Post Number Two

“The Search for my Dirty Genes”

The other day’s Post got me fretting over my long-standing lack of nipples and whose genes have cursed me this way. (It’s not the first and only  time I’ve wondered this, of course.) I’ve narrowed the Gene Donor down to two people: my Mother and/or my Father. Yet even though I share a house with both of ’em, I still don’t feel so close to either one that I’d bring the matter up.

The good news is, I’m aware of another family member who might just have the knowledge I seek: Mum’s youngest half-brother, UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN. So I decided– for the first and (as I hoped at the time) only time– that I would pay the old boy a visit in his current place of residence:  A DUNGEON. It was lucky for me that visiting hours were not completely booked out (prob’ly due to Single Mother’s pension day or something). Whatever the cause, I got my ticket at the gate and found a good seat right up near where they let the prisoners lumber from their cages at feeding time. Now, up until that visit I’d never had any real interest in Uncle Mike’s law-bending ways– and actually during that visit I didn’t either. I was just hoping I could make it plain right from the start that I wasn’t visiting Mike for “emotional” reasons, but strictly for Family Reasons.

When I queried Old (as in “four years older than me”) Mike (I’m nineteen, by the way) regarding his own genetic chest button status, he was overcome by unauthorized (See Above) “emotion”, clamping his ears shut and biting his eyelids with his hefty underbite. Then– without much further adieu– he lunged at the glass, flung open his shirt, and pressed his right bosom up against the shatter-proof window, snivelling softly. (NOTE: It’s useful to point out here that visitors to Australian prisons are not usually separated by glass partitions. The glass he pressed his man-boob up against was actually the window of the visitor’s children’s CRÈCHE ten metres away from where I sat. Worst of all, it was on an angle {from where I sat} so I couldn’t see the snivelling weirdo’s nipples– or lack thereof.)

After he served his mandatory thirty five minutes of solitary confinement (while I waited. “Patiently”) Uncle Mike was let loose back into prison again. Then, thirty five minutes (or so) after that– when he finally remembered he had a visitor (me) still waiting “patiently” (those are sarquotes, by the way)– the bad-mannered Swine-Hound casually strolled back in and sat back down. I didn’t want him to waste another thirty five minutes of my time, so I demanded a straight “have or have not” answer to the whole Aureole Hole Question. He could obviously sense that I was a desperado on the subject of knipple knowledge and this gave him some bargaining power. Before giving me that much-wanted “have or have not” answer, he got me to make a solemn vow that I would come back and visit him, not for Family Reasons, but “socially”, two more times in the not-so-distant future, so that he might “regale” me (his word) with tales of his own Daring Doings.

Clearly, the geezer had things to get off his chest– but it was only those two things he may (or may not) have had (or had not) ON his chest that I was interested in. So (frustrated sigh) I made the Blood-Brother Vow in the old-school manner: by cutting myself with a crudely fashioned shiv that Mike borrowed from a female prison guard (who was really HOT, by the way. Not that any o’ those inmates would’a noticed). After making the two (millimetres) by two (millimetres) incision, I handed Mike the knife expecting him to do similar (if not same) so that we could each clasp our bleeding hands together As One, thereby forging the bloody bond that can only be broken by Death. Or Betrayal.  But as I gave him the prison-manufactured knife (lovingly made by that female screw, let me add) Mike merely shook his head and put said knife back in said screw’s shoe.

“Why not?” I wondered.

“For two reasons,” he said. “One: because we’re already related, more or less by blood, so there’s no actual need for us to become Blood-Brothers at the same time as being Blood-Uncle and Blood-Nephew.”

I was beginning to swoon at his logic. “What’s the other reason?” I slurred.

“Well, judging by the grimace on yer face when you nicked y’self” (NOTE: He was under-exaggerating. It was a gash, not a “nick”) “and the tears rolling down yer cheeks now, it looked like it really fuckin’ hurt.”

(NOTE: He was almost right about the hurting, but he was wrong about the “tears”. That was eyeball sweat caused by the… um… the vigorous way that my eyes had been darting suspiciously ’round the room. Lots’a shifty people in there, y’know. AND their kids.)

Anyway, the sight of the monstrous gash on my hand was beginning to make my head spin with… y’know… Gash-Related Sleepiness, and for that reason I needed The Answer quick, before I fell into an unexpected slumber. After double-checking that I would visit him next week to (yawn) “listen” to his waffle, he gave me what I did (or did not) want: a “have”.

So… Yair.  That was all I wanted. Now I “have” to go back an’ visit the braggin’ bastard next week!

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