forget SPT you wretched cunts, shandy presents GOPT (541 hits)
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Submitted by shandythegod (View user info) at 2004-07-29 03:28:57 EDT
yes, ever willing to boldly defy social trends, i present Golden Oldie Post Thursday.
Today's golden oldie post, dated 21 October 2003, comes from the wonderful treasure trove of shandythedog's uber archive. Behold:
.................................HOW ABOUT A SAUSAGE
...................................By Shandythedog
Autumn 1991
Rachel was a tall women, who liked to shell peanuts and feed them to her husband as he drove the dust-red ute along the track from back of the sheds up to the tank. She liked the feel and the sound of the shells crackin', and it was a challenge to get the little nuts out, with the ute bumpin' up and down on that damn track.
She put them into Sam's big palm and he jostled them up and into his mouth without taking his eyes of the track. He'd driven that track a thousand times easy, but it changed after every big rain. The metal floor at Rachel's bare feet was covered in shells.
Sam was eating the nuts and watching the track, but his mind was elsewhere. He was worried about the boy. Pretty soon he'd have to tell her about it.
*
Simone lay naked under the thin sheet. She couldn't sleep. It was too hot and there was too much noise. She turned the light on, then turned it off again. She got out of bed and walked naked to the open window. The traffic below was heavy. She smelt decomposition and exhaust fumes - the smell of Asia. Above the noise of the traffic voices laughed and shouted. The language sounded ugly and violent.
She wondered if Peter was alright. A French cameraman had died on the border last year.
It was hot. She poured herself a drink.
Maybe she should go and see Mr Lin.
*
Laloob flung open the lace curtains and looked out at the hideous monster lurching up the avenue toward the castle. It seemed to be made of semen. One of Fakzel's little pranks, no doubt.
She drew the curtain quickly and marched out of the room, ascending via the air shaft to her study in the left turret. Page 719 of Wunnels Guide to Antics offered her a solution but she would have to hurry, the monster was looming closer. Laloob felt a little tremble of excitement as she hoiked up her skirts and positioned the crystal chamber pot.
* * * * * *
Out at sea in this deep soup you pick up books and throw them over the side. You read a few lines, read for a moment evidence of the author's vanity and delusions of grandeur, then throw them over the side. Some float for awhile before becoming waterlogged and sinking. Others disappear beneath the surface instantly.
*
Out at sea in this deep deep soup we talk to parsnips and riddle mangos and tie frogs to the mast and dress up in pirate costumes and parade daily at noon with our newspapers and discuss the latest events of the last thousand years or so. We toss books into the soup. Joseph Conrad, of course, and Sylvia Plath and Jonathon Swift are working on an enterprise of some sort. They are all children, but they all have curly pubic hair and do not hate anybody, even fat people or old people. Anybody is welcome. Even me. Even Adolph Hitler is forgiven and even toilet cleaners are respected. There is no poisonous struggle. No one can be bothered trying to station himself above the rest.
* * * * * *
Rachel and Simone and Laloob realised they all had a long way to go with their stories. But they were more than happy to rest instead. They were more than happy to lie down next to me and sleep. I did not force them into anything: no hoops, no close-ups, no interviews, no development, no leg spreading. Let it finish for them in this world. And let my ambitions sink down - I shall seek out the soup and toss them down down down to rest on the sea bed out of harm's way.
*
I think about my own story and the realities of its plot and setting. I look around the room. I am too suspicious to feel loneliness. What the fucking hell does it all mean? It is late, and tomorrow I must wake up and go to the office.
Spring 1999
Laloob and Rachel and Simone clambered silently up the side of the boat and peeked into the window of my cabin, where I lay watching TV, held by my sleeping wife.
"Come, Captain" they whispered and led me up to the wheel.
It was a full moon. The sea was calm and vast and mysterious. The ship moved through it, blown by a steady breeze.
"Now Cap'n, you just keep her steady ahead while we all have a little chat" Rachel said, peeling a peanut and handing it to me.
"What we wish to discuss" began Laloob "is this idea of yours that we would rather die drowned in the soup than sell ourselves. What philosophy is behind this? Are you a puritan? A communist? A mysticist? A christian? Or is your idea the result of emotional urges"
"It just seems to me that when everyone's behaviour is motivated around the competitive selling of oneself and one's creations, it's hard to relax due to the fear of failure" I said, feeling a nervous tick in my eyelid. But I kept my eyes on the sea ahead, and it stopped.
My sleepy-eyed wife appeared on the brig in her old dressing gown and fluffy slippers and rubbed my back soothingly for a few moments, then still half asleep shuffled back to our cabin. She did not seem to have minded the presence of the three attractive ladies.
And how attractive and friendly they did indeed look. I started to feel warm. These women possessed a power that made my penis feel almost painfully full and my eyes feel soft and liquid and relaxed. Each time I glanced at them and spoke with them they responded with subtle expressions of sexual invitation and heat. These women wanted my seed in their bellies. What a nice feeling this was.
I felt confident now up on the bridge with my little harem, while the rest of the ship slept below.
"Well Captain, we can see that what you say is true. But isn't it also true that you tried to kill us by throwing us into the soup not just because you wanted to spare us the trouble of existence in this mad and cruel world, but also because you couldn't be bothered creating us? Because you were too lazy and limp and defeated? And perhaps because you feared you couldn't sell us? Because no one would want to buy us, and therefore you would be a failure?"
"Yes Simone, I guess you are right. But frankly, I also just couldn't see any point in creating you. What good would it have done? Would it have made the world a happier or more loving place? Would it have unlocked the secrets of god and the yin yang and the magic dreams of childhood etcetera etcetera? Would it have thrown open the gates of eden where we could all frolic peacefully without fear? Would it have explained the pain and cruelty of life? Would it have helped me to pass some kind of test? To answer the question: why? Would I have parted the waters like Moses and led us all to the promised land? Attained some kind of sexually attractive hero status? Become an Idol? The Great Writer? The Great Fucking Helmsman?"
The ladies exchanged embarrassed glances, looked at their watches furtively, made their polite excuses, and disappeared. I was alone again.
Kate, a slightly imperfect and comical Red Setter, wandered onto the bridge and looked up at me with fondness and a wagging tail. I patted her, and she lay at my feet. I looked ahead to the sea and moonlit sky. My wife slept below, my child in her belly.
I examined the beautiful antique compass without comprehension. The stars shining above told me nothing except mystery and beauty. How tempting to lie down next to Kate and have a nice long nap.
But there remains hope, and I hold the wheel gently.
[Falls asleep on job, wakes up chained to mast, wheel in the clutches of advertising agents and poseurs and war mongers. Wife tied to deck, child being removed from her belly by a weird machine like a tv playing evil themes (in which I feature as a loser unemployed ugly poor friendless frightened person eg a paedophile/dog molester on public disgrace trial confessing
{{[return to this theme of interspecies sex at some point, including previous idea of Dr Doolitle defending animal sex offender in court, and also toto's hilarious anecdote, which she got from very reliable eye witnesses, of the chap who was so stoned that his affectionate caresses of a "beautiful' thirteen year old golden retriever named Jessie escalated into "tongue kissing", ie "Look, my god, x is tongue kissing jessie"]}}
to loneliness and pathetic dreams of success, shopping mall scenes of babies in prams gobbling junk food, fat mothers in track suits, me in cheap shirt and tie pushing in shopping trolley herd of nondescript failure surrounded by gleaming images of success and riches and sex) of hatred and exclusion and fear and competition. Smug greeny socialist new wimmin midwifes and bogus artistes picket and protest the event, hatred and stupidity and pride and fear marking their expressions. ]
My wife's gentle hand touches Kate, lying sadly at her side, and I notice that it is a beautiful day with sunshine, blue skies and a cool breeze. The boat rolls over a gentle swell. Perhaps if I just nod off again everything will be alright when I wake...
Laloob appears and stands close to me. I can smell her hair and feel her body's female sexual heat. I find her very attractive, and lust swells me immediately. I feel my chains about to burst - I WILL IMPREGNATE LALOOB!
Laloob fucks me as I'm tied to the mast, bobbing of the ship on the sea, blue sky, the pull of her cunt and her love her lovely face my come about to burst forth, suddenly surrounded by ally mcbeal dolls and cosmo and cleo and beer commercials and james bond
the worrying thought that I might fail to satisfy Laloob enters my mind and I begin to deflate.
Boat crashes, captain down and wrecked, what to do, wife by his side - she has escaped with dog's help from the thought police machine, wake up captain, wake up, there's work to be done. The child is coming, pregnant, real. Don't despair of leaving the boat and the lovely deep peaceful soup.
I was after all the golden chosen one rewriting the book of the world that no one could write in colours of friendship and peace, inspired by the universal muse who transformed my personal mythology into an essential vibration.
I did after all transform into the irresistible primal fertility god, william shakespeare, dr faust, the joker, the holy messiah, the devil, the sole carrier of the genetic blood code for hermaphrodite DNA salvation, shandythedog.com, the pied piper, bob dylan's protege, Pan, the center of the universe, Caesar's horse, the elixir of life, st francis of assisi, master of The Force, badminton racquet wielding controller of celestial bodies, the chosen golden one loved by all, etc etc et fucking cetra. The world around me began entering a new golden era or renaissance of some sort, involving smiling faces and an end to madness and the dark ages. A contagion of goodwill, or so it seemed.
Then there was fear I had lost my way, and that like my sister I was mad.
I found myself transformed into a hideous ugly beer gutted middle-aged hippie throwback unemployed loser, roaming around Civic alone on a bleak and cold Canberra night with a plastic shopping bag containing two discount tins of 'Cougar' bourbon and coke, despised and ridiculed by all the superior people around me.
In other words, I had gone in an instant from:
a man so at ease and relaxed and unselfcounsious and confident in my leonine magnificent beauty that I fell pleasantly in love with almost every female I met, talked with them freely and timelessly and humouressly in intimate friendship and mutual attraction, and also was rooting my wife with great joy in the hope of making her pregnant for the first time and had as a consequence a steady stream of soothing and aching erections inspired by various kind females and a wonderful source of sexual release with my wife, and of course, I was on the verge of becoming a great writer
to:
an unemployed 35 year old man with shaking hands, a voice that sounded like it was being swallowed with fear, furtive eyes, a pained expression, a painfully akward manner, hunched shoulders, a pot belly, and a penis shrivelled with fear.
My response to this transformation was to lie on the couch for about two weeks, scarcely moving except to gobble disgusting fatty food, wondering how to escape.
It was then that my wife revealed she was pregnant.
"How about a sausage?" Was the only reply I could manage after a pause that seemed to last forever.
My wife perked up, thinking I was sugesting sexual congress. I explained this was not the case: I wanted to eat a fatty, unhealthy sausage to distract myself for a few moments from my despair.
At least this misunderstanding provided us with some shared amusement. Not much to go on, admittedly, but a sign of hope.
User Reviews
Submitted by Wiggles (user info) at 2004-07-29 22:35:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Brilliant.
Submitted by polyamorousaj (user info) at 2004-07-29 12:31:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good idea, shandy. Capital! You know what else is a good idea? You downloading AIM.
Submitted by corn_nugget (user info) at 2004-07-29 11:11:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked the last bit, as well.
Submitted by shandythedog (user info) at 2004-07-29 06:47:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
mighty apollo, i am quite keen on being homeric and pink cunt coated and cashed up and all those things.
but i don't think you can get very far with short stories, esp. kooky ones.
i'm relying on you big fella!
and of course the real Shandy and our brother disciples.
All Praise Shandy.
Submitted by shandythedog (user info) at 2004-07-29 06:40:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
falco, your powers of observation are astounding.
lucky you were here to stamp out the re-posting crime.
Submitted by Falco (user info) at 2004-07-29 06:30:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Its a fucking re-post..
Take GOPT and SIUYA!
(shuv it up your ass)
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2004-07-29 06:10:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"""""I am too suspicious to feel lonliness.
"But isn't it also true that you tried to kill us by throwing us into the soup not just because you wanted to spare us the trouble of existence in this mad and cruel world, but also because you couldn't be bothered creating us? Because you were too lazy and limp and defeated? And perhaps because you feared you couldn't sell us? Because no one would want to buy us, and therefore you would be a failure?"""""""
That hit me with the force of a wet fish across the chops.
The end paragraphs were magnificent.
I really properly read this and can come to only one emotion.
Anger.
Why the fuck are you pissing around with us cunts when you can be, nay, should be published.
If one is published then is one automatically a great writer? Of course not. Thus the converse is true. One does not need to be published to be a great writer.
What does being published bring apart from the living and the pink cunts? Validation? A pat on the back? Pride? Competition?
Given the choice of course I would want to get paid to write. However, let me ask you this. Would you rather be great as in the homerian senses and earn fuck all or would you want to be good as in the grisham sense and own a yacht.
The choice is yours mate, only you are stopping yourself acheiving it. You have the beans.
Submitted by dakingisdead (user info) at 2004-07-29 03:36:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WTF I'm not reading all that.
Na it was good dude.
Felt like an acid trip there for a while. Not often I feel like that at work.
Submitted by Donitsu2002 (user info) at 2004-07-29 03:32:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
man, i love SPT i can give everything i hate a +2