Post Number Forty Seven

“Unchained Bonkaholic”

The Full Moon has long been thought of as one of the greatest mysteries on earth. For millions– perhaps billions– of years, Man the starry-eyed moon-gazer has looked up into its big, round eye and… I dunno… sacrificed a virgin to it. Prob’ly. But the Moon– too far away to check if he (or she) really was a virgin– merely squinted back in silence, preferring instead to work “her” (i.e. the Moon’s) magnetism on the tides and the fish and the menstrual cycles of humans (mostly female) until the denizens of planet earth became too damn BUSY with other stuff to be wasting their time(s) on “moon-gazing”. Yet– somehow– they still knew “she” was up there. They could feel her in the deepest parts of their metabolisms. Watching. Waiting. Magnetizing. Until the day came (usually at night) when they would all go foam-at-the-mouth BONKERS with lunacy!

Now, for the last few days there actually has been a Full Moon (believe it or not) and that bonkaholic uncle of mine (Mike)– in celebrating same– has shed his ladies garbings to rut aroun’ town squirtin’ out some turf. I know this for a fact. It was AUNT BERYL who told me, by phoning up and saying (a tad breathily) that I should now (quote) “call off the labradoodles” an’ stop questing for “that religious guy” (I think she meant “that magician guy”) because her physical problems were now completely cured.

I wondered how it could ever be so, and she simply said that Uncle Mike had (in her un-informed opinion) been allowed out of the dungeon (quote) “a few minutes early” for reasons of “good” (or at least “less-bad-than-everyone-else-in-there”) behaviour. Unfortunately, getting released was when his good behaviour stopped because after Mum Taser-chased him off my doorstep, he rolled up on his wife Aunty Beryl’s doorstep stark raving NAKED and sporting what can only be described as a “Welcome Home Stiffy” (welcoming himself, that is).

“Too much information, Beryl,” is what I said, but she ploughed on regardless, telling me that he put the abovementioned “stiffy” to marital use by animal-husbanding her so vigorously that her ingrown toes POPPED BACK OUT AGAIN!!

Like I said: Problem Cured.

(NOTE: On the subject of curing problems thusly, we might wonder how many other disabilities can be fixed with a darn good froggin’. Maybe more than disabilities, too. Maybe even diseases like… ohhh… syphilis ‘n’ herpes? For example? It’s obvious there’s only one way to find out. If YOU have syphilis ‘n’ herpes, Reader, I want you to get out there NOW and fuck as many people as possible, then report back to me if– but only “if”– your symptoms have disappeared. And if not? Well, there’s no harm in trying, is there?)

While the fixing of Aunty Beryl’s toe problem sounded therapeutic enough, it nonetheless had side effects. Namely, the “side” of her body she carried her handbag on was “effected” by the added weight that was in there now, thanks to the large amounts of cash enclosed. She (prob’ly) got this cash from a pay-rise at the Shoe-Testing Plant where she toils to this very day. It seemed her toiling days of stuffing shoe-tips with a hankie full of pistachio nuts were finally behind her, now that she had flesh ‘n’ bone TOES for the Official Toe Squeezer to brutally manhandle until they made a crunch sound. Good form like this put her in such high demand as a wage slave that– on one glorious occasion– she got herself some OVERTIME!!

Oh, Mike, you bless’d parasite!

What hardcore joys befall a chap when he scores himself a cashed-up Ho! He can “borrow” said cash from said Ho and spend it all on additional joys with other Hoes! Which Mike– sewing his wild oatmeal under the influence of Our Friend And Colleague, The Moon– most assuredly did. Of course, he most assuredly did NOT let Beryl know that he most assuredly did. That would’a thrown a damp sock on her digital happiness.

(A confession. I know this may sound a tad incestuous, but now that Aunty Beryl’s a “normal” {but what is “normal”? Seriously}  Womyn again {at last!} with more or less “normal” wants and/or needs, I feel I’d like to… {how can I put this diplomatically? Dammit, I can’t} Fuck Her. That’s between you, me an’ the gatepost, by the way.)

And yet Our Friend and Colleague, The Moon– (when I said “between you, me and the gatepost”, I didn’t mean I actually planned on fucking her physically between you, me and some gatepost somewhere. I was talkin’ secretive-like. Because obviously if I did fuck a family member between you, me and a length of woodwork there’d be all sorts of moral confusion. And splinters, prob’ly.)

Let… me… see, now… “gatepost”… “fucking”… Ah. “Our Chum The Full Moon”. She worked her lunar magic on Mike’s groinal parts, as well you might (with dread) imagine. For Mike– elusive eel of a man that he was (and is?)– wriggled off to prowl the Night Zones dressed (wait for it) as a GUY this time(!!!!), thereby throwing all sniffer dogs (and their “handlers”) (chortle) off his tail because they would’a been expecting a dood in ladies wear. Which made Spilligan a free agent– at least until the sniffers (and handlers) figure out they are now looking for a “guy” cunningly disguised as a GUY.

And who’da thunk Mike would ever swing that way??




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