“Mike Spilligan: The Truth At Last”
Noble Reader, hold onto your swivel chair because I have just heard some ground-breaking news about my “Aunty” Mike Spilligan that may well SHOCK THE MUTHA FUCKIN’ BALLS OFF YA!! It’s all to do with his (not “her”) sexuality and various bombshells pertaining to same– and I mean bombshells that not even a worldly chap like me (because that worldly chap is me. And you rarely get any more like me than actually being me) was unaware of. This whole mixed-up situation is roolly intense, and so I’d better start where I left off at the end of my last Posting.
Mum found Mike on the couch arguing with me re: Mike’s wearing of the aforementioned Mum’s kimono. There I was, loudly musing on… I dunno… some random shit Mike said, when suddenly there she was even more loudly demanding an explanation.
“Yair, Michelle!” I chimed in. “Explain y’self.”
“I was telling you to explain YOUR-self, you gormless offspring!” Mum said. “Whom is this transvesticle and why is it on my couch?”
“She’s no tranny,” I lyricized. “She’s your brother.”
“Impossible!” emoted Mum. “My brother’s a frumpish brunette.”
“That’s what he may have been before he busted out’a jail, but since then he’s mutated into– as you can plainly see– the plainest-lookin’ blonde in the history of–”
“WHA’ D’YER MEAN ‘BUSTED OUT’A JAIL’?” Mum interrupted.
Which is when Mike-slash-Michelle gave his half-sis the (ahem) “good” news– to which Mum replied:
“WHA’ D’YER MEAN YOU ‘ONLY HAD NINETEEN MINUTES T’ GO’ ON YOUR JAIL SENTENCE?”
“He’s exaggerating, Mum,” I said, helpfully. “It was fourteen minutes.”
“What?” Mum huffed. “Well, you just get back in that prison right now, Mike Spilligan, you get back in there and you FINISH that fourteen minutes.”
Naturally enough, there was further argie-bargie thanks to Mike’s reluctance to turn himself in. The semi-siblings argued right up until Mike realized the battle was lost, at which point he stood up, whining and stomping his dainty feet, before flingin’ himself back down on the “divan” to sook his badly painted eyes out.
And this was (approximately) the time I started learning “the truth” about his (not “her”) sexuality. It all came up in the argie-bargie (before Mum chased Mike from the family home with a taser she bought on T-Bay). See, Mike (as I’ve always known deep down) is a hardcore bonkaholic– and the “chicks” of the world (perceptive creatures that they are) can, like, smell the scent of a high-performance Hump Hound when they see one, “subsequently” (I think) hurling themselves face-first onto his tackle on a regular basis. But after many non-stop years of getting his tackle tackled, the weary bonkaholic (Mike) needed (for the sake of his overworked back and his worn-out pecker, which– as he told me later– got v. bad friction burns) NEEDED, I say, to have a respite from his vigorous life of Groin Grossery.
Now, you can’t be keepin’ secrets from any sort’a sibling– even a half one. Mum knew all about Mike’s troubles yonks ago and said they could “easily” be fixed by one of two means:
- Psycho Therapy (which is, like, some sort of therapy for psychos); or
- Chemical Castration.
Mike went away to ponder these choices (translation: “went away to Google ’em”) and– on finding out the second of the choices (Chemical Castration) was actually NOT the medical term for “drinkin’ ‘n’ druggin’ yourself impotent”– opted for therapy. Then he quickly found the healthcare professional who fit his needs. It was one who specialized in tackling (I’m quoting his website here) “the widespread problem of Rampant Heterosexuality”. That therapist’s name was DOCTOR FLAMING REJ FLAMBOYANT (M.D; S+M; B+D) who soon showed how unorthodox his methods were by turning up for Psycho-Session One dressed as a LAS VEGAS SHOW-GIRL. But in spite of all his unorthodox-ness, Dr. Flamboyant (“Flaming” to his friends) knew how to get results. Basically, by anti-brainwashing people. He would make their brains all nice and squeaky dirty by correcting their language with keywords (like “sausage-smuggling”. And “shirt-lifting”) ’til putting these words into practise (ah-HA!) distracted the patient (Mike) from his bonkaholic ways. “And hey,” (Mike said the doctor said.) “If my so-called ‘controversial’ therapy opens a guy up to… ‘other choices’… then perhaps it’s not a bad thing to stay away from those yucky… germy… stinky females.”
Naturally, Mike’s therapy “opened him up” to one fact he never knew before: namely, how much he really, really needed therapy. Needed it so much (in fact) he kept up the consultings even when he was in jail. And– according to the Flaming One (Dr. F)– he was makin’ progress. Until I turned up at the prison caf with Dinner Date in tow, that is. Mike had spied her many times before (when she was a screw), but he’d never seen her sans her prison guard costume. This newer, more hotted-up Natasha made something in a) his head; and b) his groin go twang, thereby causing his old urges to build. Soon he could not stand one more minute (let alone fordeen of ’em) in a female-free habitat, no matter what his therapy guy (Dr. F) squealed at him on the phone. Cancelling his therapy, Mike then got some shonky “magic dood” (called… I dunno… “Graham” or something) to pull a chick out of a Riot Squad Helmet for Mike’s own personal pleasure.
Alas, the best ol’ Graham could conjure was a few coat-hangers draped with ladies-wear– which (as we now know) gave Mike… another plan…
So now the famous Hump Hound is back on the prowl– and look out, girls, ’cause I don’t think ladies footwear are gunna slow him down for long!