“Fully Emerged Emergency”
Recently I’ve had a starring role in a medical emergency. That pretty pink ribbon wrapped around my todger these last few days (because I couldn’t get it off) has created major dramas, health-wise. Namely, my todger’s head went purple. Dark purple, actually. Bordering on black– and very close to the border of black you could see a jutting outpost of green. GANG green. All because I had a website “enthusiastically recommended” by that Bastard, Vivekenanda. The site was called “Forget-Me-Knots-Dot-Com” (dot com) which (in spite of its name) told me (and others) how to tie (quote) “UN-forgettable knots”– but never told me (or others) how to UN-tie them. That was one thing the forget-me knots guy did forget!
Because he, too, is a Bastard.
And yet perhaps the biggest bastard of them all is my old, bag-o’-bones lunchtime lover, KERRY-ANNE CAUDILLO–for it seems it was she who recommended the website from behind the scenes. It also seems that Kerry-Anne Caudillo was in the habit– the dirty… dirty habit– of requesting that all those who climb aboard the Morning Show Casting Couch must have a tightly bound ribbon (preferably pretty and/or pink) stopping their knob-circulation in its tracks. She needed the extra swelling for (ahem) “added fulfilment”, they say. Rumour has it she was gathering (swollen) members for her Gangrene Gang Bang Club– a club I wanted no part of (least of all a body part).
Perhaps even more disturbingly, I’m getting signs from “down there”. Signs you might place under the heading of “Ominous”. My body part is beginning to (how can I put this?) “tell me things”. Often in the dead of night these last few days I’d be woken by my COCK as it cleared its throat loudly– “Ahem!”– to get my attention. Then, having done so, it begins to baldly misrepresent the facts in a very loud voice. Here’s an example of the lies it spurts (which I wrote down as dick-tated):
“… and another thing: I am sick to death of the way that yer always shovin’ me into holes without a single word of consultation. Just ‘in yer go’, no warning, no foreplay, no NOTHIN’, just in there I go, sometimes– no: most o’ the time– into a hole that isn’t even MOIST.”
(Note the transparency of the lies here.)
“Back ‘n’ forwards,” he continued, “back ‘n’ forwards, and you’ve got absolutely no eye-friggin’-DEAR just how deafening that sand-papery noise is inside a bone-dry pussy. For god sake, lad, use a bit o’ spit sometimes!”
It was time to step in on my own behalf. I said: “Now, that is grossly unfair because–”
“Whoa! steady on there, External Organ. All I was tryin’ ‘a say is that I think–”
“Oh, you ‘think’, do you? The big la-de-da flesh ‘n’ bone Thing I got hangin’ off the end of me actually (quote) ‘thinks’. Well, I ‘think’ you’d better listen to this: For once in your selfish life can’t you be that rare sort of nineteen year old male who lets his COCK do all his thinkin’ for ‘im??”
“All right, Cock,” I sighed, feelin’ a bit pecker-pecked. “You tell me what you think.”
“Only this,” began my Todger. “I think you better call an ambulance. It’s not normal for me to be the shade of purple I am right now.”
He then went on to say that it wasn’t exactly “normal” for him to be talking, either. He’d “normally” keep a tactful silence on most issues, hiding his opinion modestly in my trousings and only putting away his reading monocle and folding up his newspaper when it was time for some good, hard Fuck Work to be done. But clearly this was no “normal situation”. This was the type of borderline AB-normal situation where an otherwise laconic penis might feel the urge to speak out, and– in so doing– force the owner of said penis (me) to realize one thing:
I was extremely delirious.
The sweating, the tremors, and other symptoms combined were all hinting strongly at this diagnosis– and my penis agreed.
“Ambulance, dood,” he commanded. “NOW. If we don’t get this less ‘n’ less pretty-lookin’ ribbon off me soon, then one of us will have to be amputated. And Hey– it ain’t gunna be me.”
Fearful of being turned into (quote) “the Disposable One” (as my todger called me) I got on the phone right away and called the emergency hotline. When the emergency hotline lady (in Mumbai) answered, I told her I had a fully-emerged emergency, and therefore she should prob’ly send someone.
“Fire, Ambulance or Cops?” she queried.
“Yacht Club,” I groaned. “It’s a knot-related emergency.”
“Knot-related to what?” she further queried.
“Knot-related to my cock,” I answered, at which point the BOMBAY BITCH HUNG UP!! So I voiped an Ambo Depot instead, knowing full well that many ambulance jockeys are Yacht Club members, too.
I got through. Now, in order to drive the message home (and also because my show-off cock insisted on it) I pointed the web cam at my groin to let you-know-who (or “what”) do all the talking. One of the ambo men said:
“Good lord! That is the festiest lookin’ club foot I have ever seen in my– wait a minute. That aint’ no club foot– it’s a club COCK!! DAVO!! BLUEY!! SIMMO!! MACCA!! JOHNNO!! AHMEDINEJAD-O!! Get y’selves in here and have a good long LARF at this kid’s club cock!”
Now, maybe I was tweaked with a touch of stage-fright or maybe it was the firm grip of the gangrene, but I was never blessed enough to hear the mocking laughter of Davo et al– because I blacked out.
When I woke again I was in the back of an ambulance-like vehicle, stretched on an item of stretcher-like bedding. I looked under the sheet-like blanket and saw that my penis was inside an upturned container of tupperwear-like plastic. I upturned my weary eyes to the ambo-like man who sat nearby and said (re: the “tupper” my cock was “wearing”):
“Is that… so it stays fresh..?”
“No,” said the ambo-like man. “That’s to stop the little prick SHOUTING AT ME!!”