SWEATY + PALMS
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 technology, virtual 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.
SWEATY + PALMS
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?'
'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.'
'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?'
'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.'
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.'
'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?'
'Icky Blue Gunk?'
'We're calling it Mime-Cum.'
'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.