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?