What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Friday, August 1, 2008

"You want me to do what?" - The realisation of impending doom (part 3 of 4)

Fruit flies fuck rotten oranges. Not strictly true of the real thing, Drosophila melanogaster, which will happily impregnate all kinds of decaying things; but unwholesomely apt for us.  'Fruit Fly' was our name, you see. We, the captives, chose it - unlike 'mole', 'donkey' and 'rabbit' which were the terminology of our gaolers. They called what Hakim and I had been singled out for 'Stock hybridisation programme C-One'.

We were not alone down here. There were other creatures, just as alien to this underground habitat as we men. They however had grown accustomed to life in the caverns, having come from an even less hospitable place.


Set your brains to 1971. If you weren't alive then, just imagine today but with the colour saturation turned up too high and seemingly no limit on the size of male shoe heels or the apertures in the bottoms of trousers. Also women had different shaped breasts then. I'm not kidding. Go on, look at a few adverts from around that time. They slope, don't they? Enough trans-generational mammary comparisons for now, back to the story.

It is 1971 and a tour bus winds its way through the parched countryside of Los Angeles. We faintly hear singing from within. Constant repetitious singing, without let-up or deviation from what had begun as a catchy whimsical tune but now echoed in the driver's ears like a mournful dirge. Suddenly the bus screeches to a halt on a forbidding crest with a rushing gasp from the air brakes. The doors open and a once lively voice, now etched with grim fatigue and despair, shouts "Everyone off to stretch your legs!"

In the half-light of pre-dawn we see sixty or seventy Oompa-Loompas traipse from the bus, puzzled at their remote location. This puzzlement quickly turned to dismay as Gene Wilder put the bus into gear and hared off into the California morning - finally free of those annoying singing cunts.

Some of them starved, some wandered off into the bayside night; never to be seen again. Others ended up in the cast of The Streets of San Francisco. The fortunate ones just became prostitutes. These were however dark days for the remainder of the employees of the chocolate factory, and most just huddled in the undergrowth living on berries, discarded tacos and good time memories of flower power.

That all ended one cloudless California night when the headlights of a 1971 Mercedes-Benz 280SE 3.5litre convertible washed over their shivering forms, and a perfectly manicured finger beckoned from the rolled down driver's window. Those huddled figures then gladly set to work below ground.

Of course, freed from their natural predator - absolutely fucking everything - those Oompa-Loompas thrived in this new chthonian habitat. Unfortunately they were piss-poor at mining, having enough sense of direction only to perform incredibly well choreographed  dance moves. Beyond that they blundered into walls, over sheer drops and under mine cart wheels regularly. That's when the supermodel overlord hierarchy [how often are you going to hear those three words together, eh?] instigated the stock hybridisation programmes.  A disturbing cross-breeding scheme between the female OL stock and the healthiest of their male captives.

Fruit flies fuck rotten oranges.

I understood the bitter humour behind the nomenclature now - and I was scared out of my wits. Apparently the successful progeny of these unholy unions were sent 'upstairs' - my first intimation that the major, and indeed all satellite mines, were situated below department stores and branches of Boots the Chemist all over the land. Hair bleach and radio-controlled shock collars were all it took to prevent spontaneous outbursts of singing and other Loompa-like behaviour from these secret orange ambassadors, and they were a great asset in selling off the mined resources. Sadly the male offspring of these experiments either died or were considered unfit to foist off on the public above. There were terrible rumours about shouty antique expert David Dickinson being the only successful male OL-human hybrid, but these were quickly quashed. I'm saying nothing about George Hamilton IV.

Hakim fearfully explained that the 'lucky' few chosen for this opportunity invariably went mad. He himself had spoken to an unlucky fruit fly before the poor man had taken his own life.

"He told me that not only did he have to do the deed mechanically, but because the models insisted on a fully enjoyable experience for their colour-challenged sisters all fruit flies had to be considerate in bed too. " Hakim told me in between uncontrollable shivers. "The poor bastard said it was like performing oral sex on the scene from 2001 where Dave Bowman is flying through the monolith."

That was it for me. I'd been shocked, beaten, suffered terrible pasty-related heartburn and the raging disappointment that I wasn't living in a recreation of The Two Ronnies 'Worm That Turned' serial. There was no way I was going down on a bloody Stanley Kubrick film.

That night we planned our escape. At whatever cost.

1 comment:

Pablo Von Stoat said...

[insert random enthusiastic praise for quality of humour here]