Makes Mah Guts Churn

So, I've moved in with my beautiful girlfriend who has less than beautiful interests.  I've been subjected to all manner of vapid reality television shows and the cacophonous bickering of Jeremy Kyle.  Matter of fact, the modern gladiatorial pantomime is the backdrop the key-tapping which is creating this blog.  How enjoyable.

The interest that I find most difficult to deal with is her obsession with horror films.  I've witnessed murders, possessions, stalking, house invasions, mutilation, monsters and more screaming than my days should contain.  When you are inundated with horror it can have a rather profound effect on your mindset.

We had just finished watching a double-header of Ginger Snaps and Playback, the former about a teenage girl turning into a werewolf, the latter about people being possessed through old videos.  We were sat in the living room, facing the tv, with the entirety of the house behind us.  There's nothing that'll induce paranoid twitching glances behind your back than empty space, pregnant with creepy possibilities.  It was time for bed.

I made my way to the bathroom for some pre-sleep ablutions when my journey was halted by a scene most horrendous.  Opposite the bathroom is the door which opens up onto the back garden.  The back door, if you will.  Within the frame of this door is a flap, which small household animals are able to use at their convenience.  At this point, the flap was locked closed.

Dripping through the loose connections were maggots.  Scores of them.  These particles of evil, bloated rice were oozing inside like the gunge of the blob that ate everything.  A click glance to the clock; 2am.  Weary eyelids sinking, we were forced to gee ourselves up, to buoy those exhausted lids and get stuck in to the grim job at hand.  After we finished crying, we fenced the be-maggoted area with towels, boiled the kettle and carpet bombed the area with bleach and boiling water.  This slowed the heinous devils a little, but they continued to writhe in spite of the onslaught.  A minute of research on the internet suggested there was chemicals in house polish and dog shampoo which might put an end to the creatures.  With a gloop and a hiss, Mr Sheen and the pink gloop of dog shampoo joined this concoction; George's Malevolent Medicine.

Under the weight of this all-or-nothing alchemical experiment, still the infernal monsters came.  More and more they broke through the ill-made flap.  It was time to resort to more desperate measures.  Shedding my pajamas, I equipped myself with an old pair of jeans, heavy boots, rainproof coat, gloves and a trusty <spunge> beanie hat.  I was now ready for the mission.  As ready as I was ever going to be.

I left the house by the front door, and in the premature morning darkness I was buffeted by wind and rain.  I circled around the street to the back alley, the longest walk of my life.  I opened the back gate from the outside with worrying ease, and surveyed what little of the back garden I could see in the darkness.  The glow from the kitchen and bathroom windows barely pushed the darkness from the perimeter of the building as I, cloaked in the darkness, crept closer to the house.

Instantly I recognised the horrifying source of all our problems.  Bin bags had built up faster than they should have, due to a housewarming barbeque we'd hosted.  These bags had not yet been picked up, and had therefore been sat in the back garden, fermenting under a blazing summer sun, the maggot equivalent of an episode of Grand Designs.  Escaping the night's cold and rain, these wiggling horrors were making a dash to the safety of my house.

MY HOUSE!

I snapped.  Hoisting the bags to the back alley, I cut them off at the source.  Then it was time to clean up.  With an iron grip I brandished the sweeping brush and made for the back door.  The head of a bottle of bleach appeared at the kitchen window, which I gladly availed myself of.  With a spray and then a whoosh of the brush the maggots were assaulted with a foamy bleach lather and the buffeting of the sweeping brush.  Hundreds, nay millions, fell to my onslaught as I brushed the back step and the actual door itself.  Innocent slugs were caught in the crossfire, sacrifices in the face of dire emergency.  After the berserker brush-rage cooled, the back step was clear of visible horrors.  Red-faced and short of breath, I retraced my way to the front of the house.

Removing my outer-armour as I re-entered, I surveyed the breach by the back door.  Still the internal monsters wriggled.  It was now nearing 4am.  These were desperate times.  We fell to our knees and with gritted teeth and toilet paper in our hands we began to pop maggots.

Some people have difficulty popping spots.  Popping maggots is several orders of magnitude worse.  As you lift them you can feel them wriggle under the paper, and when the squeeze is put upon them not only do you feel the pop, it is terribly loud.  From the bleach fumes and the wriggling, my stomach very bravely held on, but barely.  The maggotcide was an arduous task which felt as though it would never end, and memories can, even now, reduce me to tears.

We defeated the maggots that night, and they have not returned since.  But they are out there, I know it.  The buzzing of a common fly rings ominously in my ears these days, a grim reminder of the night we spent on our knees, popping maggots with our fingers.

Barbeque & A 'n' R&R

Yesterday, I found myself at a hastily organised barbeque. While it was organised quickly, years of barbeque organisation on the part of the organiser truly paid off, and fun and a full stomach was had by all. The position of Head Barbequeer was allotted responsibly, which is of crucial importance. The Head was a grizzled veteran of barbequing, and the undercooked mess I had assumed all barbeque to be was disproved magnificently. If either Organiser or Head Barbequeer are reading this, my thanks and compliments, it was a wonderful night.

It was a fairly dynamic affair, I turned up with my ACREstablemate Dafydd, and the rest of the barbeque (apart from the Organiser) consisted of people I had met once or twice before and a number I'd never met. This would usually mean that slight awkwardness and heel-scuffing was to follow, but it turned into a really nice night. The dynamism was added to further as people left early and were replaced by latecomers, meaning that fresh energy was always being added. A few old friends turned up (for me) unexpectedly, and it was excellent to have a catch-up.

As the night wore on, it felt as though Dafydd and I took over the conversation more and more with fairly full on filthy topics. It got to the point of hysteria a number of times, and laughing to the point of not being able to breathe was further intensified by the nearby campfire. I very much enjoyed this inappropriate improvised vulgar double act, and it was a delight to see people we didn't know really enjoying our puerility, only slightly more delightful than seeing the disapproving looks of those who weren't.

Two barbequees in particular did not enjoy these 'japes'.

Two American transfer-students, one male, one female, were also at the barbeque, as acquaintances another of the guests had made whilst travelling. They were amiable and talkative for the most part, although something eventually went awry. My back was first raised when the man, during a discussion on the idiosyncratic differences between the UK and the US, inquired:

"So, this may be a weird question but you haven't got anything strange like having made gay marriage legal over here have you?"

I was slightly taken aback, but Dafydd saved the day magnificently with his instant reply:
"Yeah it's not just legal over here, it's encouraged!".

Having misjudged us quite significantly, he was completely wrong footed and he quickly fell silent with the look of a non-swimmer caught in a mortifyingly realistic recreation of Waterworld plastered over his fundamentalist Christian face. They were full-on you're-all-going-to-hell-and-I-might-be-aswell-for-being-at-this-bbq Christians. They were lovely, apart from their lazy, hateful beliefs.

They didn't much enjoy anything I said.

My favourite discussion I instigated that they definitely wouldn't have enjoyed began with me struggling to get my words out. I don't know if this happens to other people, or whether I occasionally fall into some sort of mania where my own ideas amuse myself to the point where I have trouble getting the idea out. If only people would start to think I am as funny as I find myself (occasionally). When I finally managed to get my sentence out, I began an hour long experiment in vulgar tedium. I asked:

"When Spiderman ejaculates, does it come out as a web?".

At the time, I was bent double laughing. It was probably my enjoyment, rather than the actual idea which made Dafydd join in. It was at that point that the American asked "Is he serious?", which made me laugh all the more. Yes, I was being serious. I wanted to know whether, at the point of climax, the fictional superhero Spiderman's fictional superpowers stretch even to his ejaculate. Of course, he should have known I was being facetious, because Spiderman's webs aren't a part of his powers, they are chemical tools loaded onto Peter Parker's wrist, hence how he can run out of webs. Pedantry would have killed my fun, but he wasn't anywhere near pedantic enough.

What I have learnt about myself is that I am an incredibly single minded individual when I have discovered a new comedic formula, and if I am in the right mood I will relentlessly plough that furrow until it is empty, and I am exhausted. The new formula was superheroes + ejaculation = amusing sperm. I was delighted, the Christians less so.

My favourite picks are these:

Cyclops - Power: Shoots lasers from his single eye = self-explanatory.
Captain America - Power: Not really sure, super strength? = shoots twirling shields out of his peep.
Rogue - Power: stealing other people's powers = steals a man wang and does them with their own bits
Iron Man - Power: iron suit = normal semen
Captain Planet: Power: he is Green (as in looking after the environment) = pure white semen which he shoots over oil-covered seals which washes them clean (also dolphins).

As we ran out of steam, the topic changed and we veered away from such superheroic filth. But as the other chatted about something knew, I came up with a final, delightful example. I patiently, callously waited until the conversation petered out, and in the ensuing silence I flung my final attempt in the direction of the forlorn Americans;

"Does The Thing spunk bricks?".

I am delighted by myself.

As the night wore on everyone left, the christians seemed to harbor no ill-will towards me, and I had enjoyed myself thoroughly. My petty attempts to make the two uncomfortable, and it was incredibly petty, had worked, and they had conducted themselves in a christianly way and turned the other cheek. Luckily for them The Thing wasn't there, or he's have seen their other cheek and come down on them like a ton of bricks.

Though none of us lived in the house the final three contenders in the garden (I am watching way too much Royal Rumble) were me, Daf and the Head Barbequeer. Daf indulged in his favoured past time of tending the fire, which therefore burned beautifully for hours on end, and we sat outside idly philosophising, discussing old video games and appreciating the moon.

We got home irresponsibly late, and I awoke responsibly early, so my exhaustion is all to do with responsibility. Response-silly-ability. I am tired.

www.theacre.net
@adamgilder
acrecomedy@gmail.com

Apologies in Advance

Recently I have had the dubious privilege of being shown a fairly underground, at this point, internet video that is a meme in the making.

 

The video is utterly based around a man, and a jar.

 

The scene opens to show a towel on the floor, and a pair of human legs, which, due to the presence of a penis and two testicles at the top of them, I assume belong to a male of the human species.  The man potters around for awhile, eventually placing a jar on the towel, the type of jar that would usually be utilised for the storage of jam or similar foodstuffs.

 

The man then proceeds to position himself above the jam jar, and eases himself into a squatting position, pausing only to realign the jar.

 

Now at this point in the viewing, a general uneasy feeling began to develop in the area which I would describe as my stomach.  This is a feeling that could perhaps be described as apprehension or unease.  I realised that my abilities of prediction and forewarning had struck too late and I was transfixed by this scene, as if I’d locked eyes with a terrifying, and sordid, hypnotic snake.  Like something off’ve the Jungle Book, but with roughly 100% more anal insertion.

 

Before I describe the rest of the scene, there are a number of issues that arise that I feel I must address before I can move on.  The jar is an unusual choice of anal toy, especially when considering its considerable girth; the jar is not an item that is ergonomically suited to insertion into an anal cavity.  In fact, traditionally, anal toys are usually thinner and longer than the jar, which is a far stubbier and wider beast.

 

Nevertheless the man went through with his ill-conceived scheme, and in a feat which is as impressive as it is disgusting, successfully accommodated the jam jar almost fully into his gaping anus.

 

Just to clarify, I was significantly more disgusted than I was impressed.

 

Now this utopian scene, this hallowed union of anus and jar was ill-fated, and soon the scene turns sour.  Still in the squat position, there is a noise akin to an impact.  For a couple of seconds it is uncertain what has transpired.  Then it slowly becomes clear.

 

The anal tunnel is surely not designed with the give of it’s vaginal cousin, and as such the pressure in there had caused the jar to pop.

 

Now, popping is usually a humorous and positive thing, but in this example that is certainly not the case.  When a balloon is popped, there is a moment of surprise, and then laughter.  When a tube of smarties is popped and the little plastic lid flies off into the face of an unfortunate friend; that too augurs laughter.

 

When a glass jar pops in the distended anus of a human man, and the plastic lid drops to the floor, its faded gingham pattern now tragic rather than twee, this does not create laughter.

 

Another argument in favour of traditional sex toys rather than jam jars, in the context of anal insertion, is that while jars are usually made of glass, the sex toys are usually made of more malleable material, such as rubber.  The upside of rubber of course is that it is not going to shatter.

 

The rest of the video is a hideous minute of a man, still in the squat position, performing an anal autopsy on the sundered remains of his anus.  Silence reigns in the video as a small puddle of an anal porridge of blood, shit and glass slowly collects on the towel.  When the man eventually stands, the audience is treated to a blood-curdling and lesson-teaching wail.

 

The presence of the towel in this video suggests something I would rather not entertain, namely, the possibility that the man had foreseen the exploding of the jar, and perhaps even had done this before.

 

I seriously hope this isn’t the case, as I believe you can only explain away your tattered post-apocalyptic arsehole as an accident once.  Not even the NHS is going to believe you a second time.

 

This video has upset me deeply, and in order to come to terms with this anal daredevil I have found it necessary to compose a short poem I have entitled:

 

The Parable of the Man and the Jar…in his bum

 

 

!!POETRY ALERT!!

 

1: The Jar

 

Oh container, usually reserved

For the storage of preserves

Your gingham lid cannot anticipate your fate.

 

2: The Man

 

After meticulously placing his utensils,

A sane man he is not,

He prepares, he squats.

 

3: Ode to a Jam Jar

 

Oh! you poor little jar,

Look how far in you’ve gone.

You are entombed in your faecal gaol,

Embalmed in pooh,

Is this too much for you?

A base act: taking a jam case up you,

Your rim filled to the brim,

Can only end in tears,

Tears from your eyes; and anal weeping wounds.

 

4: Urgh

I used to know very little of matters,

Where in your arse a jam jar shatters,

The day was filled with a spluttering retch,

Because of a jar up the arse of a letch,

My knowledge of this now is such,

That I believe I know too much.

 

 

Sorry for having passed this story on, I won’t link the video, for obvious reasons.