SHIT SANDWICH
- A heartfelt parable for a day like today –
- A heartfelt parable for a day like today –
“Eat
up, Theresa!” says Nigel, spoon-feeding the Vicar’s Daughter the last few
dollops from his brightly-coloured Tommy Tippee utensil. Several years, this
has been going on now, apparently without significant effect for either party.
Needless to say, Theresa’s absolutely busting at the seams, finally ready to pop
after season upon season of interminable, constipated misery.
“HINNNNNNN!!!”, she strains, exasperated once more by the
lack of movement. No belt can tame the bulging in her lower intestine; no ceremonial
cummerbund can alleviate the undulating in her gut. She longs to tame the
vicious swipes of the quadruped raging within. She aches for the mercy of sweet
release.
And
then, something irrevocably changes. Call it providence or the work of some higher cosmic force, but she instinctively senses the prevailing shift in tide.
“Prepare the bun!”, she instructs, prompting a bow-tied minion clad in
royal blue to deposit a ready-sliced roll beneath her throbbing sphincter.
Theresa rotates her hips in a circular motion, stirring the gumbo one last time
for posterity before evacuation commences.
She
squats like a Haka, heaving for England as the spoils of peristalsis succumb to their bidding. “Strong and stable!”, she roars, empowered by the
moment. “STRONG AND STABLE!!!”
It
is then that the floodgates open. Backed up, stacked up, ready for wilin’, a
last-minute enema administered by the hand of fate finally does its duty. “HUUURRRGGGHHH!!!”, she blarts
in euphoric rapture as it all comes hosing out in a voluminous flume. Theresa
sees stars begin to bleed above, feels waterfalls gushing within, her torrid
expulsion finally undammed.
She
is caught now in the sweeping torrents of history. It is too late to go back.
And so she unloads clip upon clip of streetsweeping surges from her yawning
back passage, chunnering the lord’s holy word onto the unsuspecting breadcake
waiting below. Work the body, work, work the body - slow
down, girl, you’re ’bout to hurt somebody! Theresa's penguin-like features
contort in gnarled satisfaction as her fartsack drools out a steady slosh of
slurrified slop, curling it out onto the floury roll like so much Mr
Whippy.
The
torrent is seemingly endless. It charges from the caverns of her rectum in
roiling, rapacious waves. Winnets surf the shit-tide like tourists fleeing the
wrath of Da Hui. Eventually the stream begins to slow, and is punctuated by a
truly dismal phlut as one last glob of dysentery
dribbles weakly from her belaboured glutes. Nigel, always the most enterprising
of gastros, re-enters the picture stage-right brandishing a napkin.
“Very
good, Miss May”, he imparts, patting his protégée’s
head before motioning to the lone customer waiting patiently to sample this
bounteous feast. “Are you ready then, Monsieur?”, he demands of the ravenous
punter lining up for the first chomp.
“Boy, AM I...!” squeals the excited
recipient, Union Jack bib tucked hungrily into an open pastel shirt as he
drums cutlery on the table in anticipation of this most illustrious din-dins.
“One
moment, sir,” Nigel snivels, wagging an admonishing finger at his insatiable
charge. The industrious gourmet administers the finishing touches, swabbing a
last few errant nutty bits from the chef’s withered gunge-pipe and garnishing
the final dish with a sprig of parsley from his own miserable, racist plot of
land high in the home counties. “Bon
appetit,” he implores, whipping away a decorative sheet to reveal the
sewage-drenched delicacy beneath.
Britain
sets hungrily to work, demolishing the platter in record time, gorging itself
on this Brexitous banquet. Its unique flavour swills around in the trough,
teasing the diner’s palate with perfumed piquancy. “Funny,” ponders the
still apparently unknowing stooge, munching sourly as his tastebuds absorb the
pervading effluence. “This tastes like absolute shit.”
“
- Perhaps sir would also care to try a glass of the local Kool Aid?”, asks
Nigel, proffering a bottle of lukewarm liquid rendered in hideous chartreuse.
“Why, it’s fresh from the hose; I squeezed out every last drop of it myself
just this morning.”
“...Don’t
mind if I do!”, Britain replies, gulping back this latest offering with
unquestioning acceptance. Smeggy sea-urchins cling to his front teeth while the
backwash mingles with the twang of left-over grot. With friends like these, who
needs anemones?
The
last few morsels safely devoured and all other excess successfully suckled in a
moment of lip-smacking revery, Britain leans back in its chair, satiated by the
reprieve of short-term satisfaction. The feast, for the moment at least, is
over. What
follows is the long, hard famine.
The vomiting begins just a few minutes later. Taking position over the cracked ceramic of our national pride, Britain’s frenzied heaving soon yields the most poisonous of fruits as the crippling pangs of diphtheria begin to take hold. “Make it stop!”, he cries, sweat streaming from every pore and stinging his desperate eyelids, but no-one is listening. They’re all too far away now, merrily ensconced upon a continent forever banished to some distant horizon. Blarghing in perpetuity to God on the great white telephone, Britannia pleads for absolution. No-one answers.
The vomiting begins just a few minutes later. Taking position over the cracked ceramic of our national pride, Britain’s frenzied heaving soon yields the most poisonous of fruits as the crippling pangs of diphtheria begin to take hold. “Make it stop!”, he cries, sweat streaming from every pore and stinging his desperate eyelids, but no-one is listening. They’re all too far away now, merrily ensconced upon a continent forever banished to some distant horizon. Blarghing in perpetuity to God on the great white telephone, Britannia pleads for absolution. No-one answers.
“It
is the end of history
It’s
caged and frozen still
There
is no other pill to take
So swallow the one that makes you ill..."
So swallow the one that makes you ill..."
C.C. 05/04/17
