My Mate Bob Looks Like a Vagina

I swear to God it’s true; my mate Bob really does look like a vagina. There’s something about the odd, distorted shape of his mouth, the thin, labial quality of his lips, the wispy sprouts of beard and the small, pink, nubbin-like projection of his nose. It all adds up to a resemblance of the female front bottom that is quite remarkable.

He’s gained a certain notoriety in these parts. Cunt Features, they call him. Old Minge Mush. He’s the closest thing this town has to a celebrity, and folks travel from far and wide to come gawp at his pussy chops. Bob is no fool; he knows an opportunity when he sees it. He’s got his own website, has hooked up an endorsement deal. He’s raking in the cash, exploiting his twattish appearance.

And in all honesty, I’ve used his fame to my own ends, too. How could I not? I’m the best friend of a minor star, why shouldn’t I cling on to his coattails and go along for the ride. Oh yes, I tell the ladies. Me and Bob, we’re like that, we are. And I curl one finger around the other to demonstrate our closeness. You want to meet him, you say? Well, I’m sure something could be arranged . . .

Last week I got talking to this girl, a blonde bombshell type in a short skirt, with insatiable eyes and a dirty laugh. I wasted no time slipping into the conversation that I’m best friends with the vagina lookalike.

She almost chokes on her alcopop.  “He’s just an urban myth.”

“Nope. Straight up, one hundred percent, Scout’s honour.”

“No way.”

I sense an opportunity. “I could introduce you to him, if you’d like.”

“Really?” There’s a seriously mischievous grin on her face.

So, we grab our coats and head across town. Bob always drinks in the Red on a Thursday, I know his routine like the back of my hand. Sure enough, there he is, Muff Mouth himself, surrounded by a crown of onlookers. I elbow my way through, dragging my blonde accomplice by the hand. “How’s it hanging, Bob?”

“Not too bad, mate,” he replies, his pink labia lips ever so slightly moist.

“Oh my God,” the blonde whispers in my ear. “He really does look like a vagina.”

I take her back to my place. She’s raring to go and no mistake, and wastes no time getting naked. “Come taste the honey,” she coos, and spreads her legs real wide.

And would you fucking believe it? Her vagina looks just like my mate Bob.

The erotic tension instantly dissipates. I turn away, stare out the window, do anything to keep from looking at the hideous visage of Bob, grinning vindictively up at me from between this gorgeous girl’s thighs.

“What’s the matter?” She asks. “Is it me?”

“No, it’s not you,” I dolefully hiss. “It’s Bob. It’s fucking Bob.”

By the Numbers

I’m loitering on the corner of Glan Morfa and Brenig Lane, just kind of minding my own business, when a gruff voice addresses me from behind.

“Smith. The very man I’ve been looking for.”

I turn and find Dirty Barry’s fat, gross face leering at me. Shit. This is all I need. “What seems to be the trouble, officer?”

He pulls open his lapel an inch, flashing the butt of a forty-four nestled in a shoulder holster. “Let’s you and me take a walk.”

Someone once asked why they call him Dirty Barry, and he only laughed. In truth, it must have been a rhetorical question – either that or the dude who posed it had no nose. Dirty Barry’s ripe odour is enough to make you gag when he gets up close and personal. The son of a bitch hates his wife, so he works every minute of overtime he can get his grubby little paws on to avoid going home and being around her. Thus never gets chance to take a shower.

As well as dirty in the foul-smelling sense, he’s also dirty in the corruption stakes. He takes pay-offs, hands out beatings. Rumour is he once even killed a guy, acting on orders handed down by Cheesy John, owner of the biggest dairy farm this side of Aberaeron. Judging by the fact he’s carrying a piece, I’m starting to worry I could be next on his list.

Who the fuck did I upset this time? I wrack my brain trying to think who I might have pissed off so much they’d want me dead. There was the pants incident, but that’s all blown over now. I sold out, abandoned my principles and took the money; blew it all on a wild weekend in Colwyn Bay.

Or maybe it’s the esteemed Doctor Roberts, General Practitioner and local bigwig; he’s made it all too clear he’s not happy with me ever since I wrote that article exposing his liking for Nazi fetishism. He’s certainly got the motive, plus the cash to stump up for a contract killing. But I made it more than obvious to Roberts that if anything happens to me, the beaver pics I have of his wife will get splashed all over the internet from here to Merthyr Tydfil. Call it an insurance policy.

Surely Roberts wouldn’t be this stupid? I guess I’m about to find out. Dirty Barry is jabbing me in the back with the muzzle of his gun and frogmarching me toward a dark alley, where I assume he’s planning to do the deed.

But there’s one thing Dirty Barry hasn’t counted on. See, this game is all about the numbers; if you don’t add up the numbers, then your number might just be up. Dirty Barry may have a forty-four, but I’m packing a thirty-eight, and three plus eight beats four plus four, any day of the week.

I perform a spin kick I learned from watching Monkey Magic, knocking Barry’s weapon from his hand. I draw down on him. I’m now holding all the aces. “On your knees, pig. Start talking. Who paid you to whack me?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Barry sneers.

I kick him in the ghoulies, a medium-weight hoof to the pods, and he crumples like an empty pack of cheese and onion.

“It was Mrs Roberts,” he gasps between distressed intakes of breath.

Mrs Roberts? Now there’s a turn up for the books. Not the evil doctor, but his nympho wife, who once spread her legs for my camera, one rainy afternoon in May. She knows I still have the pictures, and she knows damn well they’ll turn up in highly public places if the Roberts’ make a move against me. What the hell is she playing at?

The plot thickens. Guess I better go see Mrs Roberts and find out why the tempestuous bitch is trying to kill me.

Does God Poo?

While engaged in an online theological debate recently, I was suddenly struck by the notion that the question of whether or not the Holy Father poops is one that is fundamental to the entire Christian belief structure.

In accordance, I have developed a theory, a new challenge for atheists to lay at the feet of the faithful. Does God poo, and if not, where did all the poo come from?

In the beginning, you had God and the angels. Now, the bible is not clear on whether or not these folk had toiletry requirements, although it does, I believe, implicitly state the angelic hoard were bereft of sexual organs. So, if no winkles or wee-wees, one would have to assume bumholes were a no no too.

Now, God decides to create a world, and upon that world he makes man and woman, his best work yet, whom he favours above all else. He models them in his own image.

God is looking at his new creations, and he thinks to himself, “They’re pretty good. But you know what would improve it? What if they squirted out foul smelling poison every day? Like, Eve’s ass is shapely and aesthetically pleasing and all, but wouldn’t it be better if I stuck a little hole in there and had shit come out of it?”

For no reason whatsoever, God now blesses his new children with bowels and anuses, and presumably, Adam and Eve go cordon off an area of the garden of Eden where they can take a shit. As the garden of Eden was largely an orchard, and all there was to eat was fruit, you have to think diarrhoea would be an issue. The place certainly wouldn’t have been paradise for long.

Yes folks, God invented poop. I mean, he also invented cancer and famine and haemorrhoids, but surely poop was one thing we could have done without. You can’t even blame poop on the devil; old Satan tempted Eve to eat an apple, but it was God’s doing that she had to poo it out again.

So why the switch from angelic, poop-free creatures, to dirty, shitting people? What changed in God’s design preferences that meant he decided to foul up his beautiful new world with poop and sewers and sceptic tanks? Does God poo? If he does, then how can he claim to be all seeing and all knowing when he has to spend half an hour locked in the little boy’s room every day? If not, then why did he see fit to curse humanity with poop, even after claiming he’d modelled us on himself.

Answer me this, Christians: Where did all the poo come from?

I don’t mean to insult anyone’s religion. Hang on, who am I kidding? Yes I do; I absolutely want to insult your religion. You know why? Because every time I’ve gone to a wedding or funeral, and all the way through school, I’ve had my intelligence insulted by your constant need to cram that shit down my throat. I don’t come knocking on your door to tell you I think you are a fucking idiot because you believe a giant pixie in the sky controls everything, so why don’t you do me the same curtesy?

Last year, I had a couple of hardcore Christian fundamentalists stay at my house, and of course, they couldn’t help but try to convert me every chance they got. One time they were in the kitchen, watching a Youtube broadcast of some crazy preacher, yelling about how all these sodomites had incurred God’s wrath, and would be punished. I glanced over their shoulder to see what the fuck he was talking about, and it turns out it was the staff at CERN, who were using the large hadron collider to search for the ‘God Particle’. This fruitcake took exception to that; God created everything – there’s no need to ask further questions.

I did point out to these morons that it was a chap at CERN who invented the world wide web, the very same technology they were using to watch their bigoted, Nazi bullshit, but they didn’t see the irony. Christians never do. I only wish I’d had my poop argument to use on them back then.

Halloween Blog

I’m spending this October thirty-first in the traditional British manner; hiding in the back room with the lights off and the curtains drawn, hoping no fucker knocks on the door. All this Halloween ‘holiday’ nonsense is alien to me. It drifted over from America sometime in the early nineties. First I knew of it, I was round about eighteen, and kids were suddenly banging on the door from the middle of October onwards, demanding money or else they would brick the windows. It was like some new excuse for armed robbery.

Fortunately, here at Castell Spinbreath I have a very long, very steep drive, which puts off all but the most determined of do-gooders, bible bashers and scroungers. By the time they get up here they’re so out of breath they can barely get their spiel out. Not that I answer the door, of course.

I should be using this time of quietude to write, to get stuck into one of the umpteen unfinished novels I’m working on, but alas, my concentration span is utterly fucked after a stressful few weeks and it just ain’t happening.

On top of all the other catastrophes I’ve recently endured, last week a Chinaman abused my hospitality, outstayed his welcome and busted up loads of my shit. The day after I threw the little bastard out, he went running to the CAB, told a pack of lies and now those fuckers are on my back as well. I received an angry phonecall from a Scouse woman, who seemed to fancy herself as Jeremy Kyle, and thought if she shouted at me long enough I’d wilt and beg forgiveness.

So yes, I hereby apologise. I’m sorry I had the temerity to try and make some money from my business. Had I known I was actually running a charity to provide luxury accommodation for spoilt brats who earn three times as much as I do, then obviously I would have bent over further and applied a more expensive brand of lubricant.

Who Whacked Jack?

So, most of the JFK papers have now been released, as promised, although a few are still being held back at the insistence of the CIA. The common opinion is that nothing particularly new or radical has been unearthed. There’s a rather wild story about a guy at a Cambridge newspaper receiving an anonymous call along the lines of “telephone the American embassy for the big news”, half an hour before the assassination. It’s the sort of thing that will have the conspiracy theorists chomping at the bit, but isn’t anything that interests me.

No, the release that caught my attention was a memo written by everyone’s favourite cross-dressing megalomaniac, J Edgar Hoover.

“The thing I am concerned about, and so is Mr Katzenbach, is having something issued so that we can convince the public that Oswald is the real assassin,”

Had Hoover written this three months, or even three weeks into the investigation, it might not sound so fishy. The truth is he wrote it three days into the investigation. He actually wrote it before a man with known mobster ties, walked unchallenged into the police station where Oswald was being held, and shot him dead, live on TV.

Three days after a president gets shot, would you not think the head of the Federal Bureau of INVESTIGATION would be interested in discovering the facts, rather than dictating his own opinion to the public?

At best, you can say this is evidence of shoddy police work. At worst you could say it points to Hoover being determined the truth should never out. He refused to consider, from day one, that Oswald may be part of a conspiracy. Even when Oswald said he was a patsy, right before a mafia gunman killed him, Hoover stuck to his own version of events.

Is there any reason the head of the FBI, a man who helped bring to justice such notorious criminals as Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde, would want to cover up the murder of the president? Well, that depends. Hoover was notorious for hating Catholics and Liberals. JFK was a liberal catholic. JFK insisted Hoover should investigate the mafia. Hoover had ignored the mafia’s existence for twenty years. Hoover was widely regarded to be homosexual, a fact he strove to hide his entire life, therefore was entirely open to blackmail should anyone happen to possess a photograph of him getting up to kinky mischief with a man, which the mafia frequently claimed they did.

Hoover directed more time and resources into investigating the Black Panthers than he did the KKK. He had his agents collect dirt on politicians and celebrities so he could stash it for personal leverage. He was the whisperer behind the McCarthy Witch Trials. He ran the FBI as a personal army. He was a racist, homophobic voyeur.

I think the real question should be, is there any reason we should believe a single word that came out of Hoover’s mouth? Given what has come to light since his death, that he was a ‘corrupt, human sewer’, should we believe the snap judgement he pedalled in November of 1963, before Kennedy’s body was even cold, that Oswald acted alone?

Hoover held power over the USA for half a century. His influence over everyone, from the police to the president, should not be underestimated. Anyone who knows him merely as a figure of fun, as a harmless old tranny, really needs to do a bit of research.

I advance no theories. I only ask you consider whether there is scope for doubting the official explanation, given the character of the man who made it. 

JFK: Is There Any Reason To Believe It Wasn’t A Cover Up?

This Thursday the legendary ‘Secret JFK Papers’ are due to be released, and as the subject fascinates me so much, I thought I’d write a quick blog about it. I have no conspiracy theories to advance, I simply want to question the reliability of the conclusion Oswald acted alone, given it was reached by one of the shadiest characters in American history.

Who conducted the investigation and blamed the killing solely on Oswald?

The FBI, under the leadership of J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was in charge of the agency for some fifty years; people were terrified of him due to the vast number of secret ‘dirt’ files he held on every public figure in America. No president was able to get rid of him, in fact he died still in office aged seventy-seven.

Who had recently come under pressure from the Kennedys to investigate the mafia, after steadfastly ignoring their activities for two decades?

J Edgar Hoover. He long turned a blind eye to organised crime, preferring to hunt down sexual deviants and commies.

Which leading persecutor of homosexuals did the mafia claim to have photographed in a compromising position with a man?

J Edgar Hoover. There is no evidence to suspect he was gay, other than his constantly being seen kissing and holding hands with his lifelong male lover.

Who was in charge of collating FBI evidence to hand over to the Warren Commission, which would ultimately back the agency’s findings?

J Edgar Hoover.

Which agency was found to have been in contact with Oswald in the months before the assassination, but destroyed documentary evidence in a bid to hide the fact from the Warren Commission?

The FBI, under the leadership of J Edgar Hoover.

Who was discovered to have illegally conducted secret ‘COINTELPRO’ operations, aimed at discrediting left wing figures, including Martin Luther King Jr?

J Edgar Hoover. He even had one of his goons write a letter to MLK urging him to commit suicide, on the day he won his Nobel Peace Prize.

Who, in the decades since his death, has been described variously as ‘The worst public servant in history’, ‘Corrupt’, ‘Virtually a Nazi’ and ‘Possibly suffering a personality disorder’?

Richard Nixon. No – just kidding – it was J Edgar Hoover.

So, there you have it. Do we really have any reason to doubt the integrity of a corrupt, self-loathing Nazi? Should we simply dismiss as lies the words of a man, purely on the basis he lied about every other single fucking thing in existence?

I don’t know. You be the judge.

And see how I never even mentioned the fact he liked to wear a dress?

There's a Hole in My Pants

It has now been sixteen months since the ex decided to make her move to La-la land permanent, went skipping off to dedicate herself to the pursuit of whimsy and abdicated all responsibility, financial and otherwise. Times have been tough, but at long last I’m reaching the point where most of the debt I had dumped on me is paid off.

When poverty sets in, the first thing to suffer is the pants. With no further need to inspire hot lust in a female companion, and no spare cash to make such an outlandish luxury purchase as replacement undies, the existing stockpile falls into neglect and eventually withers and dies. The contents of my bottom drawer have been in terminal decline this past year, and as we approach the winter I find myself down to my final pair of functioning underpants.

Imagine my horror, then, as this morning whilst getting dressed I saw they have a hole in them.

Pant deterioration normally follows a predictable path; first the elastic goes, then the hems fray and eventually gaps begin to appear in the gusset. But the hole I noticed this morning was something entirely different. This aperture is located slap, bang in the centre of the lower, rear coverage. A suspicious mind may draw the conclusion it was deliberately put there to allow easy access to the back passage.

I wish it to be known, just in case I should get run over by a bus and wake up in hospital, that the hole in my pants is definitely not any kind of kinky sexual device. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. Perhaps a curious moth decided to take a nibble, or a stray bullet passed through the material while they were hung out on the line.

Whatever the cause, these punctured pants will soon find themselves consigned to history, as I turn an important corner in my life. Next month I will have money to spend, and I thoroughly intend to invest in a job lot of cheap, foreign pants, which should last me the coming decade at the very least.

I have been down, but I am not out. Onwards and upwards. New pants beckon, and maybe even one day a new lady to share them with.

SJ Smith is back, motherfuckers.

From The Anals Of The House Of Fox . . .

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August Update

The trouble with keeping a blog is I can never think of anything interesting to write. My life is pretty tedious. Exciting events or newsworthy happenings are few and far between. So, what can I write about?

Um.

How about that amazing dream I had, where the German bombers turned into star ships, and there was this almighty aerial battle, and Chewbacca was flying a spitfire armed with laser cannons? Pretty cool stuff, but unlikely to help shift erotic books. Note to self; don’t mention the war.

I am currently writing a brutal horror novel, in the hopes I can widen my appeal and perhaps have something on the market that people may even admit to owning. After bashing out five thousand words a day for the past week, I have now hit the wall, and it’s getting difficult. I’m finding myself doing anything other than getting on with the book; watering the plants, tidying my sock drawer, playing stupid Facebook games. Why the hell do you think I’m actually bothering to write this crappy blog? It’s a distraction; nothing more. Got to be disciplined; got to get on with it. This one must not turn out like the last four attempts, false starts all of them.

Right. Blog done. What now? Should I commit to a thousand words, or go count the loose change in the penny jar? Hmm.

Homemade Bogie Wine

It’s a question I am frequently asked; is it possible to make your own wine from bogies?

In these days of austerity, every penny counts, so the idea of a never-ending supply of free booze is one we all yearn for. With this in mind, the good news is yes, you can make your own wine from bogies, and in this article, I’m going to teach you how.

Selecting your Bogies

Bogies, or boogers as our American cousins wrongly call them, are an ideal ingredient for fermentation. Rich in minerals and vitamins, and with a zesty, slightly salty bouquet, bogies can be used as a substitute for grapes to begin brewing your own plonk almost immediately. A good, daily rummage up the schnozz can yield anything up to three or four grams, but if you’re serious about making wine then you’re going to have be more ambitious with your harvest. Fortunately, most people don’t know the value of their nasal cargo, and foolishly throw their bogies in the bin. So why not get your friends and family to contribute their bogies to your effort? You can always offer them a bottle of the finished product in return for their help.

If you don’t have a wide social circle, then another possibility is to go bogie foraging in and around your local area. Most strangers will happily let you shove your finger up their nostrils to dig out a nugget or two, but make sure you obtain permission from the nose owner first. And while all bogies can be utilised in winemaking, you should try to avoid those coming from coke addicts or coal miners.

Pubes

Once you have collected your bogies, you will need to get your hands on a couple of other ingredients. First of all, pubes. Pubes are what will give the wine its body and colour; black pubes produce a heavy, dark drink, while blonde pubes will make for a lighter, more refreshing beverage. Ginger pubes should be avoided, as they lead to instability during the latter stages of the brew, although more experienced winemakers swear they use nothing else.

Yeast

Winemaking shops will charge you a small fortune for yeast, but why fork out hard earned cash when you have a readymade yeast factory in the shape of your wife’s tuppence? With a few lifestyle changes, she’ll soon be pumping out enough of the stuff to keep you in free booze until the end of your days.

Get her into some tight-fitting underwear, insist she use a harshly perfumed soap and hide all the yoghurt, and within a week you’ll be ready to harvest your yeast. When your wife’s complaining and scratching reaches unbearable proportions, take a teaspoon and scrape up any grey discharge from in and around her flappy bits. Leave what you collect to dry in a warm, airy place such as a windowsill, then simply pop it in the fridge until you’re ready to use it.

Method

Now for the exciting part. Place your bogies into a bucket and pour in a gallon of water, then get your feet in there and squish those bogies into a mush. Some recipes recommend washing your feet first, but personally I find this step unnecessary. Once the bogies have reached the consistency of snot, throw in a handful of pubes and pitch in the yeast. Now place your concoction in a cupboard and forget about it for a while.

If, after a week, your wine is foaming and giving off an ungodly stench, then you’re on the right tracks. Leave to ferment for another three months, then pour into old Lidl own brand cola bottles. After a further six months your creation should be ready to sample. Invite a few friends around and watch the look on their faces when you tell them this wine cost you not one penny.

Taken from the forthcoming book ‘Getting Shitfaced on a Budget’, by SJ Smith.

Disclaimer; SJ Smith accepts no responsibility for acute poisoning or death resulting from this recipe. Brewers of this beverage do so at their own risk.

Where's My Pants Version 2.0

I am faced with a crisis of epic proportions. As I sit typing these words, I am literally pant-less.

Upon perfecting the prototype Self-Cleaning underpants, I gave the rest of my underwear away; stuck it all in one of those charity bags they keep shoving through the door. My pants are probably now being worn by some street urchin in Bangladesh. I never thought I’d miss them, not with my Perma-Pants in place.

But after the devious Sebastian Minky stole my Perma-Pants, I am now faced with the hideous prospect of going commando for the rest of my days. I cannot allow this to happen. I have to get my pants back.

Before I go into any detail about my devious pant-retrieval plan, I feel a brief history lesson is in order; a little background information on those damned Minky Brothers, just to make sure you fully understand the vastness of the task I am facing.

Minky Bros Ltd began life in the early eighteen-hundreds, founded by Tobias and Ebenezer, a couple of hardcore Christian fundamentalists who held the belief that cleanliness was right up there with Godliness. They sold handmade soap, guaranteed to wash away sin from even the dirtiest parts of your body, from a market stall in their hometown of Cob. Success came quickly; from the stall they graduated to a shop, to two shops to three. By eighteen-fifty they were exporting soap all over the world, keeping the British Empire clean.

Their fame and reputation grew. As Queen Victoria bestowed upon them a Royal Warrant, she was heard to confide to the Archbishop of Canterbury, “Ever since I started using Minky Bros Cunt Soap, my giblets have been as clean as a whistle”.

At the advent of the new century, Minky Bros Ltd set out to realise its vision of an entirely clean and fragrant world, and work began on the building of a new town. Cleanville, as it became known, housed the Minky Bros workforce and their families; by day the menfolk toiled in the factory, while the women scrubbed every nook and cranny. A nineteen-twenty gazetteer said of Cleanville, ‘the pavements are so spotless you could eat your dinner off them’.  

To this day, Minky Bros remains a leading manufacturer of soap and laundry detergent. They boast a bestselling range of intimate hygiene products, with such famous household brands as Pube Shampoo, Foaming Cock Wash and Minge Polish under their umbrella. It is said that every home in Britain has at least one Minky Bros product lurking somewhere within its cupboards.

Of course, the owners are multi-millionaires, and of course, they don’t like the idea of some upstart like me threatening their business interests with my Self-Cleaning underpants. But I will not be cowed; I will strike back at these oligarchs and take back what is rightfully mine.

Pant-Wars starts here.

Taken to the Cleaners

I should have known things were going too Goddamn well.

Last night, round about seven, there was a knock on my door. I go answer and there stands this incredibly beautiful woman; mid-twenties, brown hair, dressed in a somewhat revealing top and a short, floppy skirt. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says in this lovely, cultured voice, “but are you SJ Smith, the writer?”

I get this huge, puffed up sensation in my ego. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I tell her, with what hopefully comes off as a seductive grin.

“Oh my God.” She goes all coy, puts a hand over her mouth. “I hope you don’t think I’m acting weird, but I wondered if you’d mind signing this for me?” She pulls a well-thumbed copy of House of Fox from her bag. “It’s, like, my favourite book ever.”

Somebody has actually read my novel. I can scarcely believe it. “Of course I’ll sign it,” I tell her. “Come on in while I find a pen.”

Feeling like the cat that got the cream, I lead her into the kitchen, where she makes herself at home, taking a seat on a tall stool and crossing her lovely, tanned legs. My eyes are almost out on stalks, but I attempt to play it cool. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” She gazes at me and licks her lips.

So I hand her a can of Lidl own brand lager, which she opens and sups without a moment’s hesitation. My God, she may be my dream woman; drop dead gorgeous and a cheap date. I rattle around in the drawer and locate a pen. “Who shall I make it out to?” I ask, opening the book at the title page.

“To your biggest fan.” She slides off the stool and slinks round the counter to stand right in front of me. The scent of her perfume sends my head giddy. “Close your eyes,” she commands.

I do as she says. Next thing, her hands are adroitly undoing my belt, and off come my trousers. Then my underpants slide down my legs, and I’m thinking I’m the luckiest guy in the world right about now.

“Open your eyes.” I look up, and she’s pointing a gun in my face. “Now sit down, and no sudden moves.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She handcuffs me to a stool, then paces up and down the kitchen. She’s twirling my underpants around her finger and talking into a cell phone. “Yes, I’ve got them in my hand,” she’s saying. “It was just as easy as you said it would be. He’s clearly an idiot. He actually believed I’d read his crappy book.”

“You rotten cow bag.” I can see this now for what it is; she isn’t my biggest fan at all. This was nothing more than a duplicitous ruse, played out to get her hands on my prototype self-cleaning underpants.

The front door opens and closes, and two guys let themselves into my house. The first is a bruiser; built like a brick shithouse with a scowl that would wilt lettuce. The second is a little more refined; expensive clothes, salt and pepper hair and a huge, gold sovereign ring. I recognise him immediately; he’s none other than Sebastian Minky, boss of the Minky Brothers Corporation, the biggest washing power manufacturers this side of the border.

“Now,” he says, getting right in my face. “What’s all this bullshit I’m hearing about self-cleaning underpants?”

The bruiser goes off and wrecks my underpant research laboratory, smashing up my equipment, trashing my notes and deleting everything from my hard drives. Meanwhile, Minky spells out to me in no uncertain terms that my career as an underwear maker is over. “Be a good boy, and we won’t have to visit you again. Next time, the damage will be far more serious. Understand?” He slaps me lightly on the cheek, tucks my prototype Perma-Pants into his pocket, then the three of them take their leave.

Damn. First the monkeys, now the Minkys. Why does my life have to be so complicated?

My Exciting News

Yes, finally I can break the news I’ve been dying to share for the past few weeks. A milestone has been achieved, a hurdle leapt, a landmark created. The fruits of my labour are swollen with sweet, sweet juice, as the day of reckoning arrives. That’s right, people, I can finally announce that I, SJ Smith, have at long last perfected my design for the world’s first ever pair of self-cleaning underpants.

The ramifications of this new invention are huge. Imagine never having to change your undies again. Imagine no longer having to make that dreaded, once a decade trip to the market to buy new boxers. With the SJ Smith Patent Perma-Pant, you’ll save a fortune on washing machine costs and your laundry hamper will remain pleasing empty.

You can sleep in them, eat in them, go to work in them. You can use them for sporting activities or social occasions. And the whole time you’ll feel confident and fresh, thanks to the unique micro-technology incorporated into every pair of Perma-Pants.

The road to this victorious day has not always been an easy one. Early prototype pants were beset with such niggles as pube wilt and bell scratchery, but with the teething problems ironed out, the Mark III Perma-Pant performs to the very highest standards of crotch safety. In recent tests, nine out of ten gentlemen said they would recommend Perma-Pants to a friend.

Perma-Pants will be available in a range of sizes and colours, from all good underwear stockists. A new dawn in male intimate hygiene is upon us; throw away your washing powder and soap, for they will hence forth be redundant. The Self-Cleaning revolution is here.

The Story of the Lobster and the Crab

Nothing much happening in the world of smut-comedy writing today, so I’m going to pass on this cautionary tale, as told to me by a wise man.

The Story of the Lobster and the Crab

The red lobster stood beside a large, algae covered rock, enjoying the feel of a warm current swooshing up the back of its shell. Beside it, the crab scuttled side to side, noisily tip-tapping its claws against the gravel bed.

“Will you chill the fuck out?” the lobster snapped, tired of the crab’s incessant pacing.

“I’m bored,” the crab replied. “Why don’t we go and do something fun?”

“Look, it’s my day off and I’m taking it easy,” the lobster chided. “Sometimes it’s okay to just put your feet up and do nothing.”

“You’re a boring old fart, you know that?” The crab clicked its pincers and ran around the lobster in a circle.

“So go find something to do. It’s not my job to entertain you.” The lobster rolled its eyes and turned its back on the crab.

“Fine.” The crab ducked behind the rock and fetched out the toy remote controlled car it got for its birthday.

“Oh, come on. Not that fucking thing again.” The lobster despaired as the tiny, red car raced around between its legs.

“You told me to entertain myself,” the crab pouted.

“Right. That’s it.” The lobster snatched the remote control out of the crab’s pincer and threw it against the rock.

“You son of a bitch,” the crab screamed.

“Next time it’ll be your fucking legs I break.” The lobster waved its mighty claw in the crab’s face. The crab ran away and sulked, while the lobster went back to enjoying its peace and quiet.

Before long, the crab grew bored again, and it picked up the remote control to see if it still worked. Unfortunately, the red car lay lifeless, its tiny wheels refusing to turn. Heartbroken, the crab took the back off the device and fiddled with the wires to see if it could be fixed. It put everything back together and switched it on. Heart pounding, it pushed the lever to make the car go. The car refused to move, but strangely, the lobster jolted forward six inches.

“What the fuck?” the lobster yelled.

The crab grinned as it realised that somehow the remote’s radio wavelengths were being picked up by the lobster’s deedlybompers. “Check this shit out,” it cried as it made the lobster do doughnuts and a funky breakdance.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” the lobster screamed.

Just at that moment, a fat, high-flying, New York banker stuck his pudgy face up against the glass. “I want that one,” he exclaimed, pointing at the animated, dancing lobster.

“Very good, sir.” The stuffy maître d took the lobster from the tank and tossed it in a pot of boiling water. The crab – who never had any fucking business being in a lobster tank in the first place – wound up getting slung out the window and eaten by seagulls.

The End

There. I think we can all learn something from that.

My Ill-fated TV Appearance

About a fortnight back I got a call from a production company; they wanted a prominent author to guest on their cookery show to provide a little high-brow culture. Unfortunately, no one was available, so they had to settle for me.

It’s a risk to go out in public while the monkey mafia are combing the streets, intent on ramming a bunch of bananas up my ass, but I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. The TV show is essentially a free advertising slot, a chance to drum up some interest in my worst-selling novel The House of Fox. My publisher has let it be known that if I don’t shift some books soon it won’t just be the monkeys out for my blood. So shortly before seven o’clock I tuck my wheelchair under one arm and my friend Billy under the other, and embark for Scousetown.

Billy’s really piling on the pounds. He’s been the guinea pig for my practice cookery runs, while I’ve been honing my risotto recipe. My risotto now kicks butt, but Billy’s developed a double chin. The fat fuck can go on a diet once this adventure is over.

Scousetown is a four-hour journey by bus, but if, like me, you have the power of flight, you can be there in seconds by taking a short cut straight over the Irish Sea. Now, I’d like to describe the ocean below as azure blue and crystal clear, but in this little corner of the world the brine is nine parts sewage and one part plutonium. It’s cold and grey, smells of dead fish, and is prone to violent mood swings, a little like my first wife. Billy squirms and complains as for the umpteenth time I almost drop him straight into the waves. It’s his own fault; carrying the porkie bastard is almost ripping my arm out of its socket.

We make it safely, touching down in Scousetown with minutes to spare. I unfold the wheelchair and climb aboard, and Billy pushes me up the street to the studio. “Keep your eyes open, Billy,” I warn him. “These Scousers cannot be trusted. They’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down.”

“My Nan is a Scouser,” he moans.

“That explains a lot,” I reply.

Once at the studio we’re shown to the set, a fake restaurant full of fake diners. The format of the show is simple; two competitors, one cooks the starter, one cooks the main, then they take a vote and whoever made the tastiest meal gets to do the pudding and grab extra airtime to plug their latest product.

My kick-ass risotto will be the main course. The starter will be provided by my opponent. He is none other than Barry Twatt, a hometown hero, ex-professional footballer who captained Scousetown United back in the seventies when they swept all of Europe aside. He still has his trademark perm and moustache, and still malignantly stares with that untrustworthy squint. I’m shown to my table, and await the first course, and only now do I get any inkling that Twatt has come with a gameplan.

“That isn’t a starter,” I yell, spreading my arms in protest as Twatt shovels two huge baked potatoes onto my plate. “A starter is supposed to be a light dish, designed to excite the taste buds.”

“Shut up and get your spuds down you.” He winks as he piles on coleslaw, beans and grated cheese. I’m sat behind a mountain of food taller than my head, and I’ve only got until the next ad break to eat it. This is an outrage. I look around at the other diners, hoping to garner support, but they’re all busily tucking into their baked potatoes and ignore me completely.

I’ve been had. Tricked by a devious Scouser. As the minutes tick by, it becomes only too obvious there’ll be no time left for my risotto, and even if there were, everyone will be too full to eat it. People are sitting back in their chairs, breathing heavily and undoing the top buttons of their trousers as they battle their way through the vast heaps of food. Twatt is over in the corner with the show’s host, regaling her with anecdotes about the theme pub he runs. I’ve still got one and a half spuds to eat, and the camera hasn’t been on me once.

Eventually, the producer apologises and tells me my risotto won’t be needed. Fuck this for a game of soldiers. I go for an angry piss, intent on storming out, but when I come out the cubicle I find my wheelchair up on bricks, all four wheels stolen.

Damn these treacherous Scousers.

Monkey Business

I finally found out who Desmond Morris is, and frankly I wish I never even heard of him. Turns out he’s head of the monkey mafia. Type his name into the internet and you’ll find a bunch of pictures of him surrounded by his monkey foot soldiers. Those bastards are vicious; one word from old Des and they’ll tear your face clean off.

Word on the street insists Des ain’t too happy about me splashing his name around, and he’s on his way north to teach me a lesson. I’m terrified, and I don’t mind admitting it. I spent the whole of yesterday morning stuffing bananas into every nook and cranny of my house, hoping the smell would distract those monkey motherfuckers long enough for me to high tail it out the toilet window.

In the afternoon I had another go at making laser beams come out my eyes. Did I mention I have superpowers? I bought a job lot off eBay a couple of months back. I can fly, move shit around without touching it and supposedly do the lasers out the eyes thing, although I haven’t been able to make that happen so far. I would ask for a refund, but then that would mean sending back the whole package, which I don’t want to do. That’s how these damned vendors get you, isn’t it? The flying aspect works great; once I get the hang of it I’ll save a fortune on bus fares. Only problem is I’m scared of heights, and whenever I go more than ten feet up I get all nauseous.

But – and I want to make this clear from the outset – the fact I have superpowers does not mean I have any ambition to be a superhero. No way am I going to go around in a latex jumpsuit with my underpants outside my trousers. I’m an ordinary bloke; my underpants have frayed elastic and holes in the gusset; no way am I putting them on display to the general public.

Superpowers can only take you so far, especially when the monkey mafia is after you. As I type these words I’m living in fear, peeping around the side of the curtains every five minutes, terrified I’m going to see Desmond Morris and his troupe of psychos storming up the drive. I’m supposed to be making an appearance on TV tonight; I’m not sure I even dare step foot outside the front door.

Who the Hell is Desmond Morris?

For the record, I have no idea who Desmond Morris is. I’ve heard of Bill Morris, the union guy, and Desmond Dekker, who I believe sang that song about his ears being alight, but Desmond Morris is a new one on me. I did try to Google the name, but these big, fat banana fingers of mine are way too clumsy to work this damned smart phone, and so I remain in the dark.

The reason I mention the fellow is because his name came up during a conversation with my contact. “We want Desmond Morris,” he was saying. “We’re going to dog him.”

Never one to let the opportunity for a crude joke pass me by, I immediately leapt at the chance to throw in a dogging reference, but no one laughed. My contact, a serious and occasionally intimidating fellow with a luminous green Mohican, went on to explain that in his particular vernacular, the phrase ‘dog’ means to train someone to obey your every command, to break them of their own will and install total obedience.

And once this Desmond Morris chap has been successfully dogged, my contact intends to make him head of his South American operation. He’s going to send him down there to sort out those Goddamn Beaners.

I was somewhat surprised to hear this. My contact is known for selling illicit contraband around the Bay, but he never struck me as someone who might have an ‘operation’ in South America. In all honesty, I never even suspected he could identify South America on a map. I began to wonder if he hadn’t been watching a little too much Breaking Bad. But when he pulled out a hunting knife and slammed its razor tip into the table top, I was more than willing to listen to whatever he had to say.

“You’re going to find Desmond Morris,” he snarled, pointing a crooked finger at my throat.

“Me?” I exclaimed. “I don’t even know who Desmond Morris is. How the hell am I going to find him?”

“You’re the writer. Start writing.” He slung a laptop at me. “Get on the internet. Find Desmond Morris. If he ain’t right here in this room by nine o’clock on Friday, you and me are going to have ourselves a problem.”

So there you have it. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I’m now tasked with the job of tracking down this Desmond Morris fellow, whoever he may be. Huh. Who’d be a writer, eh?