Sequined Heavy-Duty Jiffy Bag

This is far too long for you to read. Be grateful. The totally derranged first chapter of whateveritis from wheneveritwas, dug up and smelling of humus.

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Chapter 1
"Sequined Heavy-Duty Jiffy Bag"

The book you have picked up, are about to read part of, and then fling violently with venomous disgust into the waste disposal unit in the kitchen, was written without the use of frontal lobes or rubber underwear. Not a bad achievement really, considering the price of haddock and the dimensions of my bladder problems (currently beyond the realms of modern medical science). While this may or may not surprise you, dear reader, once you have read to the end of this first chapter you will probably feel a bubbling and slightly curdled mixture of feelings heavy on confusion, concern and bewilderment, with a great greasy dollop of itchy-and-unclean on the side somewhere inbetween the back of your head and your toe hair. While it is not in my nature to upset more rational and hard working members of my sister species (well actually it is, but that's beside the point and a whole different family of lawsuits) I feel a strange urge to just let it all out. AND I also have an odd fascination for writing this crud for you to ponder over. My psychologist also suggested that it may be good for my ego, plus give him a chance to get me out of his office for more than five minutes, and for his secretary to get over her aversion to Englishmen in fishnet stockings (on their head), and probably a whole lot of other things that I'll get hints about next time I have an appointment on Planet Earth, and, this sentence is getting a tad too lengthy isn't it, well English language never was my strong point and you were taking far too many breaths anyway don't you know there's an oxygen shortage for chrissake, you're killing my yucca plant you BASTADDD!

The reasons for me filling you in in such an informal manner (oo err Bishop) are much too obtuse to go into while I've got this badger on my head, so I'll plod on, or as Edith Bladderworts once commented to me at the back of the harpoon shed on the six-fifteen to Nuneton "I like a man with fur-lined guppie flaps down his shorts, so meet me on the number thirty-two bus to Bexley Heath on Wednesday for a long, pert, sweaty, bland one dahhhling". I never did know what the shag she was on about most of the time, but she gave bad head, and even worse kidney, or so the vicar told me, no honest doctor, it wasn't me, ahh nevirr tuchhed er honest, it wiz me frendd that ad the genital warts, ahh wuz at ome mindin' the wombat, straighh upp! Ahem. This narrative is being written totally under duress. I didn't want to write anything, let along get out of bed before eleven and have electrodes attached to my parrot. I'm being forced to do this by the monkey that lives in my shoes at weekends (you know, the one I started seeing after that night of injecting window cleaner with Cousin Boxmouth at the family reunion three years ago where we all dug up Great Aunty Frank to get a feel of his plastic comedy breasts). So exCUU-CUHHH-ZZZE me for digressing a little. This is not easy. This is as hard as a bowling ball full of coral droppings dropped by polyps fed on quick-set draft-excluding yam-flavoured jelly dessert. OK?!

Another vodka and tonic in the I.V. please nurse, and quick, I can't see the spots in front of my eyes clearly enough!

Now where was I? Oh yes. Under the table with a well-thumbed copy of last months Whelk Worryers Weekly. This book is a tail of two sheep. In fact they had to share the tail due to government cuts. They also shared a pair of imitation leather antlers and a bicycle clip. I once caught my old stereo system in a bar in Houston trying to slip its CD tray into the quarter slot of a fruit machine. Dirty bastadd. But that's a different story. Actually, that's the whole story because the rest is kept hidden from me by repeated early morning sniffings of the coffee grinder and too much de-icer for breakfast. Either that or I'm mistaken. And if I'm not mistaken then I'm a strange, crazed chimp sexer from Letchworth with a plastic tulip on my head and no sense of time. What?

Colonel Harry von Slappandholdit felt the breeze whistling through the high pressure air conditioning system attached to the left leg of his rubber shorts. The mist from his nether regions was fogging his glasses, but he didn't really mind since he was blind as a bat with a box on its head. He had lost what remained of his sight following excessive childhood masturbation, during an accident involving a hamster, a set of knitting needles, and a pair of false plastic buttocks. His unrelenting quest for perverted pleasure using household appliances and next door's furry pets had finally paid off, and the voices in his head were now much clearer having lost the use of both eyes, a spleen, a pair of edible latex waders, and the hamster's exercise wheel. It also meant that he now had a legitimate excuse for groping his way on his hands and knees through the park to the public lavatories, something he'd dreamed of ever since his arrest and sentence in the late '70s. He could also leave his apartment on weekends without his trousers without fear of retribution or the usual spot fines.

At this particular moment in time he was stood on the edge of a large bowling field trying to fit his left flipper into a riding harness. He was wearing full deep sea diving gear, except for a long, bent cucumber inserted into his mouth where his air hose should have been. The colonel had always insisted that garden fruits and vegetables could provide all the nutrition and stimulation needed to carry out unnatural maritime activities with a bearded woman in the back of a taxi cab, but on this particularly occasion he had merely mistaken the cucumber for a Cuban cigar and dropped his trousers. He was somewhat confused on this day given that his attempt to fish for conga eels was being carried out in a Warwickshire llama farm, approximately 95 miles from the nearest coastline. Never one to flinch in the face of excruciating long odds, or cerebral haemorrhages, his plans remained unaltered despite severe doubts about his whereabouts, his identity, the price of chicken liver, and the uncanny lack of moistness of the ocean around his ankles. The searing heat radiating from his self-igniting jock strap had not helped matters and he was feeling somewhat unconfident about the lasting power of his Freon-filled underwear. The whole situation had simply worsened when vivid images of 300 pound Scandinavian shot putters with bulging varicose arteries dressed in Russian sailor outfits and lurex leder hosen had flashed before him suddenly and without warming. He'd had to attach a steel bucket and six feet of industrial guttering to his buttocks just to contain his fetid drooling and profuse bottom sweating. Still his lower body was threatening to self combust at temperatures that would singe a Teflon-coated aardvark at sixty paces. Feeling desperate and significantly oily beneath the cassock, he made his staggering way towards what he thought was a walk-in fridge-freezer. In reality he stumbled over to an open pit of decaying pigeon droppings, fell head first into the white and green bubbling mess, and gargled himself to death on old fish batter, humming the tune to When the Boat Comes In.

How dare you?! How dare you start this paragraph before me. Some readers are just getting way beyond their station. Way beyond their damp, dank, graffittied bus shelter! Yes, well, I will admit that the above tale was not the most eloquently written. Not the most stylistic piece of fiction ever slapped around the earlobes for interfering with the llama steaks before they were done. Infact, I admit it. It was a pile of incomprehensible tripe that flowed out of the depths of my addled subconscious before I could panic or have time to stem the flow of verbal excrement. A literary fart that slipped out and transformed into a leaky bowel movement before my very snozzer, matron send in the bearded woman from Rectology with the stirrups and a can of Udder Cream! Oops, there, now. I've gone and spilt my glass of yam juice all over the keyboard. That'll teach me to try and do one thing at once.

"Vibro-lips? Vibro-lips?? More like Velcro flaps" he said with a mouthful of shoe leather.

"I was swinging in the breeze. Swinging like old Mrs. Rancidwart's incontinent cushioned ski-pant pockets. Filled to belching with rancid, oily camel excrement, and the amorphous matter that' s left over after all the juices have been stamped out at the annual Shafted Sheep Treading Festival held each month in Upper New Daardvark, Connecticut."

"What are you talking about Danny?" he said.

Danny continued, ignoring him. "The festival ends with the ceremonious bottling of six forty gallon vats of staley-squeezed elk excretions, and the fermented remains of the carpet stains left over from the previous year's Grunt & Armadillo Shagging Fayre..."

"I still haven't the foggiest what you're dribbling on about , oh great spinner of gobbledygook."

"...then, everyone gets drunk on eight pints of Norman's Mindfork Best and sees who can be last to nail Bert's sister's daughter Joanna up the u-bend, pointing skywards, with a prize-loosing marrow. All good, dirty, dusty, musty, smelly, oily, greasy, well-lubed, smear-stained, rubbed-red-raw fun eh?" Danny was beside himself.

"It's time then, wouldn't you say, to get my head out of this climate-controlled trouser press, and to dig out my special antleroid and monk-billed sloppy plant experiment from the back of the fridge?"

"Yes, I would say so."

"You know, I just asked the girl downstairs if I could throstle her pouch with a Northumberland black pudding, and would ya believe ett, she just walked off with this look of utter disdain without even a passing tweak of my lemur."

"Disgraceful. Disappointing."

"Not 'arf."

"I herd it on the grope vein."

Danny is silent and twitching for a second. "Some people are just plain rude" he muses. "Others are planed hard, flat, and smooth, with less body hair than the guppy that I keep down the front of my shorts. Still others are caught with both hands in the jellied eel tank at the aquarium, their trousers 'round the nurse's ankles, and a pair of Stretchwear hotpants on their heads as they dance maniacally around the room with the lights on and the piglets wired up to a 700 amp generator to provide nipple thrustage. These latter people are probably, nine times out of therapy, you and I on expenses and a free day pass from the clinic, forged by a mad Welsh baseball swallower famous for his impression of Florence Nightingusset ('The Lady With The Lumps') from the Freak show organized by my Uncle Alice."

"Now that you put it that way" he sighed, "it's really no wonder that I haven't got a clue what my name is or why I'm holding this self-inflating bloater fish."

"No."
"No?"
"Nuhhh!"
"Nhhh....hh"
"Nh..."
"nh."
"n"