Whimsical Garbage

One morrow when my favorite strumpet was waylaid by one of her diseases I went for a stroll seeking penicillin and some amusement but soon found myself distracted by a homeless wretch. With outstretched arm he implored me to aid him while crawling along the sodden gutter. Naturally I made haste to bludgeon him with my cane but in my zeal to escape the hacking wheezes of my whore I had fled my flat without it!

Curses! While contemplating what I could strike the scum with in lieu of my cane I noticed he was holding a sign which said "Need funds for liquor...just being honest".

My word such whimsy! I immediately wondered if I had missed out on a veritable treasure trove of scum wit through the years by ignoring their pleas and kicking their signs from their filthy fists unread. "Need funds for liquor indeed!" I chortled. "Why you witty smelly rascal! That is a refreshing bit of honesty!"

He licked the spittle from his lips and I dare say I saw a glimmer of hope flash in his bloodshot eyes.

I kicked the torn sole of his shoe in the spirit of good fellowship and camaraderie. "You remind me of that charming children's show character, Oscar the Grouch. Tell me my good man, do you think Oscar's innate grouchiness was responsible for his being a friendless failure, unable to land a job and thus reduced to living in a trash can while being scorned by society? Or...did he turn grouchy only after his dreams were dashed by a populace that didn't understand him? Do you believe that it was only after he became penniless and was forced to seek refuge in a trash bin that his formerly jovial demeanor was transformed into the cranky horror children have come to know and loathe today?"

The twinkle in the wretch's eye dimmed and I could sense he was somewhat flummoxed.

"What I'm trying to say my good man is that I would be shocked to find anyone living amongst trash who would be known as "George the Sunny" or "Frederick the Upbeat". It would seem that no matter how optimistic you were before you took up residence in refuse, soon enough you would be turned into a grumbling cretin. Why, would not wallowing in your own filth all day and competing with rats and roaches for scraps while enduring the insults of passersby and the batons of vile lawmen be enough to foul the mood of any man?"

He clutched his throat with his dirt encrusted fingers and I found that his stench and filthy haberdashery were rapidly robbing his sign of any whimsy it may have possessed.

"And you sir," I demanded, "were you a grouch before you found yourself wallowing in your own waste and accosting passersby with your attempts at wit? You seem rather jocular today. What made you so full of mirth this fine morning?"

Instead of answering he tugged at the cuff of my trousers as he collapsed on the pavement and let his sign fall. "Egads man! Do you mean to spoil my day? Do not smudge my cuffs you scoundrel."

I called for the authorities at once, and in moments a constable was at my side. With a prod of his baton he moved the cretin from my cuff and with a kick he turned him over whereupon we both beheld his dirty face, bloated and blue and frozen. He eyes were locked on mine, unblinking, and his swollen tongue was lolling grotesquely out of his mouth.

The constable turned to me, "I'm afraid he's dead sir."

I pulled my leg away from his curled fingers and inspected my trousers. "Dead you say? Well that is amusing after all."

Vacation in India

Having recently viewed the cinematic wonder Slumdog Millionaire, I was inspired to travel once again to the jewel of the empire, India, even though I had long regarded that sad subcontinent as an overcrowded refuse pile.

Is it a coincidence that on a map it appears to be some sort of malformed unitary testicle?

Still I was charmed by that delightful little film and I made haste for Calcutta at once.

Of course I instantly regretted taking such a spontaneous sojourn as my luggage was stolen mere moments after disembarking.

It was incredibly vexing and I sought solace and succor in the usual place, the arms and legs of a strumpet.

However for once my fondness for whores betrayed me as instead of raising my spirits the little tart gave me Aids.

That was rather annoying I can attest as the brothel keeper had assured me on the life of Shiva that the girl he sent to my room was a virgin.

I banged the little bell on his desk til he appeared and demanded an explanation. "What is the meaning of this! Did I not pay an extra 10 rupees for a virgin? Do I not now have Aids?"

He insisted she was in fact a virgin and suggested that her Aids may have come from her drug habit.

What a revolting development! To think that I sullied myself by sleeping with a moral degenerate who would befoul her lovely lithe body with illegal narcotics!

I returned to my room and immersed myself in laudanum in order to dispel my rage, but alas my fury could not be bound!

To exact revenge I strode out into the streets knickers free and raped the first cow I could get my hands on. This caused quite an uproar among the populace and I dare say their mood was not helped much when I lit the Indian flag on fire as I buggered that rather listless animal in the shadow of the Taj Mahal.

As the constabulary tore me from the beast it was revealed that I had been using a condom, a gesture of class I was sure would temper the anger of the mob.

"Do you see people? I did not wish to give this beast my Aids. I sought only to exert my frustrations out as a result of the foul way in which this grotesque nation has treated me."

The mob were not reasonable, and I was bludgeoned, telling myself before losing consciousness never to vacation in India again.

Mile High Club

There is a modern organization devoted to ribaldry known as the "Mile High Club". Admittance into this rather vulgar coterie requires one to fornicate aboard a plane in flight, though I suppose a zeppelin, hot air balloon or any other contraption that takes you and your ready erection into the stratosphere will suffice.

Of course by that measure I entered the esteemed group of aeronautical debauchees decades ago, but I wish to make note that before the Wright Brothers made it possible for spermatozoa to ejaculate into the ether, the randy man of leisure sought his mobile bacchanal on board a train!

Now then, since trains were not a mile high but in fact firmly atop the grounded rails, (unless of course your spastic fornicating caused a startled engineer to throw the locomotive off the tracks themselves), what does one call the people who conduct coitus on trains?

Rapists?

I suppose one does not have to be on board a train in order to commit rape, but that didn't stop the startled engineer from exclaiming in horror when I first rogered him from behind"

"HO! You'll cause me to derail your deranged buggerer!"

Since I immediately deduced that this stern chap lacked a sense of humor I did not orate the obvious whimsical rejoinder, namely, "Just be sure to stay on my rail mate!"

In these less jocular modern times the engineer is usually encased behind a secure door, and so risque games are reserved for conductors and ticket takers. A favorite way of mine to pass the interminable time it takes to get from Ipswich to Creamybottom is to feign sleep.

Some charlatans do this to avoid paying, hoping the conductor will pass them by. Others truly do seek slumber and leave their ticket propped up in a pocket for the conductor to collect without disturbing them.

A jocose variation of mine is to feign sleep while leaving an old ticket stub in the half opened zipper of my trousers.

You'll find that most conductors will leave that stub be, and they won't stoop low to investigate whether it is even valid or not. You have yourself some capital amusement and a free ride to boot!

Now then you may come across an adventurous rail employee who will in fact reach down and give your stub the old tuggy tug.

Lay still! Do not stir! Perhaps mumble some fancy words of approval as if you are in a pleasant delicate dream. I'd wager that that conductor is less interested in the validity of your ticket and more interested in your genitals.

Let him have his fun! After all a grope or two is worth free ride no? And if you keep your eyes closed and concentrate on your reverie that greasy fingered immoral and obese railman becomes a beautiful buxom nymph. Perhaps that dim looking angel you saw toiling away in the butcher's shop. Those prime cuts of beef she has been weened on have made her chest robust have they not?

Keep your eyes closed then, listen to the click clack of the train as it rumbles on and your belle butcher's girl gropes away.