This gallery contains 14 photos.
This gallery contains 14 photos.
I sought the wisdom of the East,
the temple on the hill,
for days I walked to reach its peak,
by sheer force of will.
They left me waiting at the gate,
no food or drink that day.
I figured it must be a test
to prove my worth to stay.
On day two, they pelted me,
with rocks from in the yard,
endurance is the key to faith,
to wait although it’s hard.
‘He’s still there?’ I heard one ask.
‘Yeah, he won’t fuck off,
I pelted him with all the rocks
we kept inside the trough’
‘Bring him in, we’ll have some fun
and feed him guru crap
and teach him that his western ways
are just a honey trap’
And so they took me in that day
and told me I should rest,
because that on tomorrow’s dawn,
I will begin my test.
At half past four, they woke me up,
an air horn in my ear
and put piranhas in my pants,
my lesson not so clear.
And so I pulled the buggers off
and asked them ‘What the Hell?’
‘A lesson in humility
of which you passed so well’
Next I walked upon hot coals
that blistered aching feet,
‘Stay out of the kitchen if
you cannot stand the heat’
Then barefoot, I walked upon
the rocky mountain pass,
squatted on a red hot spike,
its tip stuck up my ass.
Trousers down and legs apart
and stood like sat on saddle,
and in came two young laughing girls,
with each bestowed a paddle.
‘Endurance is your test today,
to see if loser falls’
a girl in front and one behind
played ping-pong with my balls.
Bruised and battered and fatigued,
I settled down to dinner,
they filled me up with rice and beans,
the food of a beginner.
They made me sleep upon my front
and spread my ass cheeks wide,
matches holding them apart,
such pain, I could have cried.
But it just got worse from there,
the flame was just the start,
to burn the gas that I parped out,
each time I dared to fart.
It burnt the hairs upon my balls
and all across my ass.
The test had been the beans I ate
that filled me up with gas.
Thankful when the morning came,
I groaned through lack of sleep
and when they dragged me from me bed,
I wanted just to weep.
They took my clothes and tied me to
a chair that sat outside.
As women danced seductively
that made me grin so wide.
Rubbing honey on my cock,
they made me feel alive,
until I saw the bee keeper
who brought an angry hive.
He used my cock to break its crust
and left it in my lap,
before he grinned and raised his hand
and gave the hive a slap.
I howled and thrust to no avail
and begged them ‘Please no more,
I think I’ve had enough of tests
that hurt and leave me sore’
So they quickly hosed me off,
to rid me of the bees
and cut the ropes that bound me there
and dropped me to my knees.
‘Fritz san, that was your last test,
to know you’ve had enough,
you could have said that on day one,
it seems you like it rough.
Now go back to the world of man
and live with lessons learned
and seek the life you’re looking for,
the gift that you have earned’
And so they saw me off that day,
a humbled, wiser man,
enlightened to a wiser world
to teach the things I can.
They kept my wallet and my keys,
to help me not be tempted by
the western honey trap.
Strange, I found my car was gone,
my house was stripped to bare,
my bank account was empty when
I checked for travel fare.
But they’d warned before I’d left,
that fate would show a sign
that I should lead a simple life,
those wise men so benign.
…Hang on… you don’t think…
She said our sex life was mundane
and had become routine
so we should spice it up a bit
indulge in the obscene
So I figured what the Hell?
Lets give it a go,
it should be fun to mix it up,
rekindle passion’s flow.
Monday we tried dressing up,
I donned a Batman suit
and she Catwoman to my Bat,
we’d thought we’d have a hoot.
I leapt from wardrobe to the light
and swung to hear the crack,
the ceiling caved around us both
and I threw out my back.
Tuesday we tried role-play,
I met her in a bar,
the gangster and the hooker
we messed round in the car.
A tap upon the window’s glass,
a frowning, outraged cop
who booked us for soliciting
because we wouldn’t stop.
Wednesday I surprised her
by leaping in the room
naked as my boner sprang
‘She’ll like this’ I assume
‘GERONIMO!!!’ I called out loud
and then began to choke,
her mum and gran were sitting there,
her gran then had a stroke.
Thursday we got kinky,
I chained her to the bed,
aroused to see her naked form
and naughty words she said.
a banging on the door revealed
her angry, ranting dad
who called to speak of yesterday
but saw her then went mad.
Friday, naked she sat on
my back atop a saddle
she spanked my arse coz in each hand,
she swung a ping-pong paddle
She rode me round til I was sore,
through all the rooms and halls,
til I collapsed when one mis-swing
had caught me in the balls.
Saturday we calmed it down,
massage with scented oils
to help relieve this week of hell
and all it’s sex game toils,
til I felt something part my arse,
was not a nice surprise
“Vibrating Dildo 5000”
brought tears to my eyes.
I bit down on the pillow hard,
not much that I could say,
I clawed the plaster from the walls,
a bid to get away.
By Sunday, I had had enough,
and told her ‘Please, no more…
I miss mundane, I like routine,
just like it was before…
No more costumes, chains or spanks,
or objects in my arse,
no more surprises you have planned,
or schemes you must surpass.’
‘Fine’ she said ‘I’ll call my friend
and cancel our three-way’
I looked at her through narrowed eyes,
my jaw dropped in dismay.
‘Don’t be hasty by my words’
I grinned and calmly tried
‘Good, coz Bernard’s on his way’
she said and so I cried…
…And cried… And cried…
It’s Christmas Eve and all is still,
A time of peace and love’s goodwill…
Good King Wenceslas, Silent night,
Time for men to see the light…
All is quiet through the house,
Nothing stirs, not even mouse…
Because I squished the little bastard when he took out my TV cable. As if I haven’t got enough frigging problems without some fuzzy-faced, whisker-twitching rodent destroying the one thing that gets me through the farce and fake cheer of consumer spending and manipulation…
And talking of fuzzy-faced, whisker-twitching rodents, does anyone else find the thought of some fat, beardy, weirdo, who has you under surveillance all year, breaking into your home and leaving gifts, the slightest bit disturbing? This is what we tell our kids, it’s no wonder so many of us end up in therapy as adults… ‘Come sit on Santa’s knee, little boy, if you’ve been good, you will get a big surprise…’ Fuck Me! It’s the stuff of nightmares…
And we leave out cookies & sherry for him. I mean… What kind of example are we setting? An obese, borderline alcoholic who’s partial to sugary treats and works one day a year! Get your gin soaked whiskers out of the cookie jar and get on a treadmill, you fat fucker… Anyone else would be in danger of keeling over or arrested & breathalysed for piloting a flight bound vehicle under the influence…Trust me, there’s only one fat, greedy bastard who’s happy to put gifts under your tree and his name ain’t Santa, you call him your bank manager…
Then there’s the stroll round the shops soaking up the festive atmosphere, almost like a Dickensian scene, munching a mince pie here and a glass of mulled wine there as the Salvation Army gently serenade us with ‘Silent Night’… LIKE FUCK!!! Violent Fight more like… Trying to get to the other side of the street is like threading a frigging needle. Crushed in the heavy throng of people as you prepare to do the WWF smack down so that you get the very last limited edition ‘Barbie Sparkle Princess’ which they neglect to tell you is only actually limited edition until January the 1st, then mass produced in the thousands.
So then, three cracked ribs and a black eye later you stagger up to the cashier, holding aloft your spoils of war, expecting the ‘How may I help you?’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ but instead he glares at you like you’ve just stirred his coffee with your penis… You’ll be lucky if you get a grunt out of the miserable C**t!!! Then to add insult to injury, he opts to answer the phone instead of serving you… I mean, all I actually did was make the effort to get to the store and queue for hours on end, while some lazy, bone-idle wanker sits at home in his under-ware scratching his arse and getting first class service… Christmas shopping!!! HA, I’d rather stick my nose up Bernard Mathews’ arse and have him fart poultry up my nostrils…
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not totally Bah Humbug but I could kick Tiny Tim’s crutches out from under him & drop kick the little fucker into an electric fan…
I mean WTF? Christmas carols in shops in October? Let me enjoy Halloween first, Please!!! Its much more fun… Don’t let the do-gooding, smiley, Sally-Anne, trumpet blowing, money-grabbing, guilt-laying bastards take it away from me… Please!!!
And how do we prepare? Crying over credit card statements ‘cause our kids create Christmas lists that run the length of ‘War and Peace’… Cleaning the house in preparation for the big day, to the tune of ‘I want this’ and ‘Get me that’ after every advert?
And the tradition of placing the fairy on top of the tree was probably created by some poor sod who’d had a guts full and performed a pine-scented endoscopy on his wife who just happened to be playing Tinkerbelle in the local Panto…
Then there’s the wrapping of the presents, we lovingly spend hours wrapping gifts, with paper that should quite frankly be gold-plated for what it costs. A little fold here, a bit of tape there and big shiny bow on top for good measure… Then we step back and take pride in our handiwork as we arrange them just so under the tree…
And for what? To watch the little bastards rip it all apart in under a minute?
Then there’s the Queen’s speech, the highlight of British television on Christmas day, highly anticipated, nudge nudge, wink wink… more like, a badger wrapped in a curtain with a sparkly plant pot on her head, wearing a look on her face like someone’s waving a turd under her nose. And get this, she’s trying to tell me she understands how hard I’ve got it from her fully staffed palace and countless millions she sleeps comfortably on. Really not feeling her sincerity…
And what is it we’re celebrating? I mean don’t get me wrong, loving the nativity scene, three guys, a woman, her husband and a donkey… No hang on, that was a nasty film I caught on cable the other night…
But how do we celebrate? We buy a turkey that looks like its mother got fucked by an ostrich… Yes, the Christmas dinner!!! Hours spent peeling, boiling, roasting and cooking in the bleak hope it will resemble the Yule Tide treat as seen on TV (Thank you Jamie ‘fucking’ Oliver)…
Timed to perfection, lost to the joy, pure poetry in motion… What a crock of shit… The reality, everything is timed wrong, sprouts are extra soggy, roasts are like bricks (which you later catch the kids throwing at the neighbour’s cat) and the turkey is so dry and stringy you could knit a frigging jumper with it…
Then as the timing gets further and further behind everyone starts loitering around the kitchen like the cast of ‘Oliver Twist’ ready to fight the dog for any scraps… And no amount of ‘Oom pa-pa’ or ‘Boom-titty-titty’ is gonna make it cook any faster, so Fuck Off and consider yourself at home in some other poor fucker’s house… And by the time this crap is served they are all so hungry and sozzled they would eat dog turds in wallpaper paste and swear it tastes like sausage and mash!!! And so commences the feast, as we pull crackers and wear paper hats, slowly getting pissed on wine and brandy as we all fart our brains out ’til the room smells like the toilet tent atGlastonbury. Thank you sprouts!!! What is it with the British and sprouts? Nobody else likes them! They don’t even eat them in Brussels!
Yet every Christmas, we fill our plates and live in fear of shitting our pants as the room fills with toxic gas that any other time of year would be considered an Act of Terrorism. Who needs Anthrax when you have sprouts?
Then comes the biggest kick in the bollocks of the festive season, having had to take out a mortgage to pay for the fucking day, everything becomes half price and below the very next day…
And the people… All year round, they’re rude, boorish, opportunistic pricks who’d pimp their own mothers for a couple of bucks… But flash them a bit of tinsel and few shiny lights and all is forgiven as they want to join hands and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’… Well Fuck You, You Asshole!!! You’ll get my boot up your arse, ’cause you’ll still be a prick next year…
And on that note I bid you
“HAPPY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!!!”
Fritz & Pink….
*This piece was a collaborative work with Helen Dunn*