Monthly archives: May, 2011

Callout Fees

I was walking around town the other day, minding my own business, looking in shop windows, vaguely thinking about where I would go for lunch, when I noticed I was getting a lot of funny looks. Now, I am used to getting some funny looks. I am very tall, and bald, and attract a certain number of second glances. The attention I was getting was more second, third and fourth glances, then more concerted staring with a frankly revolted look. After an hour or so I was getting a bit paranoid I can tell you.
Eventually I stopped into a shop to buy a pack of mints. The lady behind the counter looked up and froze in horror.
“What?” I said.
“eugh!” She said, all bug-eyed
“WHAT??” I said, starting to get annoyed.
“Did… did.. did you know there is a demon shagging your arse?” She managed to blurt out.
“A what?” I looked back at my reflection in the window “Oh, goddamnit!”
There, clinging to my back, with his cock nuts-deep in my arse, was a bright red demon, horns and teeth and all.
“For fucks’ sake!” I yelled, trying to shake the crimson bugger off. He stayed put. “I must have picked it up when I was walking past the church of St Phuckwits, those guys are always performing exorcisms, bloody hell!”
So I had to walk all the way home while being sodomized by the hell-spawn twat, people were pointing, some were rude enough to shout comments. Then I had to wait at home all the next day for the exorcist to show up, why those guys can’t give you a time I don’t know. He got the demon off with a couple of shakes of that holy water thingie and charged me a 90 quid callout fee, for two minutes work! What a rip-off!


The other day I noticed smells, usually this means I have a cold coming, for days before a cold arrives I can smell food cooking, bad breath, flowers, perfume, sweat all more keenly than usual, it can be a little irritating, sometimes oppressive (walking past a soap/perfume shop for instance, that can be quite intense).

Anyway, no cold appeared the next day, or the next, but the smells kept on getting stronger. I found myself constantly aware of odours I normally cannot detect, the soap someone uses, their deodorant, what spices where in their last meal, the smell of coffee spilt on their jacket and so on.
Stronger smells like perfume and cooking were causing me to ‘overload’ and needed to be avoided.

By the next day I could pick out one individual’s odour from another, I could smell who was walking behind me, who was in the cubicle opposite in the office. By the end of the week I knew who had had a shower that morning, who had or hadn’t washed their hands when they last visited the lavatory. I knew where each woman was in her monthly cycle. This level of intimacy is very difficult, I had to fight hard not to let all this extra knowledge show in my face when I was talking to people.

When I came into work on the following Monday I knew who had had sex, when they had it, and with who. Every office affair was open to me, all my colleagues’ infidelities.

It all got too much, I had to take some time off work and go to the doctor. Apparently I have “DogNose”, there is no cure, I can no longer interact with people at all, their scents are at such odds with their social structures and conventions, the disconnect is awkward at best (when the man holding out his hand to shake as masterbated and urinated since he last washed it) to toe curlingly awful (when your best friends wife reeks of half a dozen other men, and he is completely unaware). I hear there are communities of people suffering from DogNose, out in the desert, or far north in the coldest regions. Places that smell less, I hope I can find one, I cannot stay here.

Damn You Fizzy Pop

One of the great things about traveling is the variety of soft drinks. Obviously every country I go to has Coca Cola, Pepsi, Tango and Mrs Shits Brown Liquid (except for England where you can’t get the last one). But those mainstays apart the soft drink market is a regional free for all. All manner of unfamiliar cartons and bottles and cans are available. Convention has it that drink cans usually have pictures of the fruit that they are pretending to taste of, but the more disgusting and unnatural the drink the more colourful and abstract the packaging can be. Gaudy cans with dayglow splotches, cartoon characters and wacky writing generally contain enough sugar and e-numbers to send a four year old mental for a fortnight.

The other great thing are the names, they often don’t translate well, and frequently contain onomatopoeia, as a result soft drink packaging often finds it’s way onto amusing websites with names like “Phart” and “Twat” and “Filthy Tramp Dickjuice” (which is very popular in Beijing – look it up if you don’t believe me).

So when I saw a lurid yellow can in the local snack shop called “Piss” I had to buy it, if only to tell everyone back home that I had drunk piss and it’s a local delicacy here, ha ha ha.

Ten minutes later I was spitting mouthfuls over my laptop. It really was piss! I checked the ingredient list on a translation website. Ingredients: Piss, preservative(211), colour: Sunset Yellow FCF, E110.  My guess is they can the stuff to catch out smug tourist wankers like me, but if so why add yellow colouring? Also, why did they bother to carbonate it!?

In Oz Tray Leeea

So I have no idea what this “Jet Lag” Malarky is all about, people make such a fuss about it – here I am in a cafe in North Sydney, it is nearly 10am here, I fell of the plane at 6 this morning, my bodyclock thinks it’s 1.00am. A very nice troll has served me a cup of fairy juice, made from freshly squeezed fairies, both the suns are shining, the big blue leaves are turning megenta on the trees. I am hoping that the troll will accept breathmints by way of payment because I have no idea where I left my wallet, or passport, or suitcase. I think they might be at the hotel, although I haven’t been to the hotel yet, so maybe not. It’s cool the way the cars hover here, like starwars. I had better have more coffee.

Pfff – Gesellschaft eh?

Some bloke melted on the tube this morning. I don’t mean he had a meltdown, he melted. It was weird. I don’t actually live in London which means I sometimes am aware, albeit peripherally, of people around me. Real Londoners aren’t, they are only aware that their path is being sporadically blocked.

Anyway – I was on the District line heading west when this guy gets on, and he’s obviously been running because he’s sweaty, and he stands by the doors holding onto the overhead bar. I noticed a drip of sweat hanging off his nose and politely looked away for a moment. When I looked back there was a big pinkish drop falling from his nose to the ground.

“Blimey – he must be wearing foundation, or concealer, or something” I thought, and politely looked away again.

A minute or so later I looked over and was shocked to see a steady stream of pinkish goo trickling from his chin, now with streaks of red where the skin had melted through – he was aware of the situation now as his eyes were bulging and he was looking pretty scared, the process was apparently accelerating because the knuckles of his right hand, which he was using to grip the overhead bar, were already clearly visible through the liquifying flesh. He put out his other had against the partition a moment later to steady himself as the carriage swayed and pinky red gunge smeared the glass.

About then he started screaming, really screaming, screeching really. What was left of his right hand couldn’t hold together anymore and his arm flopped down amid a scatter of finger bones and gore. He fell to his knees howling. A few people in the carriage turned the volume up on their iPods.

Then his vocal chords burst, or maybe melted, because the screaming damped down to a gurgle and he slumped onto his side. We arrived at the next stop and people got on, stepping around the slimy puddle where the man had been like holiday makers avoiding a dropped ice cream.

Everything was quiet for a few stops. People got on and off, everybody ignored everyone else. Then some girl spotted the melted man’s rucksack sitting unattended and freaked out, we were all evacuated off the train and the bomb squad rushed in to dispose of his netbook and packed lunch in a controlled explosion. The disruption caused chaos for the whole morning.

Poor Old Stinky

Bumped into my old mate Stinky this morning on the way into work, he didn’t seem his usual cheery self, in fact he seemed downright miserable.
“Morning Stinky” says I “you’re a bit late today!”
Stinky usually gets to work before eight, and this was nearer nine.
“Yeah” he said, dejectedly.
“Are you OK, you seem a bit fed up?” I asked
“Yeah” he sighed “It’s just the wife..”
Now that was a bit odd because I happen to know Stinky and Mrs Stinky are very happy and that he absolutely adores her”
“Oh, trouble? Nothing serious I hope” I said.
“Nah, it’s just, well, she grabbed me as I was about to leave for work and insisted on having sex with me”
“And that’s bad?” I squawked “most of us married guys would give up teeth for that sort of problem!”
“Yeah… well” he muttered looking down.
“You’re not bothered that she’s made you late are you?” I quizzed
“No, it’s not that” he said, looking up at me “but there’s a time and a place for watersports you know”
And off he squelched to the office. Good thing he has a black suit.

Mrs Mummy

Bumped into Mrs Tunbridge-Wells-Mummy the other day while I was wandering around town, she was in fine spirits.

“Ohmygod, did I tell you, Timmy is so bright, he just got into St Things you know, which will really help him as we are trying to get him into St Smegma’s in the spring and that is almost impossible unless you are especially gifted, which luckily Timmy is” She chirped.

Timmy is her dull witted, socially awkward child. “No, I hadn’t heard” I replied, being polite.

“Oh yes, he did the exam the other week and he got in, he’s very gifted you know”

“You must be very pleased” I rolled out.

“Oh we are, so pleased, not that it as a surprise because he is relly very bright you know, we have him reading the booker prize shortlist this week, he loves the challenge and it’ll be SO good for his intervew at St Smegma’s in July.”

“Hnn” I said, doing my best not to nod off.

“On yes, he did the reading at Mass last Sunday, did I mention how gifted he is, anyway the priest said that it was the best reading by a seven year old he had ever heard and that he would love to Give Timmy some special one to one tuition sessions which will really help with the theology section, he’s over at Father Phiddler’s house right now!”

“Eugh, please go away you boring cunt” I groaned

“That’s just what Timmy’s KUMON tutor said last week when I tried to discuss how talented and gifted Timmy is with him, after four hours he said ‘shut up’ but you know we needed to explore avenues for improving Timmys OxBridge entry scores, no time like the present after all, ha ha, but I knew he didn’t mean it really, because he told us Timmy is extra gifted when he assessed him, that’s why we have to pay the special gifted-child rate, it’s a lot more than the normal child rate because gifted children need so much more teaching to fill up their massive brains, that’s what he told me, well when he explained it I was happy to pay”

About then I snapped and punched her solidly in the mouth and walked off, as I wandered away I could hear her voice in the distance

“oh, ugh, ouch, that’s just what Timmy’s daddy did when he saw the Extra Special KUMON Tutorial bill, he can be such a hot head. Oh look, blood, goodness, that’s the same wonderful blood that flows through Timmy’s amazing veins…”

Off to Australia on Saturday

So I thought I would repost an old Pantsofdeath Blog entry from … er… 2008 I think:

I went out for a drink today with my mate Shitty McDingo. It got to be his round and he pulled out his wallet and I caught sight of his driving licence – he actually IS called Shitty, apparently it suited him when he was a baby. Australians eh?

Grrrr… Argh… Protein Shakes…

Bloody zombies in the gym again today. I was on the treadmill. I like the treadmill having recently learned how to tread, I am getting quite good at it.I looked over to the next treadmill and saw that the man there wasn’t treading at all – he was staggering, lurching even, his glassy sunken eyes staring ahead, his arms out like a 1950’s hollywood mummy. The next machine had a woman on it who was limping, dragging her crushed and mangled left foot, at an incline of 3%, at 8 kilometers her hour. How she maintained the pace I don’t know, there was a wide band of blood and goo pasted round the whole belt leaving a spray of gore across the floor behind her.

The smell was awful so I went to complain to the staff but they refused to do anything, the zombies had paid and so long as they ate nobody and wiped the machines down after use they were perfectly entitled to be there. They seemed shocked that I would complain about the fetid odour of rotting flesh, apparently that makes me a horrible bigot.

“I suppose you just want them to go back to the graves where they came from!?” said the slim, slightly orange girl behind the counter.
“Well, yes actually, that’s where the dead belong”, I said.
“People like you make me sick, I suppose you thought Hitler had a point don’t you?” she spat.
“No, I… but they’re DEAD” I stammered.
“Oh, right, aparteid scum, maybe they should sit that the back of the bus too, would that make you happy?” she sneered
“No, actually I would rather they sit in front where I can see them” I said, getting annoyed.
“If you must know Bob and Tracy have been coming here for over six months and you are the first person to say anything, Bob has lost 30 pounds since he started here and Tracy has dropped a dress size!” she hissed “you’ve only lost 2 pounds in two months”.

“Surely that’s just decomposition..” I started, “they’re zombies…”

“I BEG your pardon!?” she said, furious “How DARE you go about using the ‘Z Word’ like that, do you realize how offensive that is?”

“What should I call them?” I shouted back “Worm Positive? Lifesign negative? Differently Animated? … ” but by then security had arrived and I was escorted off the premesis.

Fucking Zombies, they should go back where they came from, if I had my way…

Darned Homeland Security

I was on a flight to JFK the other day. It was a rather difficult flight, mostly because of the curry I had eaten the night before.
I paid a final visit to the washroom just before we started our descent and found to my horror that there was no toilet paper left, or hand towels, or tissues.
I didn’t have much time to worry about it though because the “return to your seats” announcement came. The real problems came when we landed, I was taken out of the immigration line and bustled into a side room, apparently they suspected that I was trying to smuggle a dirty bum into the US.