Post Number Five

“Rissoles and Magick”

A small group of us (approximately five) took our medication, then went and watched a magic show at the local Rissole Club, where you can have anything edible on the menu as long as it’s rissoles. And also as long as you pay. Which– in spite of us being students– most of us did. We ordered that club’s much-vaunted “All-You-Can-Eat-Rissole-Basket”, and were each blessed with our very own set of Rissole-Grabbing Tongs.

HOWEVER.

One gormless member of our dining troupe (Hildegard O’Bingen– AGAIN) wondered aloud whether (or not) we should also enjoy some (quote) “vegetables” (namely, potato wedgies) with our pipingly warm basket of meatballs. For this unheard-of suggestion Hildegard O’Bingen was roundly jeered at by the other, more sensible dining troupers who (it should be said) were simply fed up with her efforts to drive wedgies between us. There was much grumbling from both mouths and stomachs because we were too busy getting fed up to actually start feeding yet.

Once things had settled back down, we tucked our napkins into our multiple chins and put the rissole tongs to good use. But still, that whole “Vegetarian Side-Order” controversy (“wedgie-gate”, as it came to be known), and the anonymous vote that followed, wasted so much time that– when we (finally) began scarfing down the basket fodder– we did so like a hungry pack of TONG-WIELDING ANIMALS. We ate “all-we-could-eat” at maximum volume. Indeed, the frenzied gulpings and slurpings from our table (Number Five) were so frenzied (in case you didn’t get the first “frenzied”) that several nearby babies burst into loud shrieks of adult-sized horror, and at least one Old Guy fell to his knees, clutching his chest in such a way that another Old Guy (henceforth to be known as “Old Guy Number Two”) “ran” up, climbed aboard Old Guy Number One’s bony back, and bravely kick-started his pacemaker, then rode him (spluttering) out the door to safety.

And the more we did scarf, the more flustered-looking the wait staff did become, as they cargoed large plates of refills to the dreaded Table Five. But all the frenzied nosebag-snuffling noises were drowning out that other, less noisy (and yes, less important) reason we were there: to watch The Magic Show.

Now, I have to confess that when I took my meds and floated off to see the GREAT AUTHENTICO do his thing, I wasn’t sure about the guy’s boner fides– either as a magician, or (Zeus dammit) a Man. So I strolled into that club a hard-nosed sceptic– but I stayed there a hard-nosed CONVERT.

Why, then, did I change my mind?

Well, it’s like this. In between those moments of diving my face into the greasy basket and throwing my head back like a pelican to swallow partly-chewed lumps of rissole, I captured a brief glimpse of something up on stage which put the brakes on my jaw. Barely could I believe what I was glimpsing. So I wiped the rissole fat out of my eyes and upgraded my glimpse into a stare– and what I saw then was even more unbelievable than what I didn’t see real good when I had rissole fat in my eyes. Because the Great Authentico was (get this) PULLING A GIRL OUT OF A FUCKING HAT!!

I am not bullwinklin’ you, muchacho! He stuck his elegant-yet-manly fist into an item of headwear and forcibly evicted an ENTIRE HUMAN FEMALE. Just let me add this was no miniature female either, y’know, like a two year old or something. No. This was a full-blown, full-grown, “girl-you-won’t-be-a-woman-soon-’cause-you-already-are-one-RIGHT-NOW” chick!

I looked for mirrors. I looked for smoke. I looked for strings. I looked for trapdoors. Then I looked again for All the Above, and found almost none o’ those things (apart from, y’know the smoke. Oh, and the mirrors) leading me to arrive at the obvious conclusion: this was one hundred ‘n’ fifty per cent genuine MAGICK.

Sure, it may sound like a bold “theory” to those deniers out there, but I am a student who majors in a course that has the word “studies” in its title (“Social Work Theory Studies”) (Which, come to think of it, also has the word “theory” in its title) and so I know damn well (dammit) that all narratives are equally nice (except right wing ones). Furthermore, the narrative I was gawping at up on that stage was, I “reasoned” (if you believe in that sort’a thing), nothing less than a fucking MIRACLE Narrative.

This realization instantly grabbed me by the tear-ducts and I began to weep– nay, SOB– so hard that several chunks of partly-chewed rissole fell down the front of my shirt. Not wanting to waste what I’d partly chewed (and fully paid for) I opened the front of my shirt and had a squiz down at my chestal region where all the cud was a-tumblin’. It was then that I was faced with my own Deformity Narrative– and its possible cure. For if the Great Authentico could pull a full-sized human female out of a size extra-medium top-hat, then surely to goodness he’d be able to fish out a pair o’ NIPPLES for me, too!

Spurred on by this thought– and with a blood-curdling scream– I single-handedly stampeded up to the stage and cried:

“ME NEXT!! HEAL ME NEXT!!”

(Even though– at that precise moment in time– he hadn’t, y’know, “healed” {so to speak} anyone at all, per se.) Those minor details aside, I was in full Tongue-Talking Mode, babbling tearfully (because I was no longer “afraid” to show my emotions in public) as I tonged at the hem of The Great One’s purple tuxedo. This went on for a couple minutes, before the next intelligible thing I said was:

“HEY!! Let… GO of me… bouncers!”

Even though the Security Guys (wait for it) never even HAD HOLD O’ ME BOUNCERS!! Ka-ZAM! Heh-heh. Yair.

They had hold o’ me neck.

Anyway, when I woke up in the gutter several minutes later (with Hildegard O’Bingen rifling through my pockets, I might add) I knew there was only ONE MAN who could help me to (finally) join the ranks of the Fully Nippled. And I swear to you now, Gentle Reader, I will hunt that one man down like the stinking… mangy… filthy DOG he is and… y’know… ask him politely to help.

So stay tuned. ‘Cause it’s a-gunna happen!

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