Sodomize with Pukka Pies
25 March 2002
ITEM 1: Men don't taste of jam, nor should they. Skin tastes of skin, sex of salt. I will not have Ann Summers glucosing over my hectic jarrings with her insipid ersatz raspberry flavoured Booby and Willy Drops. Surely the only people whose cocks taste bad are those who don't wash after racquet sports, or ever? And for what reason on earth would you feel it necessary to mask the taste of breasts? It's not lemon chicken - though it may as well be. I can only think that fungus is involved somewhere along the line, perhaps an accumulation of dead cells/scurf/mould in the area under the dewlap so often overlooked in the shower.
Of course, you may be the kind of earthy vegan type who refuses to wear deodorant, likes yourself all natural. As long as you can find a like-minded mate you will not only be surprisingly fortunate but also doing the rest of the world a service (NB ugly people stick together not just for themselves, but graciously to remove themselves and each other from our gaze/market). But you're surely going to have some conviction, go the whole hog, shit and piss your way through sex in one big ejaculation, a grand release of all your muscles. Aaaaaaaarrgh. And relax. What need have you of synthetic syrup? It's not a fucking ice-cream, so don't pretend it is. It's a cock; it tastes of semen, not rum'n'raisin. I think I've made my point.
ITEM 2: I have decided to offer my services to the marketing division of Pukka Pies, purveyor of 'fine' fayre to chip shops throughout the UK. On waiting for chips and curry sauce with an Irishman one drunken Friday evening I marvelled at a pristine hoarding: on the fawn leather interior of a Mercedes yuppie woman in black tube dress leans over the handbrake to bite on forked chip proffered by manly yuppie driver. Caption reads, 'Socialise with Pukka Pies'. No offence, but my idea of a good night out isn't eating chips in a car park. So, here are some alternatives, (my gimp chimps, Chris, Malc and David have been at their typewriters):
a) Randomize with Pukka Pies: Dropped from a Hercules at 20,000 feet, these babies can brain a native. But more recent projections suggest that they will be most effective as ballistic missiles, or as constituents of cluster bombs - hatch opens to release 147 specially rounded pies. I am currently in negotiations with the Ethiopian and Eritrean governments.
b) Cauterize with Pukka Pies: foil on. The hot coloured metal of the casement seals wounds in days. Could have saved Nelson.
c) Theorize with Pukka Pies: no one as yet has contemplated the essence of a pie. There's a thesis in that. I have little doubt that in the very near future a suitable candidate will be awarded funding for just such a project.
d) Synthesize with Pukka Pies. Forget the philosopher's stone. Our specially designed deluxe Chicken and Mushroom will turn base metals into gold. A nice little earner for the broad-minded entrepreneur.
e) Fantasize with Pukka Pies: see i) below. It's in my dreams. How do you eat yours?
f) Harmonize with Pukka Pies: global branding brings people together. FACT. Coca Cola taught the world to sing. Now you can make peace with a pie (having bombed the hell out of them - see a)).
g) Clench Your Thighs with Pukka Pies: possibly part of e) and likely result of i).
h) Rotarize with Pukka Pies: roll one very fast at someone. They spin round, see?
i) Sodomize with Pukka Pies: foil on (wax-covered) or off (flaky pastry)? It goes without saying that certain modifications will have to be made to the shape to make it more practical. Round things don't fit in arses - except fists and conkers. Finally, something more interesting to watch through the steamy passenger window of a Mercedes.
j) Cannibalise with Pukka Pies: Swift's Modest Proposal advocated that the Irish eat their babies to curb a drastic population increase. Let's do the same for Nuneaton, Daventry and Uttoxeter.
ITEM 3: Buy a loud hailer and stand at Speaker's Corner (Speaker's Corner: popular spot in Hyde Park for airing one's views or beliefs, getting on one's 'soapbox'). I'm sick to the back teeth of fundamentalists, extremists, whatever we're not supposed to call them, shouting truths and tenets at me. The presence of a spittle-filled tannoy glued to the muzzle of a half-wit attributes conviction and not a little intelligence to the ranter. Why not counteract this faux intensity and join me in spouting inanities and blandishments? A few suggestions:
Eat more cheese.
Smile once in a while. It doesn't do any harm.
Horses for courses. Morse for coarse horses.
They say it's going to brighten up over the weekend.
Do you fancy a pint?
Those are nice trousers. Are they new?
Watch their heads implode as they realise they have nothing to get wound up about...