Thursday, October 02, 2008

Purple Manta A Terrible Eye Power Shooting Out

All over the world women are paying big bucks to buy brand new boobs. Generally speaking, significantly bigger boobs.

Do any of these poor women realize that once they have their brand new gazongas in place that they will no longer be able to find a decent place for them to live?

Because welcome to the real world, my darling. Now you HAVE to wear a bra. It is not a prison sentence. Its just that those honeys get a little unruly and its distracting for everyone involved. But hey, though, wasn't that the point? That's perfectly OK. Big boobs are GREAT. They are friendly. If they were people they would lend you money probably, or feed your dog while you go on vacation. They're nice. That's why people universally agree on the superiority of large breasts like them.

Tell ya what, though, gone are the days when you can expect to to waltz into the Jr. Miss department at K-Mart and grab the first thing you see that appeals. And no more 'buy three get the 4Th free!' No, now you will have to take out a bank goddamn fucking loan simply in order to purchase ONE bra. ONE.*

And what will this lonely, sad, AFFORDABLE bra look like?

No slinky, pretty fabric, or colors other than white, tan and black.

No more lace. No more bows. No more satin, ruffles, embroidery or prints.

Generally speaking it WILL NOT BE any larger than a 44DD. Not and look human, anyway. No, anything you purchase from about 38C on up in your typical retail outlet will look like a surgical appliance.**

It will not be comfortable.

...hickory? HICKORY? bad enough it went around blinding midgets and children; egad. i suppose we should praise Jesus they don't make them out of wood any more too.

If it is comfortable, it will not fit correctly. In this case it will be either 1. a cupless, vestlike 'sports bra' and as such will function so as to compress your luscious orbs into one large sweaty amorphous loaf of boob, or 2. a sports bra with what is jokingly described as 'shaped cups' and one hundred million seams that will flatten your yummies into big fat round manhole covers and allow them to bloop out from underneath when you reach up high.

An affordable bra will have seams. Yes I know they make moldable synthetic fabrics with multidimensional stretch. I know that this material even comes in graduated dernier and can be woven to accommodate complex curves and varying degrees of stress. This rare, scarce, high-tech miracle fabric is called Spandex. Bicyclists get it. Swimmers get it. Other women get it, even...women with tiny little motionless nubbins stuck on their chests like postage stamps. They get it with lace. In colors.

You do not get it.

You get one-way stretch, immobile satinized foam yamulkes, or heavy percale. And it has to have seams. You need SEAMS. Enjoy your new FRANKENBRA.

Your new affordable bra will be pointed. Oh yes! Because all boobs are pointed. Everyone knows that. Hell yes. Particularly the big ones. If you have boobs they are POINTY. It is a LAW.
...pick one: is this a 1. porcupine 2. group shot from the republican national convention 3.a sea urchin 4. a lot of sea urchins and porcupines at the republican national convention, or 4. woodstock

If yours aren't, too bad ya fuckin' mutant. Your bra is made to either accommodate the boobage of NORMAL women (the ones with 1950's danger tits or that extra little miniature yurt on the end there) and to TRAIN THE BOOBAGE OF THE ABNORMAL INTO THE PROPER POINTY SHAPE. Refusal of your boobs to comply with this mandate means that you have to run around with two empty crumpled up little strangenesses on either side of your chest up under your shirt that make you look like you got into an unfortunate chemical accident. But see, if you had NORMAL POINTY BOOBS this wouldn't happen ya freak.

The reason for this is simple: The cups of your new giant bra have been designed to house a species of giant clam.
... boob clam! nana nana nana nana, boob clam! nana nana nana nana, boob clam! boob clam! boob clam! BOOB CLAAAAAAAAM!

Large boobs look like giant clams. Its true. They do. Go look. Large size affordable bras (I'm talking to YOU, PLAYTEX) are apparently designed by people so grossed out at the though of anything over an A cup that they figure that anything bigger can just live in a grocery bag or a phone booth, or fuck it just go live a doorway like a wino or something; who cares. Ew. At any rate the closest the designers were able to bring themselves to 'big boob' was 'giant clam.' Deal.

Science has shown that giant clams don't need lace, or colors, and they like lots of fabric. Actually they NEED all that extra banding to restrain them during their frequent fits of GIANT CLAM FRENZY so they don't go all crazy and eat scuba divers. Notice how you never see any scuba divers near the plus-size bras? They are SCARED.

Because masses of flesh are not rigid, big boobs need something called 'side support' in order to keep them from kicking back with a beer and a newspaper and relaxing into your underarm region. This is not fatness; this is physics. Do not become alarmed. No salesman will call at your home. But then too; don't get all upset because when you're driving your car you have to steer with your elbows held out to your sides like airplane wings either. Not that this would happen if you had a bra with side support; but no, you do not DESERVE side support because if a woman with fritatta-titties does not need side support then YOU DON'T EITHER.

Oh OK fine. Here. Here is some side support.

There. Isn't that better? What we've done is sew a kind of a pockety thing in the side there and then stuck a bendy little strip of plastic in it so that when you sit down it bores a hole up into your armpit. THAT IS SIDE SUPPORT. REALLY. IT IS. YOU LOVE THIS AND IT WORKS PERFECTLY. LALALALALA WOOOOOO ICANTHEARYOUICANTYHEARYOU WOOOOO

Oh, and here...scaffolding. Because we can't have them things all going buttwild crazy shootin' up the dern town... So here. Have two pieces of metal shaped like the letter 'C' that aren't really attached to anything and serve no structural purpose whatsoever. That rust, and twist into weird shapes when you sit down, and set off metal detectors at security checkpoints, and make huge blisters underneath your arms, and abrade giant 'smiles' of raw skin beneath each tit when you sweat. What, are you mentioning moldable soft synthetics again? You heartless big titted cow. Do you know how many six-year-old bra wire inserters you'd be putting out of a job???

Remember: when you have big boobs, you are fat. Oh, you might not be able to see it. You might not even be able to get all that fat to register on a scale...but its there, honey. Every affordable bra you buy has also been designed to accommodate your presumed hippopottamaic girth. You will be able to invite a poor friend with big boobs in with you and you can wear it together! Tell everyone you're conjoined fraternal twins.

Because elastic is made from an endangered species of petrochemical which can only come into contact with the skin of the flat-chested, your shoulder straps have to be constructed from either steel pallet banding or a delicate scrap of shiny ribbon with a vicious little jagged dealie halfway up the middle masquerading as an adjustment thingamawhatzis. It will not stay in place. Don't go expecting it to because it won't. As soon as you sit down; ZOOP right down over the shoulder. You should never sit down. Or bend over. Or reach for something in front of you. Or overhead. Never, never do any of these things. Expect to spend the balance of your life hoisting at one side or another like Loobie May Cornpone, which is both attractive and sexy.

The most difficult part of this for me to get my head around is that you'd think most bra designers, being men, would kind of have a vested interest (get it? HA!) in keeping boobs happy. Honestly. Really. Tell me how the same sex that designed this:

...also designs this:

Give me a fucking break here. Please. I mean PLEASE. The next time any of you swingin' dicks starts in whining about women just remember it's your fault for designing crappy bras. That's right. Throw me a decent foundation garment that fits right and doesn't look like something your grampa had to wear after his rib fracture and maybe I'll be a little easier to get along with *tug, shift, yank*

And I'll tell you what: Don't you even have the goddamn gall to whine when no boobs want to live in substandard housing like that and they start migrating south! You would not live in a house designed the way a bra is designed! Oh no! You now what a person would look like who lived in a house built the way the average bra is designed? That person would be shaped like a giant clam, and the house would be shaped like a tepee, and the giant clam would be so big that it would have to lie curled up in a ball in the bathtub with one foot in the toilet. No wonder the boobs are migrating! They want a better life! Save the whales? Fuck the whales! SAVE THE TITS!

*and you'll end up, more than likely, in a specialty shop. Here in America, expect to pay an average base price of 35.00 for something you wouldn't be ashamed to be caught in. Not any miracle of fashion, either...just something that looks like your average Bali b-cup, maybe with a little lace, in lavender. And if you want something truly designed with your shape in mind? Internet, honey. PLUS SHIPPING. And pray to God it fits like they said it would when it gets there. Honestly, what the fuck? They can bodymap someone as butt-ugly as Gene fucking Simmons and make a miniature doll-thing of him that's photographically exact down to the hair on his ass - and yet we're still having technical difficulties designing a stretch garment for a couple of complex curves?

**ok now. you gonna come up on me with "well, at wal mart you can buy up to 145 WW and they're reasonable and they come with hello kitty on them too so HA." because a. bullshit. seriously. go take a look at the percentage of large bras in stock there at wally world. how many companies? warner and playtex you say? uh huh. and how much do those cost? um, about 5.00 MORE than the next size down, huh? apparently us awesome gals are taking vital textile resources away from the more deserving with our big ol hooties. PROVIDING you find any in stock. PROVIDING your local wal-mart even carries them because lemme tell ya babe, the one in bellingham DON'T. in eastern washington? yes. three of them. I am not going to make a goddamn 200+mile pilgramage on the off chance that the tard in the bra department has done her stocking the night before, just in order to purchase a cheap bra, because that defeats the whole cheapness concept, fucks with my carbon footprint and YOU STILL END UP WITH A FRANKENBRA DESIGNED TO HOUSE GIANT CLAMS!!!!!! HELLO KITTY IS NOT ADEQUATE COMPENSATION HERE!!!

Sunday, September 28, 2008

UPDATED: Shock the Monkey

UPDATE: awwwww, too long? thats ok! i'll just leave it up for a NICE LOOOOOOONG TIME so everyone can enjoy it when they have time. We aim to please here at Paul!
kids, you want fast thrills go hit an amusement park. you want pseudoscholarly discussions of sweat, botanical neologisms and men in turbans then sit down and keep your hands inside the car while PAUL is in operation.

this one goes out to the recently married Chaucers' Bitch! Congratulations my darling! Here is a lovely tale for you to read together on your wedding night.


DR. EMMANUEL BRADY: private notes, fat soluble lipids

Despite the findings of quantum physics certain phenomena related to the human mind can in fact be explained by mechanical processes. For example the human sexual response is largely due to a simple, mechanical process which occurs in the brain. You see, certain neural receptors are shaped in such a was as to admit only a certain molecule, and nothing but that molecule. Very much like a key in a keyhole, amusingly enough, given the titillating Jungian associations that the image conjures. Ha!

In the case of the sexual response this particular molecule is produced in the human apocrine glands. In a condition of arousal, or at least, a condition of just having come back from the gymnasium after their lunch break without having showered first, these compounds fill the air in a cloud, much like a blizzard of fruit flies around a bowl of overripe bananas and oranges and whatnot, waiting to stuff themselves right up the nose of any passing inhale-ee who will then experience an embarrassingly ill-timed boner and have to hide it behind a sheaf of files and walk about bowlegged for the balance of the afternoon.

The sexual response in also partially a learned behavioral response. It is! Its all conditioning, you see. An organism first primed into expectation of certain stimuli by the receipt of the proper chemical 'hint' learns through trial and error that a particular activity or activity set will more that likely lead toward an erotic reward. After a few repetitions of same there you have it, that organism is trained. Reproduce the stimuli and ding! The bell rings and Pavlovs' dog ejaculates, and should at that point in the proceedings be hit with a rolled up newspaper to make sure he doesn't do that in the house again. In the case of a human subject it means that the approach of the clock hands ever closer to the 'twelve' and 'one' positions causes a sudden increase in blood flow to the groin region irregardless of whatever activity that subject might otherwise be engaged in. Hypothetically.

As was my mentor Dr. Gordon Wasson, I too am a firm believer in the controlled use of psychotropics. Purely as an aid in making those sudden intuitive leaps of creative reasoning that so often propel the willing explorer of the mental frontiers into Nobel Prize territory, of course. However unlike the good Doctor I eschewed the mycological path, and was instead an acolyte of the poppy.

It was during one of those dreamy interludes spent lapping at the perfumed bosom of Madame Yen Shi that I first evolved the following hypothesis: a person who could control the precise regimen needed to incite the brain might evolve a method whereby he (used editorially, of course) could produce all kinds of interesting effects without having to raise the least bit of..shall we say...sweat.

My assistant Ms. Phail was a lovely girl. Entirely uninterested in me whatsoever. No, I was simply the beige gent in the lab coat who signed the check that made it possible for her to purchase highly indecent items of underclothing, such as the delightfully scanty balustrade of lace which forced her bosoms up into to delicious vanilla orbs which jiggled like kittens down the front of her lab coat whenever she moved suddenly, such as, when another person happened to brush up against her in an entirely inadvertent fashion.

Repeatedly I sought the embrace of my papaveracaeian beloved in hope that my supplications would earn me the necessary inspiration and finally, after a prolonged bout a' soixtante-neuf with my stern Yellow Mistress it did indeed. It would be a relatively simple task to capture the necessary cerebrostimulant compounds and render them into a concentrated state. The introduction of this solution to a selected subject would no doubt inspire an overwhelming subconscious biochemical response. If one were to use that preparation in conjunction with a ritualized series of operations aimed toward training the already- susceptible subconscious mind, the outcome could be tailored to whatever the operator desired. In this case 'outcome' being equal to 'show me her beaver'.

Unfortunately any further development of this idea was brought to a halt as I was forced to spend some weeks in hospital with an uncomfortable case of epigastric paralysis requiring an unfortunate, painful and rather humiliating surgical procedure. Furthermore, the notes I'd taken turned out to be an indecipherable mass of hieroglyphics. Nothing quite dampens the urge to translate same than an inflamed rectal incision.

Finally intellectual curiosity overcame my native reluctance to experience another bout of peristaltic inactivity. And so, stitches removed, all systems go as it were, I armed myself with three quarts of vegetable juice cocktail and a gramme of black resin, raised my lighter high in the direction of the Mystic East and chased the dragon once again...this time directly to the Rosetta Stone. Excelsior!

I had a fine collection of state of the art equipment that I'd liberated from the clutches of my academic overlords tucked back in an unused corner of my apartment. Soon I was turning my every private hour toward the development of what I amusingly christened my 'Ms.Phail cocktail'. Ha!

My first efforts were based on the theory that the fastest route into my assistants knickers would be to concoct a solution in which our amorous secretions were already combined; priming the pump as it were. One readily available source of half the necessary compounds would be found in the ladies room, although sorry to say, after an incident back in my second year at university there wasn't going to be any more of me lurking around those environs. Then I hit on the idea of raiding the contents of her purse. Certainly ladies carried all kinds of things about with them loaded down with their charming by-products...? And so, one afternoon I sent her down to the Administration annex on some routine task and, armed with a nail file and the unquenchable spirit of scientific inquiry I jimmied the lock on her desk drawer.

This provided me with a few things; a lipstick I didn't think she'd miss, a few crumpled tissues...but no. No, it simply wasn't enough and I certainly couldn't stand about waiting for the silly cow to remove her diaphragm, not after the incident in the airport at Brussels. No, I'd simply have to secure a larger supply of the necessary organic lipids someplace else.

Ah, but then I remembered. My charming assistant belonged to the local gymnasium, didn't she. Of course.

Once I'd crunched the electronic lock on her car I was able to open the boot and there was her gym bag pretty as you please. I took a fast look around and then drew the zipper down carefully.
The sudden vision of her that rose like a tormenting flame in my mind was enough to render this simple operation into very potently charged terms, as well as to cause me to pop an almost instantaneous log.

I buried my face between the canvas flaps. I felt the coarse plastic edges of the zipper as a kind of delicious 'duffel dentata' that my imagination described in shades of scarlet, caressing the sides of my face in an inviting way as I inhaled the delicious, womanly perfume of her unlaundered sweatclothes.

This had the most aggressive effect imaginable on my now-rampaging libido and in a moment I had drug the unsuspecting bag over the front edge of the car boot where it dangled invitingly, its slattern, wanton gap a lascivious 'v' of invitation. "There, you filthy bitch," I snarled, inserting two fingers roughly into its aching depths. "Now moan like you want it!"

Clumsy with need I hurriedly released the furious demands of my turgid manhood from the confine of my trousers and thrust it savagely between those canvas lips. Immediately I groaned in orgasm, spewing the viscous yogurt of my man-seed; jet after jet of superheated lava emerging triumphantly from the earths very core; deep, deep into the quivering, greedy chasm of her sweatshirt.

"Doctor Brady?" I heard a stern male voice at the far end of the parking garage calling. "Sir? Can I help you?" Hurriedly I did up my flies and scurried away.

It looked like I was back at square one: collection of my own product. Ah well. Setbacks are to be expected, I suppose.

The first thing I did was purchase the services of a very nice Asian lady who depilitated the entire surface of my body from the neck down using some kind of adhesive. I found this a uniquely painful and humiliating process but one which I gladly suffered for the sake of the outcome.

For the next week I wore a garment made from a deionized hyperfabric comprised of a chemically inert substance which absorbed and preserved within its weave every particle of my precious secretions. Before I donned this erstwhile cocoon I purified the surface of my skin with a dilute solution of iodine. Then into the garment through the long slit up the front, on with the suit and tie and over it all a nice clean lab coat and within a matter of minutes I was sweating like a large and very foul boar hog.

Of course during this time I avoided introducing anything into my system that might adversely effect my scent. I lived for the next week entirely on distilled water and rice cakes, one of the most horrifyingly awful things I have ever put into my mouth I might add, forgetting a certain regrettable episode involving the neighbors dog.

After a week of collection the garment was finally removed-much to my sudden regret; I had become quite fond of its moist embrace- placed into a steeping chamber filled with a therapeutic-grade carrier oil and heated to 79 c . I checked and checked again, desperate to make certain that each element was precise and in its proper order. Yes, perfectly and precisely yes; down to the special container fixed in place beneath the tappet, sealed against the contaminating atmosphere, waiting to receive the first precious, wanton droplet of my primal pong.

Studies showed that certain compounds contained in frankincense, myrrh and cloves produced a marked increase in the oxygen content of the brain, and that in turn gave rise to an increase in the output of neurostimulants which homed in on the centers of gustation and pleasurable response. I set to work concocting a melange of these ingredients, and after some experimentation I arrived at a combination that wasn't too terribly ecclesiastical. Quite nice, actually, in a Tutankhamenish, Valley of the Nile kind of way. I then added a hefty dollop of my own homonid essence, my personal stock as it were, and set to work surreptitiously perfuming her environs.

Some on the receiver of the telephone at her desk...a little on the back of her chair where she'd rest her hand as she drew it out...a bit on each armrest...a wipe down the length of each pencil and pen in the holder...the handles of the drawers...aaaaaaaaaand a few daring droplets on the seat of her chair, just because. I also treated all the surfaces in her work areas and sprinkled a bit inside the first few pairs of sterile gloves in the box nearby.

"Are you wearing some kind of aftershave?" she asked the next morning. I ignored her, although inwardly I rejoiced. Excellent!

"I'm going to go check and see if the night crew changed the animals bedding..." she continued, heading toward the next room.
I looked after her retreating form wearily.

-No no no no no good heavens NO, man; she's keying on an animal level. This is a limbic response! Precisely what you intended! And here's you not providing the necessary positive pleasure ritual. You idiot, of course. You have to reinforce the aroma with positive stimuli. But what?

"I've put your samples into the separation unit for you," I said cheerily when she returned.
"But they weren't' meant to go in yet," she said, hurrying to the chamber and looking worriedly at the readout. "Well there's that batch fucking spoiled," I heard her mutter.

Hm. "Well now no matter," I said, struggling to inject a hearty, cheerful note into my voice. "That's easily remedied. What's a few more bits of whatever?"

"The deceased was sent to the crematory last week, Dr. Brady" she replied. "I don't expect we'll be getting many more gastric samples from that quarter."

"Well. I'm sure...." I decided a change of subject was in order. "Did I happen to mention that you....your work, that is....its quite, you know...satisfactory."

She looked at me quizzically.

"...yes. Well. I've been....considering giving you a raise, you know," I continued. "Say, oh, another dollar an hour, hm? Yes, just the thing! A dollar an hour!That's another..."

"...forty dollars a week," she said.

"Yes yes I know that. So then. Would you like to....go out to lunch to celebrate your raise?" I said. Excellently played, Brady, excellently played! "...I'll pay of course. Of course! Its my, I invited, well yes. So then! To lunch!"


" Did you know," I said, leaning in across the table conspiratorially, "That the vomeronasal organ of the dog is capable of detecting over seven million different molecular compounds? Imagine that kind of information being fed directly into your brain every time you inhale! The implications are staggering actually," I continued. "No wonder dogs never developed much of a cortex; they hardly need it."

"They certainly wouldn't back at the lab," Ms. Phail murmured, taking a sip of her coffee. Inwardly I smiled. I'd already taken the liberty of dosing it with a pure form of my special concoction and as I watched it pass her lips my imagination took flight on scarlet wings. Yes, dear lady, take it. Take it all. And swallow. Good girl.

"Yes, but what I mean is, with that much visceral, actual molecular material being fed directly into the limbic regions you'd simply be in a continuous state of analogue response to your surroundings," I said. "There'd hardly be any need for higher cogitation. That is of course if the necessary chemical precursors were in place, you know," I laughed. "Of course."

"Of course," she said, glancing down at her watch. Ah, I thought, now there's an opportunity missed; the back of her watch would've made a perfect application site. "Isn't that how ants work?"

"Yes yes, quite right, exactly. A perfectly ordered miniature society. No internal strife, none of your angst ridden teenagers running about dressed like Victorian no no." I smiled down at her. "You know,that's a very acute observation. Yes, quite incisive."

"My parents bought me an ant colony for Christmas one year," she said. "That was on the box it came in. All about how ants communicate. " She looked around and sighed.

"Delightful. Of course we as humans have the ants put to shame when it comes to mank...we're capable of producing someplace in the range of 5665 different aromatic combinations in our sweat. Now of course all that has first to be distilled through the decompositional labours of our friends the Staphylococci. That's what produces the dreadful foul, rank stench you notice when you've been exercising. Activity raises the body temperature of course and that rouses our microscopic passengers into an absolute frenzy of activity, which is all to the good considering the subsequent increase in waste secretions oozing out of our pores, particularly in the axillary and genital regions. By the way, did you know, you have the most remarkable eyes?"

She turned both of them upon me and blinked several times rapidly.

"Oh yes, quite," I continued. "Tell me, have you ever tried drugs? I mean illegal ones, of course. A little MDMA at a rave party perhaps? Smoked some 'grass'? Hm?"

"Now really," she began. I held up my hand. "No no no no no, now Ms. Phail I assure you we're all adults here. I myself am not adverse to the occasional 'trip'. Oh no. Do you find that shocking?"

"Actually not in the least," she replied.

Earlier I'd taken the liberty of tipping the waiter heavily for turning his back a few seconds while I poured a few grammes of my 'elisir d'amor' on her order. Now I thrilled as he placed the steaming plate before her. My face displayed no trace of emotion, of course. She gazed down at the plate and I saw her brow furrow. "Whats this?" she asked.

"Fettucine alla beurre", I replied.

She took a hesitant bite and chewed thoughtfully. I watched her mouth, that splendid mouth like a strawberry. A lush, wanton, trollopy little strawberry aching to be filled with my

"Is this something Greek?" she asked. "It tastes like goat."

I gestured at her plate. "Don't lets be provincial. Eat up."

My heart was now positively hammering against the walls of my chest. I watched her as she devoured her portion.
Soon, Ms. Phail, you will be devouring mine.

"So as I was saying....yes. Drugs. Recreational drugs. Controlled substances. Did you know, for instance, that as we speak I have a quarter ounce ball of raw opium up my jacksie?"

She grasped for her napkin and began to cough.

"Not to worry dear lady, I am long acquainted with Madame Dragon. I can assure you you have nothing whatsoever to fear from me inasmuch as I would much rather roam the fertile, perfumed oases of my inner landscape during these interludes than engage in any coarser delights. Although I admit to having given more than a passing thought to...oh what do they call it nowadays..." She looked at me anxiously through the light of the candle that flickered between us. "Oh dear. A hallway? A strip mall? A....a landing strip,that's it! Your taco. Oh now don't blush; you shouldn't wear a skirt around the lab if you don't want people dropping things on the floor and looking up it. Or sit at your desk all splayed out as though you were about to take a run at the pommel horse ," I gestured in an illustrative manner "...wearing those kite-shaped little scraps of cloth that pass for girls pants nowadays. Heaven only knows what your father would say if he knew you were dressing like that; I'd thrash mine within an inch of her life if I had one. In fact I wouldn't mind reddening your bottom for you, Ms.Phail."

"Please put your hand down, people are looking," she hissed.

"And what pray tell is exactly wrong with my hand Ms. Phail?" I asked, leaning close, feeling the heat of the candle like the flaming breath of a dragon. Small crumbs of eyebrow fell to the table as she reached out and pushed me back into my chair.

"Actually its not so much your hand as you flicking your tongue at me from between your fingers," she continued in a whisper.

I felt a surge of blood infuse my nether regions. The experiment was working better than my wildest dreams had anticipated! "You are indeed a woman of rare discernement; a woman of many parts; all of them eminently suited to being painted a la Motherwell with the product of my loins; my love-custard, if you will. Tell me, Ms. Phail, have you ever had a wine bottle inserted up your

Suddenly I found myself in the back of a cab.

"Good Lord would you please stop licking the windows," Ms. Phail muttered, pulling me back from the glass. "You don't know whose been licking them before you. Please just sit back and try and calm down."

"Madame, I am unable to calm down when my very atomic structure rages in a violent maelstrom of lust," I announced. "Sir, attend your driving," I added, and the cabbie turned away. "He wants me," I whispered. "It's the heat of the East that rages in their blood. These turbanned Lotharios will penetrate your ringpiece quicker than a rat up a drainpipe."

"Please be quiet," Ms. Phail pleaded. "Honest to God. What do I have to do to get you to shut up?"

I announced my intentions by tearing aside the twill that hid my glory. "There is your Golden Fleece Ms. Phail!" I exclaimed. "Ignore that! I can find another button! No don't scrabble about on the floor after it its only a button! Ms. Phail, I command you to stuff my weenie up your hooha!"

"Oh dear," she said.

"Miss, please. We have a cop on horseback directing traffic up here," the cabbie said. "Please find some way to keep him quiet. I can't have him screaming about his weenie like this in public."

"Oh dear," she repeated. And with that she took me in her delicate hand.

I howled like a war-dog, a dire wolf, some distant primeval ancestor of the savage male species triumphantly braced against the hindquarters of its mate!!

"Please, sir, just shut up and let me wank you off," she muttered, pulling at my love muscle as though she were hauling anchor out of the black muck of Rangoon Harbour. "Just sit back. close your eyes and for the love of heaven SHUT YOUR GODDAMN PIE HOLE."

"Evoe! Your resolve is but a dialectical hymen concealing your throbbing need for my ding dong! Ope wide your piscine portals to the hammer of my sex, Ms. Phail ere I impregnate you with a glance of my eye! Join me in coition! Let me ravage the ridges and vales of your oral sanctum! Let me fling the hollandaise of my love against your vaginal vault!! Let me "

"Miss, please! I cannot remain employed if I receive another chit against my operators license," the cabbie pleaded.

"Oh God help me, alright...move aside you lummox. I can't..."

Her lips descended, fell, drew closer, and finally closed around my peepee!


Suddenly my throat closed and I struggled to draw breath. A wave of venomous heat rose up my chest, up my neck and over my face like a thousand stinging ants. "I.....I can't seem to...."

"Oh fucksakes, what now," I heard her mutter as I faded into black.

"I'm afraid you've had a mild heart attack," the doctor informed me. "You seem to have experienced a massive anaphylactic response to your own sweat, as far as we can determine..." the doctor shook his head and sighed down at the chart in his hand. "We don't see this type of thing very often, I'm afraid. I must say I've never seen a case of urticaria this extreme either. You came in covered in actual blisters. Hopefully you heal well; there shouldn't be any permanent scarring associated with the event....although I see here that we've had to sedate you nearly to the point of coma to keep you from" He looked up at me quickly. "...and I see you're going to need a skin graft. Well then. Hm." he looked around awkwardly, handed the chart to a nearby nurse and hurried out into the hallway.

When I was finally able to return to work I found a notice of transfer waiting for me. Under the circumstances I was not entirely displeased.

Until I read it.

I was being moved completely out of the forensic research department. I was, in fact, to be relocated to another wing entirely.

It seemed I was the new head of Egyptian Antiquities.

Oh dear.