The Hand Of Glub
Uncle Caine
Me go plop plop. Me go fucking plop plop.
It all started with the monthly paycheck landing in the bank account on
Friday. I get a fairly crap rate of pay, but I work a lot, so the wage
itself isn't too bad. Plus it fools me into thinking I'm doing all right,
the pay being in the large monthly variety.
Anyways, the cash is in the bank, and I've been shoestringing it for a
couple of days. It's time for a treat. "Hey kids, what do you say to a bit
of pizza for dinner?"
"YAAAAAY! PIZZA PLEASE DADDY!" The Higher Powers have spoken. I peer at
the fridge door, leafing through the lantana of a hundred random pieces of
paper held on with magnets and Blu-Tack, scanning for something that has a
pizza special on it. Aha! A special on 3 large pizzas! Good stuff. The
number is called, the order is placed, the wait is made to pass with a quick
trip to the video store for 'Shrek' for Joshua (4), and 'Star Wars Episode
1' for Brandon (7). Back home, the pizza has arrived just as we do. Videos
are watched, pizza is scoffed, happiness all round.
9pm. Tuck the boys into bed and get ready for work. A seven hour crowd
control shift at one of the sleazier BrizVagus nightspots. I'm working, the
music is pumping, the barsluts are wiggling it on the dance floor, a
thousand punters are pouring overpriced alcohol down their throats in an
effort to get so trashed that they forget how their jobs, relationships,
health, wellbeing, worldview, taste in music and general clue ratings are
completely fucked up. And in the midst of it all, an unfeasibly large
amount of Pan Fried Goodness is slithering its' way through my plumbing.
The shift goes without incident, except for finding two gay guys fucking in
one of the toilet cubicles. I'm an open minded guy, but people need to go
while they're still young, ynwmsyn? Anyways, I get home at about 5.30 am
Saturday morning, moving *very very quietly* through the apartment so as not
to wake my two charming larvae, lest they realise it's Saturday and charge
out to watch 'Rage' at eardrum-liquefying decibel levels. I don't mind if
they watch the Top 50, but only if they do it at a respectable volume, and
when I'm absolutely fast asleep, as I can't get a wink with the horrible
noise of Britney, Christina, Shakira, Enrique et al in my head while I'm
still conscious. If only under-10's liked Tom Waits, my life would be so
much easier.
Tippy toe, tippy toe, creep creep stalk. Change out of the work clothes
into the tracky dacks and attack the pizza remains in the fridge. (Cold
pizza & hot beer - Breakfast of Champions.) About 10 minutes later, I'm
scanning the front page of the newspaper for anything even remotely
interesting, when the colon gives me its' equivalent of an airhorn in the
ear. I leap up, and perform the fastest tippy-toe shuffle to the bathroom
that I can manage. Pull the trackies down, clamp my butt on the seat, do
'The Wiggle' so that there is as little cheek exposed to the ringpiece's
blast radius as possible. Ready? Good. Push.
Sitting on the toilet, straining away, I could feel a huge amount of
resistance up there. Okay, this calls for drastic measures. Take the
forefinger of right hand, give it a bit of a lick, and insert within depths
of stricken rectum. Jeezarse! Gotta trim my nails...Okay, I can
feel...something? It's as hard as porcelain, and it feels wider than my
starfish can possibly pass without tearing. Oh great. Okay, start the
breathing exercises . . . you *will* pass this. You *will* pass this.
After about ten minutes of concentrated breathing, I felt the SteelGrogan
start to move. I can feel my ringpiece stretching, wider, wider, W-I-D-E-R
. . .Dear Glub, what the hell *is* this thing inside my arse?! Christ, it
felt like I was being butt-raped by Long Dong Silver in reverse. It
actually reminded me of a bit out of Honore be Balzac's story, 'The Merry
Tattle of the Nuns of Poissy' [1]. Sit there, strain, breathe, gasp . . and
then something happened.
I don't know whether it was the pain combined with the breathing exercises
or what, but I sort of drifted off for a bit, and . . .I had a Vision.
Let me explain.
Have you ever played with fly maggots? If you get them on a flat surface
and press down on them in the right direction, they go POP! It's like the
most satisfying pimple-squeeze. The maggot's guts just explode out of it's
body.[2]
Cue the misty explosion of light...
Well, in my Vision, I was a maggot. A fat, bloated, white fly larva, my
body writhing in an obscene kind of peristalsis, my corpulent larva-flesh
made fat and shiny with unspeakable feasts of shit, rot and compost. And I
looked skyward, arching my wriggling maggot-body up to see . . . a fist.
An enormous fist, covered in blood, semen and feces, and peppered with warts
descended towards me from on high. It stopped just above my head and
uncurled its' index finger, revealing a foul, yellowing fingernail with an
eternity's worth of disgusting substances beneath the cuticle. My maggot
body shivered in embryonic fear, as I thought that this indeed could be the
Finger of Glub.
This gigantic finger placed itself squarely on the top third of my white
maggot body, just beneath the pulsating black spot of my head.I cpould feel
a gentle pressure at first, then an increase, moving my interior structure
inexorably to the bottom of my thorax until the massive pressure against my
maggot skin began painful, then intense, then finally unbearable.
Suddenly, The Finger Unspeakable pressed down with the force of a hydraulic
jack. I screamed as though someone was pulling a thorn out of my soul as
everything inside me exploded out of the corpulent casing of my body - and
the vision snapped shut and vanished.
End misty light explosion thingy and back to the real world. Uncle Caine
sitting on the toilet, sweating and straining and probably only a couple of
seconds away from a coronary embolism (what a way to go!), suddenly feels
the ensuing psychosomatic backlash of his Vision...
"WAAAAAAAARRRGHhh!" *sploshsploshsploshsplapsplapaslutsput pfff-fffzzzzzz*
(last bit is a huge fart that always sounds like the Mystery Machine blowing
a gasket)
pant...pant...pant...
"Gasp...oh my Gawd...ohh..."
"Daddy, are you alwight?"
I open my sweat-stinging eyes to see my youngest sproggen, Josh, standing in
the toilet with me, hugging his teddy with a look of concern on his widdle
face.
"I'm (pant) I'm fine Josh. Go back to bed sweetie... (thinks: Ooh. . . what
the flying fuck just happened there?)
"Wuz you havin' a stwange dweam?"
Sometimes that kid is so sharp it scares me.
ObT: What, that ain't enough for ya? The grogan itself turned out to be a
John Holmes-style Churd (TM), big brown, hard and altogether mean, which was
acting as a plug for a frightening amount of semi-solid Liquishit. Think of
a melted tub of Homer Hudson Chocolate Rock.
[1] The character of Sister Petronille has gone through every mortification
for God, including fasting, so much so that her arse is bound up like
concrete. She strains away, finally crying out 'Oh God, I offer it to
Thee!' as she finally blasts a small hard turd into the metal bowl. I always
liked Balzac.
[2] It's quite good on toast too.
Uncle Caine
--
Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you
to keep your mouth shut.--Ernest Hemingway