-interruptus.


 'Stratospheric, chicky baby.'


 Craning her neck, she peers into the foliage of  the tree that has provided cool shelter for her randy repast. Only  to realize that the shade is provided by the parasol of a huge mushroom - with an occupant, a quite obviously stoned caterpillar-type dude wearing mirror-sunglasses, toking on a hubblie-bubblie, and listening to 'White Rabbit' by sixties' sensations Jefferson Airplane.


'One pill makes your cock big,

And one pill makes it small,

And the ones that are illegal,

Let you fuck anything at all.'



 'That's not how I  remember it. There's something very wrong here.'


 'How's your version sling it groove mutha?'


 'I'll try, but the atmosphere around here, it's making it difficult to think straight. Let me see...


'One pill gets your clit hard,

And one pill makes it soften,

And the ones that are illegal,

Let you do it more and often.'



 'No, that's not right either.'


 'Who cares? Mellow out sweet thang. Light my candle. Lay it on me. Play with my pistil. Caress my cutesy pie. Finger my flubjous Frampton. Stroke...'


 'Hold on!  What was that last?'


 'Flubjous Frampton?'


 'Yes, that's it.'


 'Well, flubjous is a made-up word. To me it means fucked-up and forgotten. To you, it'd probably mean something along the lines of pissed-on and past-it.'


 'And Frampton?'


 'Seventies' cockney rhymin' slang fer dick-headed rock-star.'


 'Ah, it's all very esoteric isn't it?'


 'Aw fuckit.Yer wanna cumon up 'ere an' get yersel' laid or  yer wanna stan' aroun' jawin' alla fuckin' day?'


 'There's no way up.'


 'Jes chew on a piece o' mush slit! Somethin'll 'appen.'



 Breaking off a random pice of mushroom, Alice puts it in her mouth and immediately begins to hallucinate. Suddenly it's an edited-out-and-throwed-away scene from the 1950s B-movie Revenge of the Fifty-Foot Woman. Picking up our now-erect-and-panting-for-it green squirmer, Alice proceeds to use him as a living dildo. Lying back with legs apart for hands-free self-abuse, she gives the vegetarian voluptuary his head, and is soon ecstatic to find him giving 'head' in return as, expertly mouthing her clit, 'the safest-sex 'cos testicle-less' screw-loose loose-screwer screws 'er.




 'Off with his head!'


 Surprised in mid-orgasm, Alice sits bolt upright to see a gardener's spade separating most of her from most of her lover.


 'What the f..?'


 'Silence peasant! You were caufght inflagrante delecto - I pride my self on knowing the law backwards.


 'Do you know it forwards at all? My knickers are in shreds!'



 'Silence.You were caught committing the mortal sin of insectiality, a crime punishable by death. What do you have to say for yourself?'


 'Insects are people too.Anyway, he was a good fuck.'


 'Off with her head!'


 'Come near me with that Jack, and I'll tear you in half, your nothing but a pack of cards anyway.


 'Do you play?'


 'Sure Queenie. Lead me to it.'


 'You can be the quarterback.'




 'American Football. Know it? It's all the rage around these parts.'


 'Well, yeah, I c'n play if'n you show me how?'


 'Right. See this?'


 'The ball?'


 'Yup.  Now, as the quarterback, your job is to take this and throw it to a 'wide-receiver' who runs it in for a 'touchdown'. Right?'




 'Wrong! It's a whole diff'rent ballgame in this here town of Sore Groin, Nudiana. The way  we plays it, the quarterback - that's you sweet snatch - gets open real wide 'n' then we stick this here oddest-shaped-object-on-the-field inside ya. Get the picture? Okay, first down an' ten!  Ah'd advise ya to run honey chile, cos we's madder 'n' a coon's cunt in a Christmas cracker!


 Needing no further prompting, Alice hurtles down the field at breakneck speed. But it all seems so futile when, furious at being cooped-up inside all that surplus NASA space-gear, everyone's 'end' is 'tight' and they're all looking to you to loosen it for 'em.


 'Okay, okay! Gimme the goddam ball! Ya c'n play wid yorselfs if'n yer wants, but this motherfucker gets to do the inserting herself! Okay?'


 Stunned by Alice's vehemence, the All-American All-Pro All-Faggots All-Stars halt in mid-stride, throwing her just enough off balance so that she falls headlong into a chasm that,somewhat contrivedly, has materialized to gape up in admiration at our hot-to-trot-tottie's knickerless botty.




 Everything went black, but she awakens to find the professor attempting to provide  mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.


 'Wrong end Prof.'




 'Yeah. Right.'


 Kicking aside the drooling heap of white hair and dishevelled clothing, Alice asks the inevitable question: ''Did you use a condom?'


 'Don't you want to hear how I fisted the rabbit's hole till it ejaculated and - pop! - out you came?'




 'Ungrateful wretch! That's the last time I let myself be inveigled by the Ladies for Licking Lust out of Leicestershire into treating a Lost Lascivious Loser like you. Pah!'


 'Fancy another fuck?'


 'Alright then.'




 As the mismatched pair - crapulous crinkly and butter-soft bimbo - get stuck in and stuck on, they fail to notice the hasty arrival and hastier exit of a floppy-eared pink-eyed albino as it consults a fine gold watch-on-a-chain dangling from the hip-pocket of its tackily twee turquoise waistcoat.


 'Too late! Too late! Always just too late!'


 'Not this time Prof, I'm therrrrrrggguuuuhhhhh!' said Alice.

13/08/2013 21:27



Behaviouralism is the belief in the psychological adjustment of individuals, by means of drugs, electric shocks, or other froms of physical and spiritual coercion, to condition. The flaw is that conditioning is debilitating. If you`re taught to push a button for a banana, you`ll push it; even if you receive electric shocks, which is `aversion` therapy, because you don`t want to starve and so you`re averting starvation. In Sophie`s Choice, Maryl Streep is asked to give up one of her children to the Nazi camp guard and, because you can only be born a jew from a jewess, Sophie chooses to give her son, and keep a fmother of the future. This is behaviouralist `aversion` therapy also, and led the Nazis to `games` in which grandma lived if mummy pressed the button that`d result in her son`s electrocution.



 Behaviouralists believe in conditioning. The oft cited example is `Pavlov`s dog`, which was `trained` to salivate whenever a bell rang. The basic premise of the ensuing spoof is that the central protagonist is conditioned by his behaviouralist partner to `respond` to whatever she wants him to, which is why behaviouralism is sadist. The antidote to behaviouralist Nazism is developmental psychology, notably that of Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961), who advised that achievement through work was the key to successful functioning within society, and Christian Redemption, rather than responding salivatingly to whatever stimulation the  `programmers` use for sedation.



'Ride!' she said


MAP had been walking all night long, looking for he knew not what. Then it found him. When the white limo oozed in to the kerb beside him, he assumed the  driver to be in need of guidance, that is, until the black glass slid down to reveal the rich young floozy in the rear. If the car said nothing else, it told him she had credits.


 There was no foreplay.She simply reached across to push the palm of her hand against his crotch.He didn't back away, just stood there leaning forward to let her red-tipped fingers claw at the meat beneath his jeans.


 'Hi!' she said.I'm Pat Horner.'


 'MAP,' he told her.


 It felt good. Not so much what she was doing, more the how and the where.He decided to give her a taboo-breaking gesture of his own.


 Steppng back out of reach he could see her face. Black eyes, blonde hair, red lips, ivory pale skin, and bared white teeth. She was angry, but not for long. He showed himself to her, right there in the street.Just took it out and let it stick up in the cool air like he had a right. She came half-way through the window to get at him, tits wobbling out of her dress as she pumped away at his cock. He didn't touch her; never even made a sound. But she sensed when he was coming.Unable to speak because of the strain, her mouth opened and closed like a fish.The signal was clear enough, but he wanted to show her who was boss. Pushing her hand away, he replaced it with his own, wanking hard, lurching towards her.


 She was hanging there exhausted, half out of the car, arms dangling, only her head alert, the mouth a lusting O, tongue lolling loose, eyes closed in anticipation.But the open invitation was ignored.Taking hold of her hair, he pulled back her head. They held each other's gaze, as sticking his cock between her tits, he jerked out his juice. That's blown it, he thought, she'll be really angry now. However, despite an irritated glance at the stickypatch on the front of her dress, she seemed okay with it.


 'Let's go for a ride,' she said.


 There was a glass panel between them and the chauffeur. She flipped a switch and it became opaque. MAP was aware that, just because he couldn't see the driver, it didn't necessarily mean the driver couldn't see him. Maybe the guy was going to watch and wank? How, he wondered, would he be able to drive as well?


 'Get naked,' she told him.


 He watched her slip out of her ruined  frock - and that was it - she didn't takeoff another stitch. Not that she needed to. With her back to the door, she swung her legs out onto the seat beside him, one hand gently tweaking the red bullets of her nipples as they poked out from the peep-holes of a scarlet bra, while the other took advantage of the opportunity afforded by her open-crotch panties.



 She produced a plastic tool, observing his face as she slipped it in and out of her twat. He was able to hear the slurpy, sucky, slappy, sloppy sounds it made as, with slow deliberation, she thrust it in and drew it out, in and out, in and...plop...out.


 Drawing his attention to the fact that the base was hollow, she pushed it all the way in and left it there. She'd had the batterie sready in her hand all along.When the buzzing started, she lay back to watch how he'd react. He marvelled how she kept it there, legs spread wide, using only her cunt, held it there and held off the orgasm that was building.


 She was fighting for control now, back arching with the twin white globes of her pertly provocative derriére clenched tight, and her belly shuddering, sweat dripping slowly into her navel and bush as, fingers flexing, she refused to soothe her breasts.Through all of this, it was the fact  that she was able to resist attending to the ache in her breasts, that indicated she remained in control.



 He didn't doubt her physical ecstasy, though she sat up to look him calmly in the eye when it came. From the neck down her body thrashed around spastically, but her eyes maintained she hadn't gone away.


 A sharp pain in his arse was enough to break the spell. She'd derived part of her pleasure from the mirror-image he'd presented. As  she'd dug away, he'd played slowly with himself, letting her watch the little slug he rolled between finger and thumb become a shiny club of muscle encased in his moving fist.


 Lying with his legs apart and his knees up, staring through the V in hypnotized fascination, he hadn't seen how she'd stretched out her shoe top uncture his pants with the spike of its red steel heel.He froze in panic, but she smiled confidently, rooting gently, probing his anus with her stiletto.


 'You're not undressed,' she said.


 Nervously he sat up, drawing away from her and fumbling for the door.



 'But we haven't done anything yet,' she pouted. 'Anyway, we're moving.' 'So stop,' he said. But the fact that they were in motion seemed to settle things. He found himself allowing her to bend over his still throbbing prick, her long blonde hair concealing from view what ever it was she intended to do.But he was ableto feel, and he felt her tongue dart into his worm's blind eye, seeking to provoke its hot sweet tears.He ground his buttocks into the animal-warm leather of the seat as she sucked his dick in down to the root; then, using her tongue and teeth to scrape and lick, her head began to gently bob up and down.


 His left hand moved down to grope the cheeks of her taut little bottom. Inserting his thumb into her asshole, he sent his fingers in search of her clit, his other hand manipulating the cherries on her tits, carefully twisting and pinching them until, with a groan, she began to slurp noisily. The sound of a woman enjoying her cock had always been too much for him, so flexing his left hand like he was squeezing a sponge, he gripped the nape of her neck with his right, and held her poised, ready to gulp down his spunk.


 'That's great, whore,' he whispered. 'Bite me, baby and I'm there.'


 Disconcertingly, she stopped instead.


 'You still dressed?' she reminded him.


 Disbelief. He pleaded with her to finish him off, but she was cool as iceberg, totally unrelenting, until finally he gave in and tore off his clothes.



 'I want you to try something new,' she told him.Unlocking a panel in the roof, she indicated an iron bar which was apparently part of the vehicle's superstructure.


 'Hang on to that.'


 Curious, he raised his arms. She opened a similar panel on the floor.


 'Put your feet in there.'


 He obeyed.


 'Okay,' she smiled, 'now release your grip.'


 He tried. God knows he tried. But it couldn't be done.


 'Electric current,' she explained. 'Not painful, but enough to make your bones lock.Of course,' she laughed, 'I can turn up the voltage if you like?'



 She put on what he assumed were rubber gloves.


 'Always practise safe sex. Insulate,' again the dark laughter, 'yourself from others.'


  She then straddled him so that his chin touched her spine. Holding his knob between finger and thumb, she gingerly lowered her arse onto its tip, hovering for a moment as if undecided what to do next.


 Then with a quick little thrust and a sharp cry, she forced him to penetrate her. Abandoning herself to sensation, she writhed up and down like a monkey on a stick; both hands busy in her snatch, while buggering herself with his rod. He spunked up almost immediately, semen dripping from her brown button in sticky grey gobs, soaking his pubic hair, and spattering her buttocks as she frantically rode his dick now increasinly limp.



 She tried stiffening him electrically, but that didn't work (although she seemed to enjoy his pain). Undeterred, she made some modifications; cuffing his hands to the bar and shackling his feet to the floor. When she discarded the gloves, he knew that the current had been turned off.


 But when she injected fluid into his testicles, he despaired.


 'What do you feel?' she asked him.


 'Nothing.' It was the truth. He couldn't feel anything. 'Part of you,' she gestured at his swollen member, 'still feels.'


 This time she used her golden pussy; riding him face to face, kissing his mouth, biting his tongue, chewinghis lips, raking his torso with her blood-red -and finally bloody -nails.


 He hadn't felt the hard-on induced by the drug, but obviously she'd been able to. With him helpless, she'd let herself go; feet placed firmly on the floor, squealing like a stuck pig. She proceeded to bear down, plastering his cock with her cunt, squirming around like a rutting bitch. He'd observed her display dispassionately. She was an ugly fucker. The sexiest thing he'd ever see, sure. But she fucked in an ugly way. Like an animal. A carnivorous beast, he thought, glimpsing a blood-flecked ribbon of drool emerging from slack-but-satiated lips.



 She rolled off him. 'Sorry, baby,' she gasped, 'but it was the only way to keep you horny, you understand?'


 He nodded. 'Yeah.' He rattled his chains.'You want to take these off?'


 She grinned up at him. 'No.'


 From somewhere under the seat she obtained another syringe.


 'The antidote?' he asked hopefully.


 'Sort of.'


 She speared his balls, and his cock felt stiff.


 'No more,' he pleaded.


 'Wait.' She activated an intercome he hadn't noticed before.


 'He's ready now, Joseph,' she paused, 'if you're finished with it, that is.'


 There was a barely audible click and a square of glass disappeared from the centre of the partition. Horny little Patty put in her thumb and pulled out her plum.


 'Don't worry,' she told him, 'it's only a tiny bit sticky.'


 Before he could protest, she fitted the plastic tube onto his penis.


 'You'll like thisl over,' she said. 'A tfirst.'


 There was a whirring sound and pictures were projected onto the glass in front of him.It was a recording of the two of them.The 'screen' showed side-on pictures of their last screw.


 She pressed a stud on the tube. Wow! He could feel that! 'Virtual reality,' she said.



 He hadn't experienced it as it happened, but, technology be praised, watching her bang him on a screen, it felt like he was getting laid there and then.


 She watched him spurt. 'Notice anything?'




 'You're not getting soft.'


'Yeah, you're right. Thanks,' he added.


 'Don't thank me yet.'


 Something in her tone made him suspicious. 'What's the catch?'


 'It's a permanent condition.'


 'Great.' Then it hit him.Hey!'


 'Oh,come on,' she said, 'it's what a man really wants from life. A permanent erection, permanently approaching orgasm. It's what you all want, right?'


 He dragged his gaze away from the flickering images, but only for an instant. 'Can you get me more films like this?'



 'Sure baby. I can even make some more. Not with you, of course.Soon you won't want to do it for real at all. We even got some shots of monkeys, rats, and some other shitty stuff fucking their brains out.You won't care after a while. As long as you can see something being stuffed your pistol willl be a repeater.After a while we'll show you pictures of a guy putting the top on his ballpoint pen - you'll squirt for that too.'


 He wasn't listening anymore.He'd creamed over this screen chick three times already, and she was loving it - he could tell.


 'We won't feed you, baby,' she told him.


 'Unh,' he replied.'Unh. Unh. Yeah.Good.'


 'But it's what you want, man. Fuck 'til you die, right?'


 'Unh.Unh. Uuuunnnnhhh!'

13/08/2013 21:23



Wild Palms is a five-hour mini-series which first aired in May 1993 on the ABC network in the United States. The sci-fi drama, announced as an "event series" deals with the dangers of politically motivated abuse of mass media technologyvirtual realities in particular. The following spoof highlights what couldn`t be shown on prime time tv but attempts to hunouristically apply one`s innate knowledge of what mnemosyne would actually be used for if it were to exist.





Like everyone in the Twenty-First Century, Hurry Wankoff has an incredibly ridiculous name. He's also having a nightmare.The rhinocerous in the swimming pool in his head isn't wearing a condom. Hurry can't think why it should be sporting a prophylactic on its curiously misshapen horn - he just feels uneasy about it.



 The beast's own attention seems to be focused upon practising for the two-hundred metres relay at the upcoming Beijing Olympics. Hurry, suddenly realizing what this means, is rigid with fear. He's to swim the backstroke in the final leg, and due to some appalling freak of nature, the rhino's proud protuberance is beginning to look more and more like some oddly displaced love-launcher - a baton which, before Hurry can thrash his way to victory, must first be tugged from its owner's heavily armoured snout.


 In the real world, Gross Wankoff wakes drenched in sperm as, penis clutched firmly in sweaty palm, Hurry crosses the finishing line.




 Across the landing, their son Coat (an anorak with a birthday - ed.) is indulging in an all-night orgy of episodes from pretentious director Stoned Owl Liver's 'revolutionary new sit-com' Church Bimbos, an everyday tale of ordinary folks who are into snorting whole bucketsful of cocaine and fucking like things that fuck a whole lot - 'and right on your very own living room carpet too (blurbs the manufacturer's blurb)!'



 'No change there then!' I hear you cry.


 Tiring of his soapy marathon of back-to-back 4-D sex (also back-to-front, front-to-back, front-to-front and, of course, full-frontal with inappropriate appliances), the young Coat (shouldn't that be 'Colt' or something? - ed.) wearily transfers his own love-baton from one sopping palm to another. He's 'interacting' with Boob Nowords, the bimboid character played by porn princess Tubbi Snatchkop. Floating just centimetres above the surface of his semen-stained bed, the supple slit is tonguing her own cunt (now there's a stunning stunt - or should that be 'cunning cunt'? - ed. [Stunning cunt - author] )



 Although she has to lick, suck - and reciprocally plug - the thousands of viewers who want  to be on the show, la Tub is actually a member of Against Real Sex Orgasm - a Lobby for the Electronically Satisfied. As the series progresses, she subverts her character's personality and Boob also becomes converted to A.R.S.O.L.E.S. Finally, calling herself 'The Snatchkop', she turns savagely against those viewers who've turned her on, and turns them in for the ultimate turn off - reprogramming by the spiritually perverted Farters.




Do the Farters really exist - or is it just a lot of hot (and rather smelly) air? Is Tubbi genuinely interested in A.R.S.O.L.E.S - or just digging for dirt? Perhaps she's searching for her Roots (wouldn't it be easier to wait for the hair on her head to grow out rather than fiddle around inside her bottom with a mirror and a pair of tweezers? - ed.) - or does it go deeper even than that? What it all boils down to is this - is Stoned Owl  Liver's vision real...or is it mummery?





 'Well, at least the rhino was horny!'


 'Look Gross. I've told you. It's got nothing to do with the way I feel about you. Or the way you feel about me. Or the way both of us feel about the way we feel about feeling each other about...erm...yeah! It's just one of those crazy ol' biological ding dond bigabonga zap zink rinky dink thingumys.'


 'What - the - fuck - are - you - talk - ing - ab - out?'


 'Just because I don't love you doesn't mean that's why I can't fuck you. It's got nothing to do with that. It's a mechanical problem. I want to fuck you but I can't. But it's not because I don't love you. I don't want you to think that. I haven't loved you for years but I could still fuck you. I've often fucked people I didn't love - or even liked very much. You, for example. Even when I did love you I sometimes fucked you and didn't really want to. But it wasn't because I didn't love you - or maybe it was? Anyway, I always  fucked you when I felt like I wanted you to feel that I loved you - even if I didn't. So, you see? It's not like I didn't love you and fucked you anyway - or is it? Okay, forget all that. The point is that, although I can't stand the sight of you, that isn't why I'm not fucking you anymore. I'd still fuck you even if I didn't love you - as long as I felt like it. God, it feels good to get all this stuff off my chest and out into the open where we can discuss it like mature sensible adults. Isn't it wonderful to be able to share like this - even with someone like you who I don't particularly like very much. Fancy a fuck?'


 'You're impotent.'


 'Well, yeah.There's that too.'


 'It's that Beige Fartz isn't it?'


 'My God! Where'd you get a totally crazy and completely insane idea like that?'


 'I know you've been seeing her.'


 'Con-spirr-aaa-ceee frrrrrom Hellllllll!'




 'Yeah, I know. But it's in the script.'


 'What script? This is reality Hurry.'


 'You still believe that? With a name like Gross Wankoff you still believe that this is reality? You're a sick woman Gross. I might love Beige but I don't want to fuck her. I love the way her tits keep almost falling into that no-cut black dress she's worn for the last twelve years, but I don't want to stick my pecker in there. I love Beige but it's purely spiritual. Okay, so I get a hard-on every time I think of the way her buttocks rub up against each other and sort of jiggle when she walks, but fucking's completely out of the question. It's her mind I love. She's got a really beautiful brain Gross. I wish I could take it out of her cranium and stroke it. I know you understand. You're a woman too Gross. I don't love you and I want to fuck you (but I can't) and I love Beige but I don't want to fuck her (and I can but she doesn't want me to). That's just the way things are in this mixed up sloopy world.'




 'Sure. This isn't reality. This is mummery. Make it up as you go along. Right?


 'You're a real sicko Hurry.You bring that whore's shit-stained panties into my house and into my bed and play with yourself and wave them under my nose while you're doing it and expect me to forgive you? You're a sick man Hurry.'


 'I love you Gross.'


 'You never ask me to give you my skid-marked panties.'


 'Yours haven't got Beige Fartz in them.'


 'My God Hurry! Is it the colour scheme? It's the colour scheme isn't it Hurry? Just tell me what she eats.Tell me what she eats Hurry, and I swear I'll produce. I'll be Gross Fartz for you in my pants.'


 'I love it when you talk dirty Gross.'


 'You love me?'




 'Fuck me then.'


 'I can't Gross. I guess it's because I love you far too much to just use your body and then discard it like a used tissue I'd wiped some snot or even my arse on.'


 'Piss off.'


 'No, really. It'd be disgusting of me to take  what I wanted and then throw you away like some diseased piece of scum I'd found on my shoe. Boy,  I'm getting really turned on here. Jeez! I feel such a pure and spiritual  love for you Gross. I couldn't possibly put my sticking out part inside you. That'd be a bit like violating Mother Theresa or Esther Rants On or some other saintly  figure. Boy, am I getting turned on here!'



 'You'll be late for work Hurry.'


 'Oh, yeah? Well, that's a shame hon. Just when I was beginning to overcome my aversion for your repulsive slug-like bod.Tell you what. Why don't I get you some of that Icky Blue Gunk we're working on?'


 'Cacky Gonk? You think that's the answer to all our problems?'


 'That's Icky Blue GUNK sweet tits.'


 'I don't give a shit about the goddam colour Hurry. Just as long as this Crappy Bonk stuff lets me go for a long slow ride on a rock hard stiffy.'


 'How about the guy in the soopa-doopa Kong Dong holo?'



 'I don't want to watch some muscled squirt-stud in action, I want to be the goddamed action.  Fer Chrissake's Hurry! I want to be a goddam participant again. Please Hurry. Pretty please?'


 'Well, okay Gross. I'll  see what I can do. But I want you to know right now that you definitely aren't pretty. I just wanted to be certain that you understood that Gross. Oh, and I'd like to love you but I want to fuck you far too much right now, and I wouldn't want to do that if I didn't love you while I was doing it. I'll just have to try and love you more I suppose - which'll probably mean I won't want to fuck you at all. Oh well. Have a nice day.'


 'Piss off Hurry.'


 'Can't I do anything fast enough for you Gross?'


 'Why didn't the scriptwriter's call you something normal - like Harry maybe?'


 'Sure. Okay. And I'll call you - Grease. How about that? Grease Wankoff.'


 'I wish I could come with you Hurry.'


 'Nope. No way José. You'll have to find someone else to come with. I love you far too much to just use you as a sex slave and then toss you back into the gutter where you belong. I have far too much respect for you as a person to poke you a few times and then leave you sitting by the phone for the rest of your miserable existence - that'd be cruel. Bye.'                                                                                                *


 Easing his car into the stream of down-town traffic, Hurry adjusts that all-important tie which, along with all the other Twenty-First Century fashion-victims, he wears like a Twentieth-Century schoolkid's misinformed concept of the word 'bandana'.


 Selecting a tape from the glove compartment, he slaps it into the music console and, rocking to the rhythm of that old 90s classic 'Boff Me Cos I'm a Bitch', a small but perfectly proportioned hologram of Mad Donna pops out of thin air-and onto Hurry's lap.


 Mouthing the words to her most infamous ballad, the impish minx proceeds to bump, grind, and strenuously abuse herself with the Stars and Stripes - complete with  flagpole.


                                                            Schwarzenegger wants to boff me cos I'm boo-ti-ful,

                                                            But Britney wants to boff me when I call,

                                                            Sean still wants  to boff me when I'm all tied up,

                                                            But I don't want to boff with that perverted shtup.

                                                            And I don't want to boff you either,

                                                            Cos I don't wanna scratch your itch,

                                                            But I want you to want to boff me,

                                                            Cos I'm a rotten prick teasin' li'l bitch.'



 As the flexible fuckstress fists her fanny for the photographers, Hurry fumbles for his fly. But future phantoms flicker in front of his flabby face-and a flaccid phallus flops feebly forth. His furtive fondlings have been frustrated by flashes of the filthy female's fate - films of fat-and-fifty flatulence, and a face that's been lifted so many times its owner blows farts from her forehead.



 Flipping a switch to get rid of the distracting Diva, Hurry slows down to observe a group of Farters who, excitedly waving their distinctive bonsai palm trees, seem to be forcing a well-dressed sophisticate to bend over and break wind. Unwilling to witness what else the Farters might've learned from their Japanese mentors, Hurry pulls away from the curb. But not quickly enough to avoid seeing lighted matches being applied to the beleaguered victim. Glancing back, he sees huge sheets of purple-green fire billowing from the human flame-thrower's butthole - as, responding to hands which grip those miniature trunks, the nuts in the Farters' palms begin to swell and pulse.




 Later, stranded in a lift on his way to a meeting with Senator Kuntfuka, Hurry Wankoff wanks off. Consequently, when the doors finally open to reveal the Senator and his entourage, Hurry is pumping along to James Last and his Orchestra's inimitable version of 'Love in an Elevator' (some things never change - ed.) Pretending to play air guitar - a diversionary tactic somewhat handicapped by the fact that the neck of this otherwise invisible instrument is a throbbingly erect penis - our Wild Man of Dinosaur Rock (with a Mammoth whang in his fist) wields his axe (shouldn't that be chopper - ed.) and spits great gobs of greasy goo onto the lapel of Kuntfuka's suit.






 'Is that you? Damn these blasted virtchool reality specs! Sure you ain't that girly guy from Bums 'n' Noses?'


 'Assole Nose?'


 'Yup. Call me a Southern shithead if'n you want, but thru these virtchewal thingamajigs you resemble some sort o' rockstar wanker.'


 Hurry, laughing weakly, secretes his softened stuffer.


 'Whaddya think Hurry? Ain't those babes adorable?'


 Far from being surrounded by a glum group of gimps and geeks, the Senator perceives himself to be at the centre of a gaggle of gownless girlies.


 'Absolutely - shithead.'


 'You don't think they're a smidgin overdressed?'


 'Not at all. Vice-President Stevens looks divine in his leather G-string, and I particularly like Chief Executive Wilson's matching whip-and-handcuffs. Ellison might benefit from a spot of breast-reduction though - and whatever Simpson's wearing certainly needs ironing.'


 'He's naked Hurry.'


 'I know.'


 Dismissing his flunkeys, Kuntfuka removes his special spectacles and steps into the elevator.


 'Where to shithead?'




 'Just a bad running joke Senator.'


 'No, I mean we're going to pay a call on Cheeky.'




 Cheeky turned out to be a sweat-drenched youth doing something unspeakable with a hatstand, an umbrella, and an ornament from the mantlepiece of his basement-cell-come-flat.


 'What's he doing?'


 'Fucking his Japanese girlfriend.'


 'Which one's she? The figurine?'


 'The Panda on the unicycle? No, you're thinking too literally Hurry.They're screwing in cyberspace, a sort of head-trip. Physically she's in Tokyo.It's real to them of course, but to us - '


 'It's a man fucking furniture.'




 Cheeky, blissfully unaware that he's being observed, sits on the business end of his umbrella.


 'Looks like Suzie Wong's brought a strap-on dong.'


 'You mean?'


 'He might be a pain in the arse, but that's not why we call him Cheeky.'


 'Why's he down here?'


 'Security Hurry.He virtually reinvented sex.'


 'Him? He's responsible for the New Sex?'


 'Yup.Try some?'




 'Drink this.'


 'Icky Blue Gunk?'


 'We're calling it Mime-Cum.'


 'Funny name.'


 'Not as funny as the affects. Here, put your glasses on.'



 Kuntfuka slides a disc into Cheeky's console and - hey diddle diddle - a life size holo of Boob Nowords.




 'Like you could almost reach out and touch her - right?'


 Removing his special specs, Kuntfuka prepares to enjoy the spectacle.




 Hurry, extending a finger, prods at Boob's boobs. He gasps as, instead of passing through the projected image, his touch encounters the fleshy resistance of a taut firm breast. Boob giggles (so she's a boob with a name to fit - you expected quadratic equations maybe? - ed.)


 'Don't you know it's rude to point?'


 Hurry removes what he assumes to be the offending digit.


 'Oh,  I don't mean that you big silly!'


 Raising the hem of her dress, Boob considers a moistly pouting pussy.


 'What a rude boy.Look! He's still pointing.'


 Hurry's hard-on is, indeed, damn near bursting his pants.


 'Show me what you want little man. Just point it out. Momma'll try and get it for you baby.'


 Hurry, choked with  desire, pulls out his 'little man'.



 'Now, what goes where? Let me see. If'n I pop this wet open thing onto this slippery pole sorta whatchumacallit... Yeah. Mmmm. Is that it lover? You wanted to shish with my kebab?'


 Without his glasses, Kuntfuka sees things differently. From his perspective, Hurry appears as a man who, not content with waving his dick around, has to talk to it too.


 'Whaddya think Hurry? Is it real...or is it Mime-Cum?'


 Co-starring with empty space, Hurry gives his verdict. Performing the final act of Kuntfuka's Panto, he experiences the only true reality - realistically ejaculating all over a Panda on a unicycle.

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