The Black Eyed Pea
“Here’s proof on why people should have baby wipes. Get some chocolate, wipe it on a wooden floor, and then try to get it up with some dry towels. You’re going to get chocolate in the cracks. That’s why you gotta get them baby wipes.” — will.i.am, 2011
will.i.am is disgusted by your butt germs. will.i.am is washing his hands in scalding water. “Argh!” will.i.am says. “Ah!” will.i.am is grabbing his keys and opening the door. will.i.am is peeling away in his Ferrari. “Damn,” will.i.am says. will.i.am flicks the autotune he has installed on his dashboard. “DAY–AY–AYUMN.”
will.i.am is bleaching his workbench. will.i.am is bleaching his floor. will.i.am lifts a jar of Nutella effortlessly out of the grain of a floorboard as part of his new series of instructional YouTube videos. “I’m will.i.am,” will.i.am says. “And this is Gurl, You Need To Wipe Yo’ Ass!’ will.i.am asks Fergie to make a cameo appearance on Gurl, You Need To Wipe Yo’ Ass!. Fergie uses a fax machine to politely decline.
will.i.am’s fingernails grow slowly in a loop. will.i.am’s feet are embedded in tissue boxes. Cheryl Cole let’s will.i.am watch her shower sometimes because he knows he won’t do anything with it. “will.I.am,” will.i.am says. “will.I.am.” will.i.am’s steampunk-lite glasses slowly fog up with steam. “will.I.am,” he whispers. “Now let me see a towel get all up in that butt.”
will.i.am lives in a protective cocoon now, in a bubble, in a pure white room staffed by lithe-handed Vietnamese bows. Cotton and toweling. Bedding all microwaved for silverfish. will.i.am is so scared of butt germs he hasn’t had a sexual thought since 1997. “I have sent my music to Mars,” will.i.am will.i.whispers. “Ain’t got no butt germs all up on Mars.” will.i.am is dying now, his beard long and tangled and white. “But it ain’t got no butt germs in it,” he says. will.i.am wonders, sometimes, if the key moment in his life – watching two of his pet rabbits, Tinky and Pinky, quickly fuck and then, in unison, shit – will.i.am wonders if that stunted him somehow, made him afraid of butts. “You ruined me, Tinky and Pinky,” he whispers, a snowglobe of Mars rolling softly out of his hand. “You ruined me.”
The Time Traveller
“That’s it!” he said. “I have done it!” He had done it. He had done it. He had invented time travel. “I have invented time travel!” he said. “Actual time travel! I have done it! I have invented it!”
What to do, what to do. You might think: go back and kill Hitler, single bullet to the base of the skull. You might think: go back to last week’s lottery draw, and pick out six winning numbers. You might think: go back and see the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, in all their splendor, in all their glory. You might go to the future and see what in the fuck the hold up is with the hoverboards. Anyway no he went back to his high school prom to try and slam Kylie Peterson.
Back in high school he was a nerd–o, all acne and glasses and science, and as follows Kylie Peterson didn’t even know who he was. “K-K-Kylie,” he once said, as she walked by, and all six hundred jocks in the school lined up and punched him in the stomach. But things were different now. He was a grown-ass man, with a beard, and trauma-induced IBS. He could get a high school girl. Easy.
“No thank you, Sir,” Kylie Peterson said. “You are old and you are gross.” He tried again – looping into the future-past, he grabbed a 22-year-old version of himself, doused him in Lynx, and sent him to asking. “She said no,” he said, steak on his face, concussion. “Quite aggressively.”
By now there were hundreds of versions of him, all packed into the heaving treehouse behind his mother’s house. There was Young Him, Old Him, Nerd Him From High School Who They Had Fitted Out With A Suit And A Haircut; Parallel Universe Him, Robot Him From The Future, Black Him. “Think, you fucking nerdlord idiot shits,” he told himselves. “Think.”
“What if—“ one of them said, and then inevitably a paradox happened, and all was quiet and all was black, and the mechanics of the universe ground to a staggering halt, and the galaxy did tear itself in two, and everyone and everything in it died and no one had time to scream, and he did not, as it turns out, he did not ever fuck Kylie Peterson.
There were getting down and they were getting durt–ay and he was doing that thing dudes do to ladies where it is like some mouth-on-junk action — like blowing an inflatable up, but more savoury? — and just as he was about to do that it talked. It talked. Her vagina did a talk. And it talked in Ronnie Corbett’s voice.
“Terribly sorry to disturb you,” her vagina said. “But could you not do what you’re about to do with that?” The vagina sort of flexed to indicate his penis.
He did not want to talk to a vagina so he refused to talk to a vagina.
“Has it done this before?” he whispered up at her. “Has it talked in Ronnie Corbett’s voice?”
“You mean they don’t all… they don’t all do that?”
“They do not,” he said, wide-eyed and in terror. “They do not.”
“I can hear you, you know,” the Ronnie Corbett vagina said. “I can hear you talking about me.”
“I am not exactly sure I want to do this,” he said, buttoning up his trousers. “Like: no thank you.”
“Todd,” she said. (His name was Todd). “Can’t we get past this?” Her vagina was quietly screaming now. Ronnie Corbett was screaming through her panties. “You… you said you loved me!”
“I CANNOT PUT MY DICK IN WHAT IS ESSENTIALLY RONNIE CORBETT’S MOUTH!”
“BUT WHAT ABOUT US?”
“IT’S OVER, SHIRLEY.” Her name was Shirley.
“PLEASE, TODD!” she said. “PLEASE STAY!” She dragged on his arm and sobbed for a bit, and put on a thick pair of tights to muffle the sound of the Ronnie Corb-gina sympathetically crying. Anyway in the end they just did some hand stuff then went to sleep.
The Sex Doll
“Uguda–uguda–ug–ug–ug,” he said. “Ug, ug, ug.” And with that, her head fell off. Her head, her head, her dead-eyed synthetic-ass head. She was a sex doll and her head fell off. Rubber neck skin tore away at the metallic joint. Ball popped catastrophically from socket. Not even Crazy Glue is getting that back on. Not even duct tape. There was a head-on-floor situation. It was very sad.
After he had finished off and reached over the back of his fold-out sofa and retrieved the curiously heavy, detached head, he was left with a quandary – what he was left with, after 11 harrowing years of service, was no longer a sex doll, made of perishable rubber and dishwasher-proof parts, but essentially a corpse, all jutting, poseable legs, all blonde and spiralling hair, all parts worn smooth through use. A corpse with a very substantial amount of DNA evidence on, up, in and around it. What to do. What to do.
He thought of dissolving her in the bath, but he wasn’t sure how rubber titties and a patch of Real Feel 3000™ pubic hair would fair against a bathtub full of acid – he assumed there would be fumes, and he didn’t want to die by inhaling the vapour off a melted and synthetic butthole. He thought of wrapping her in a carpet and leaving her in a skip, but he didn’t really have a carpet big enough, and plus who walks around with a length of carpet past 11pm who is not a murderer? Nobody, is who. Nobody does that thing.
In the end he decided the best and most respectful course of action for a servant as loyal as Roxie would be to saw her limbs from her torso and shuttle her down to the car in a series of binbags. Then he could bury her in a swamp and be home in time to order a replacement from LadyBabes.com before work. He would go oriental this time. He knew this. £150 surcharge but worth the money. Those eyes, man. Those eyelids. And so he got to work.
“Stop!” the police said. “Put your hands up!” They had followed him, from his apartment down the highway to the swamp, after neighbours heard fucking then sobbing then sawing. He put his hands up and then they tazed him in the face, balls, arse, balls and then balls again, until he pissed himself and died. “Boss,” the police chief said, holding up a rubber titty and a bit of hair. “I really don’t know how to explain this.”
"AIDs," he said, clicking his fingers. "AIDs’ll kill you." He looked around, addressing a room full of awe. "Syphilis. Syphilis’ll kill you." He clicked his fingers again. "Chlamydia," he said. "That’ll kill you dead.” Click. Click. Click.
He was one of those stern police officer types, in shirt sleeves that said, ‘I am here for business’, but in a comedy tie that said, ‘Hey kids’, that said, ‘What up?’ There had been a spate of this dude with a chipolata-like dick and a raincoat exposing himself to schoolgirls, so the local authorities had to come into school and sit all of the Year 9s down and deliver unto them a brutal, brutal sex talk. All, “Don’t take sweets from strangers,” you know. All, “Don’t do hand stuff with strangers.” All, “Sex is a game of Russian Roulette where both of your junks are loaded with six bullets and the bullets are called chlamydia and you will get it, you will get chalmydia.” Pass out some whistles and some johnnies and be done with it. Standard procedure. Job done.
And so he listened, this kid, he listened closely to the Dos and the Don’t (“DO: Not do hand stuff with strangers / DON’T: Not rubber up when you do junk stuff with a consenting peer.”). It was Friday night. His Mammy was out playing Bridge. And, terrified of the looming threat of chlamydia, he decided to put on every single condom he could find.
He scooped under his Mammy’s bed, from behind his brothers’ mattress. He opened the ‘Safe Sex And Your Tenderness’ pamphlet that the school had handed out that day, blueberry-flavoured blobbers cascading out by the handful. Then, one after one after one, he applied condoms like elastic bands around his dick.
At first they were floppy, then tight, then uncomfortable. Ten. A throbbing in his head. Twelve. A throbbing in his actual head. Thirty. Puce veins showed strikingly up his body. Forty. Oxygen starting to stall. Fifty. Why was he doing this. Sixty. Seventy.
“I’m afraid what your son has is known medically as ‘Too Many Condoms On His Goddamn Dick’,” the doctor said. “Can…” she said. “C-can we get them off?” “The condoms?” the doctor said. “Off his dick? Oh. Oh, Lord, no. Not even with lasers. Not even with the fire department’s hydraulic claw.” His face was essentially a pounding artery now, his torso a clotted contusion. “Can… he still take his GCSEs like this?” How was he still hard. “He can not,” the doctor said. “But I can refer him to a very good circus.” And that’s where he lived, near the trampolines, for three years before he died of penis failure.
The Last Tango
He had just watch Last Tango In Paris and had somehow as a result sweet-talked his girlfriend into buttstuff and it turned out that no, he didn’t have any water-based lubricant on hand, and no, he didn’t even have any butter, either, or margarine, or even soya-derived spread. How was he meant to get all up in a butt without that? He searched the fridge for inspiration. Pickle juice? Lazy Garlic? Some dog dick medicine? There was nothing, nothing, but he really wanted to do some buttstuff so he nakedly grabbed a bottle and tiptoed upstairs.
And so: “God,” he said, “God. God.” He considered the looming, ketchup-covered ass in front of him. It had goosebumps on it. Both the ass and the ketchup were sweating. “God. Jesus. God.” He grabbed his trousers and made to leave. “I have to go,” he said. “But you live here!” “I have to go.” And with that he ran, into the night, away from all this, away to the army, which he joined and shot at people. Fuck you, Last Tango In Paris. Fuck you.
The Invisible Man
He woke up invisible. “Huh,” he said. “I can’t see my hands.” He waved his hands in front of his face and everything. “Huh,” he said. “Guess I’m invisible.” And so he did what every man would do if he woke up invisible: he walked sideways onto an aeroplane, he stole a car, and he snuck into Selena Gomez’s hotel room in an effort to watch her shower.
Selena Gomez was not in her hotel room, which made things awkward for a while. He spent twenty minutes sat on her bed, idly slapping on his naked, invisible thighs. He tried to find a pair of her underwear but literally couldn’t – like, carefully going through suitcases and everything – like he literally just couldn’t. He figured it was Selena Gomez’s laundry day, or something. “Aw yiss,” he thought, mildly aroused. “Down to her last pair of panties.” He tried to have a hard-on about it then gave up and watched some ESPN instead.
Four hours into his stay, an especially thorough maid came in, all turning over cushions, all hoovering up the floor, all changing the bedsheets and cussing in Spanish. He had to edge away from her, clinging to walls, hiding stood on the toilet seat. “Man,” he thought. “Being invisible cold sucks a dick.”
After the maid had gone he spread-eagled himself on the balcony and allowed the sweet Santa Monica breeze to cool his clammy and invisible body. Then four armed dude bust in attempting what turned out to be a kidnapping. “Wha—“ he said, and they shot at the noise, riddling a man-sized lump of distorted light with semi-automatic fire. He bled out within minutes while they shouted at each other confused. Anyway turns out they were all wrong, because was only Anne Hathaway’s room.
She had ordered the lobster, he had the calamari. He was kind of too nervous to eat because it was Valentine’s Day in a packed restaurant and he was going to propose. And right now – in her peach-mango drizzled exotic fruit sundae, nestled under a wad of passionfruit – there was an engagement ring, an 18-carat, exquisite-ass diamond engagement ring.
“What do you mean,” he asked the waiter. “’Did she fucking eat it?’ I am thinking: no, she did not fucking eat it. It is a ring.”
“Yes but Sir,” the waiter said. “t is an especially delicious dessert. People do tend to, how you say, ‘inhale’?” He was French. He was French. The ring was somewhere in the fucking ether and the waiter was fucking French.
“Is there no way you could have mixed them up?”
The waiter checked his tickets, checked the security box full of rings, all set behind the counter. Valentine’s Day, you know. “Everyone who was going to propose has proposed,” he said. “All two hundred of them. Maybe she eats it, ah? Maybe tomorrow she will shit it out of her body?” He tipped him a twenty and figured yes: tomorrow she would shit it out of her body.
And so the next day, with a sieve and two pairs of marigolds, he began the arduous task of sifting through her turds for jewellery. He had done some impromptu repiping to drive the household’s effluence through a probationary big Tupperware, and, contrary to reports that ladies don’t poo, she’d dropped two immaculate, lobster-y deuces since 9am that morning. They lay there, in a big old ice cream tub full of pisses, gently bobbing like prize coy carp. He grabbed them up and smashed them through a sieve with a fork. “What are you doing in there?” she said, knocking on the garage door. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, fucking hell!”
Normally he wouldn’t have bothered, but he’d spent six months’ wages on that thing, plus asked her Dad. There was no ‘unproposing’ his way out of this. He snuck out at midnight with a shovel and started going through the septic tank. “No no no NO,” he said, waders filling with tampons. “No no NO.”
“Dale,” she said. His name was Dale. She was stood outside in the frigid cold in a nightgown and some face cream on, and she had a 5,000-candle torch on the go. “Dale, what the living fuck.” Under his foot, he felt an impossible grit – the ring! The ring, the ring, the ring! “Janey,” he said, one knee bent into a horrifying sludge, hands a horrendous brown. “Janey, will you marry me?” Long story short: no, and jewellers know if a ring has been swallowed and eaten and shat out again. They just know.
Hugh Hefner’s Final Orgasm
“Crystal?” he said. “Crystal!” He padded around his house in soft slippers, in silk pyjamas, in a velvet smoking jacket so exposed to sex over the years that it smelled fundamentally of prawn cocktail crisps. “Crystal, y’home?” She was not home. She was in the playhouse, getting slammed by her tennis instructor.
Hefner, he was Hugh Hefner. He was sad and old and floppy and stood in blood-red pyjamas and he was Hugh Hefner. Like someone drew Popeye with their left hand and gave him erectile dysfunction. Like the devil damned a corpse to live forever, agonizingly tumescent, as punishment for all his many rapes. Hefner. Hugh Hefner.
Crystal was Hefner’s latest wife, his third, his blondest. She was literally sixty years younger than him. At the exact moment of her birth he was 60 years old, spread-eagled on an examination table and with two medically lubricated fingers up him, having a prostate exam. While she was toddling about in dungarees he was exploring the quiet luxury of pissing through a catheter. The day she graduated high school he started taking serious gout medication. He was old, you know. Dying.
He looked out of the window and heard tittering. He had slept with hundreds of women in his years, thousands. He had watched blondes with legs and no pubic hair grind on each other for decades. He was jizzed out. He hadn’t had an erection without medicinal and mechanical support for more than 30 years. But now was the time. Now was the time. Like a Wetherspoons-brand Cumberland sausage slowly greying as it defrosted, he removed his dick from his jammies.
“Unf,” Hugh Hefner said. “Ug–uhh.” “Ungh.” “Yeah.” Six seconds later, he weakly jizzed, on and in and down his trousers. And with that he felt the life drain out of him, like he had watched it drain out of so many models’ eyes before him, splayed in front of a camera, smiles hollow, hearts empty; and he felt his legs go light as air, and his old, ploughed face softened, and he threw his arms to the sky. He would be found soon, his knees buckled beneath him, his raw pink old man-legs exposed for the world to see, jizz all over the place. TMZwould have the pictures up in eight minutes’ time. “I knew I would die like this,” Hugh Hefner thought, finally. “I deserve to die like this.”
“Nnngh,” he was saying. “Nn–hnngh.” He was a space-man, doing a space-wank. “Nnngh,” he said. There were some strangled oxygen sounds in there, too. “CRSH–nngh,” you know. “CRSH–CKRSH.” That sort of thing.
A space-wank, for the uninitiated, is a special wank done in space. Conditions in space that do not especially allow for a wank, a list: zero gravity, the constant threat of a genitally lethal vacuum, the cold and unending infinite, the juddering uneroticism of a laminate safety sign saying, in big bold capital letters, ‘ALWAYS BE STERILE’.
There are some little-known facts w/r/t space-wanks, especially when it comes to equipment: as well as oxygen tanks and suicide pills and special patches of in-helmet velcro on which to scratch your nose, NASA also issue each astronaut with a special sort of wanking apparatus, a kind of big sandwich bag with a hi-tension drawstring. (Down at HQ they jokingly refer to it as a ‘missile protection device’). Astronauts are encouraged to do their wristies into that and then jettison the whole sorry mess into the dark yawning abyss of space for aliens to find and do with as they will. That is the plan.
But then so we find Commander Durkden 288 days into a solo mission orbiting the earth, and he was all out of wank-bags, and so he had jerry rigged something together out of a rehydrated pea packet and a length of floss, and was going quite royally ‘at it’. “NNGH,” he was saying. “GAH–AH! AH!” He’d done it. He’d space-jizzed.
Immediately, red lights started flashing; a burning brightness filled the sky. “Captain, come in,” said Ground Control. “Your entire dashboard has shut down.” He looked around in horror. Round cold globules of spunkum filled the air. “THE PEA PACKET FAILED,” he said, grasping at them with his hand. “THE PEA PACKET FAILED.” Zero gravity jizz balls were shattering in his grasp, shooting spooge spinning in all directions, smudging the portholes and gamming up switches. “WE HAVE A MAJOR INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT HERE, CAPTAIN,” Ground Control was saying. “YOU’RE SPIRALLING TOWARDS THE EARTH.” A collision, a gasp; wreakage flamed and fell into the sea.
Anyway long story short someone did a wank so hard we don’t have a Tunisia anymore.
“Hey, you heard of latching?” he said. They were in a pub, talking pub things. “It’s like, this new way of getting bummed off dudes?” He explained latching: latching is this new way of getting bummed off dudes where you, via Grindr or whatever, where you send a picture of a map with a pin in it – all mysterious, all evoking of mystery – and then you leave your key under the doormat to your own personal home and you go and arrange yourself artfully and tastefully on a bed, and then the plan is someone follows the directions and lets themselves in and then anonymously bums you and then goes home. “Ah!” they all said, the pub men. “Ha! Man. Sounds good.”
Only it isn’t good when you send your map and you place your key and you light candles and put on mood music and then you wait, with your hands bound with a jumper cable and an orange in your mouth and a tube of GlideRite®–brand lubricant in and around your tulip, and you wait there for half an hour, 45 minutes, your butt-cheeks growing cold and clammy, your legs growing stiff and warm, until eventually you give up and put your jogging bottoms on and sit on a towel and check the TV guide and see that you’ve missed Deal or No Deal. It’s not so good then.
Due to a pagan ceremony gone wrong she was accidentally married not to her fiancé, Simon, but instead to a furious and raging ancient god called Radglat, Arbiter of the Old World and the New. Total mix-up, but what can you do? They’d already opened the box that the toaster her mother sent came in. Warranty’s fucked on that.
'RADGLAT WILL BRING THE DEATH OF A THOUSAND SUNS DOWN UPON THEE, MORRISON'S FISHMONGER,' he said. They were in Morrison's, buying fish. 'I WILL TEACH YOU FOR LEAVING THICK BUT TRANSPARENT BONES IN MY SALMON FILLETS, AND BY FIRE I WILL SEE YOU UPON THE SEVENTH LEVEL OF HELL.' He was: intense. The Morrison’s fishmonger vanished into a pile of ashes. The rest of the staff were especially keen to help them carry their shopping to their car.
“Radglat,” she said, one evening. “Radglat, do you ever think that you should not destroy people down to component parts and ash quite so much?” She was knitting some booties. Radglat had magicked a baby into her body and they were expecting. “I miss getting our post since you evaporated the postman. I miss hearing weather reports on the radio. I miss our dog. Can you, you know, not?” He shot both hands into the air and destroyed Jupiter. The earth’s weather patterns immediately changed; snow enveloped the northern hemisphere, rocks pelted down upon the south. She sobbed on the phone to her mother about it and then, later, when she had calmed down, asked her if she’d seen Strictly. Her mother had seen Strictly, yes, and she was utterly disgusted. She thought that brunette one looked ‘very cheap’.
“Yo,” he said. “I wanna fuck a ghost.” He’d just watched Ghost and he wanted to fuck a ghost. And so he tried to: walking through a graveyard at night, dabbed with Joop! and wearing tight trousers; growing hard in front of a mirror before chanting ‘Bloody Mary’ three times. He phoned Derek Acorah so many times Derek Acorah changed his number. Nothing worked. He could not figure out how to fuck a ghost. “How do you fuck a ghost, father?” he said, resorting to religion. The vicar or whatever paused. “They say only one man ever achieved what every man dreams of and fucked a ghost,” he said, all scary, all sinister. “And what happened to him, father?” he asked. The vicar or whatever paused. Organs played; a choir sang in the background. “He died,” he whispered. “He died. His dick died and then he died.”
“And what seems to be the problem, Sir?” he asked him. A doctor, he was a doctor. The man could not answer due to medical issues. “He dislocated his jaw, doctor,” a nurse said. “He dislocated his jaw by deepthroating a big Toblerone.”
We’ve all eaten a big Toblerone. They are difficult to eat. They are big. They are angular. And he was not trying to deepthroat the aforementioned big Toblerone – which he had bought along with him, by the way, lying half torn out of its foil and smothered in chocolate-y saliva – he was not trying to deepthroat the big Toblerone for any erotic reasons; he was just trying to get as much Toblerone into his body at once. His uncle had bought him a four-foot Toblerone from the duty-free on the ferry over from France and he wanted to eat it, all, at once. He really liked Toblerone.
“ENH ASN’T AH, YING TO DEE–AH IT,” he said. “AH ASN’T.” They fused his jaw shut with lasers and sold the x-rays to the ‘Funny, Peculiar’ section of the Metro. His mammy did not invite him over for Christmas that year, nor any year after that, and before long, started straight-up telling people he was dead.
His name was Fred, so he was delighted to meet, woo and marry a woman called Wilma. “WIL–MA!” he started saying, when he came home. Wilma is a very rare name these days, is the thing. “WIL–MA!” Not many people name their kids ‘Wilma’. “WIL–MA!” That was basically the only Flintstones quote he knew. “WIL–MA!” he used to say. “WIL–MA!” She would be doing the ironing or something. “WIL–MA!” Microwaving a big lasagne. “WIL–MA!” Smoking a cigarette while pretending to take a shit. “WIL–MA!”
“I’m leaving you, Fred,” she said one day. “I’m leaving you.” He was hammering holes in the floor of an old Fiat 500 ahead of a planned gag he was going to do where he would try and run it to his mother’s house with his feet. “For…?” he asked. “For Barney?”
“No Fred,” she said. “No. We don’t know anyone called Barney. I’m leaving you for a dude called Joe who fits radiators and doesn’t talk about racist old cartoons from the ‘60s.” Anyway long story short: later that day he hung himself with his Flintstones tie.