Archive for the Journal Category

Mock Temples. Or, Maybe, Don’t.

Posted in Journal on August 13, 2012 by tobystone
A Mock Temple. I'm not laughing anymore.

A Mock Temple. I'm not laughing anymore.

God, according to the Blob, likes a joke, particularly a bad one. The more bitter, morally collapsed, and ethically unburdened the better. She swears Jim Davidson will go to heaven. (Or reincarnate as Lenny Henry, if he accumulates enough karma.)

The Blob is well travelled and says she has met Him and who am I to doubt her? I look up to her. When she has eaten me, I also look out to her. In every relationship there is a half who seems somehow more than the other. She is my better three-quarters – on a lean day – and I find it hard to argue with anything she says. If she tells me I should worship something other than her, I will at least make the pretence. (Besides, we weren’t long married, and I still wanted to be her Mr Right, which, if you recall last week, was somebody with my looks, but without my actions… or words, for that matter.)

Anyway, apparently He is a very large lump of anti-matter. Not all of it, by any means, but behemoth enough to make the human mind baulk at contemplating Him. According to the wife, God’s true name is the sound the human mind makes when it perceives his shadow. At this point, the brain will say something like Robert Burns recited at speed whilst inhaling ignited whiskey, or, to paraphrase, ‘ErghgrrrouchohmydearGodthathurts(nowineedatissue)’, of which only the shortened form has reached our vernacular.

But, because he is anti-matter, he is also Anti-God, and the only place of worship He believes in is a Mock Temple. These holy sites are scattered around the English countryside like Ha-Ha’s in the gardens of Jane Austen. They are dots on the ley lines of the spiritual world. They are the places where God seeps through, like semen through a ripped condom. They are popular with families.

We went to an ironically Ionical Temple in Yorkshire to worship, and the Blob deposited her fetishes. First, a pebble with selo-taped-on golden wings. Second, an overfed snail named Porky. Third, a bucket of water. Fourth, three straws arranged into the letter ‘H’. These were for a miniature Olympic Games. Why? Because Gods are formed of the smallest things. In this case; Hermes from a cairn of stones left at the roadside to mark a way for travellers. From thence, he became the leaving place for good luck tokens, and eventually the God of travellers and, then; later, athletes. So we raced Hermes against Porky, yelling at the pebble, “Come on, Hermes. Porky’s stuffing you! Show some Olympic bloody spirit!”. Let him sink in his attempt to break the record for a stone swimming in a bucket. Applauded politely, as he failed to clear the ground below the high-jump bar. Think of relieving yourself on a gravestone, and you see the sleight, the slap of the hand across Hermes’ well-travelled cheeks. The mockery had begun.

The Anti-God would be pleased.

After this we took the wafer – which was pink – and we dipped it in a cup of PG tips until it crumbled and drooped to the bottom of the cup. As it melted we chanted ‘The Body of Christ is droopy and pink, The Body of Christ can’t keep it up, The Body of Christ is tasty in tea’.

The next hymn of worship was dedicated to Athena. A roast cockerel sacrificed to the growth of crops. We ate the erel, and offered the cock to the Goddess. That should rouse her ire.

Then, and last, we worshipped Epicurus, the Greek who spent his life teaching men not to fear the Gods, not to worship them by the actions and words of their meagre lives. That mankind should be free of awe. We worshipped him as a God. It was as I grovelled before the great disbeliever’s feet, that I felt a frisson of anxiety. My disbelief was beset by doubt. What if the Gods were real? What if the preaching of the anti-matter anti-God was false? What if even the shrine to my pirate ancestor should be paused before, worshipped? (I had spent a long time cutting it out, and sticking on the gold paper.) Had my karma sunk so low that I would actually come back as me? I couldn’t go through all this again… My first sexual experience didn’t bear repeating. (No, a bear wasn’t involved, and the tortoise shouldn’t have been.)

I was filled with a religious fervour which, I must admit, felt a bit like fear. Now, I stop to salute lonely magpies in the park, even in the afternoon. Look for ‘7’ on numberplates and doors. Blanch at the number between twelve and fourteen. Touch wood like a porn addict. Go to church on the Lord’s day, and the mosque on every other. My address is black-listed by Jehovah’s Witnesses, and scientologists flee when they see me on the street. I perceive God in the smallest of things, in cloud formations and the swaying of trees. I can’t stop, a belief-junkie, and I worship on the sly, with half-hidden gestures and the tugging of my forelock. Like masturbating when the Blob is out with the girlomorphs, I don’t tell her, because I know, if she knew, she would only mock me.


Invasion of the Single White Bodysnatcher

Posted in Journal on August 4, 2012 by tobystone
I shake hands with my wife's ex.  I did try.

I shake hands with my wife's ex. I did try.

Before she landed in my world (with a BANG almost like a meteorite) my Blob had slept with other… well, with Others. Even when she was eating me, I would wonder about her previous conquests. Curled up post-coitally in her innards, I would obsess on how big they were. How good in bed. How many reproductive organs did they have? What was the plural for penis? But I trusted my Blob. I saw her not only through rose-coloured spectacles, but also red-hued ectoplasm. She was, though, far too accommodating to others, a real people pleaser, and when an ex asked for a place to stay, she couldn’t say ‘no’.

When he arrived, my heart was wet and fast in my chest, as if soiling itself. Was he better looking than me? Funnier? Thankfully, he was a hairy, green pod, and the only cracks he made whiffed slightly of sulphur and exposed a matted pink interior which, unnervingly, reminded me of an inverted vulva.

On the first evening he was uncommunicative. I thought he could have made an effort, given we were letting him stay, but the wife said he had come a long way, and we left him in the spare bedroom.

That night I slept deeply, and dreamt of geraniums.

It wasn’t until the next morning – when he hatched – that I realised his game. Moustached, blue-eyed, slim- he had copied me. The bastard. We ate breakfast with the crackle of awkward chewing, my throat choking on Frosties, him sipping at porridge, and the Mrs attempting small talk while ingesting the table. Porridge! I hate porridge! He may have my looks, but he doesn’t have my personality, I thought. This left me at a distinct disadvantage, and I glanced uneasily at my wife. I was sure she was orientating herself toward him, playing with her bumps self-consciously, becoming a slightly deeper crimson. I admit I couldn’t stop thinking about them together. Pictures of her and him haunted my thoughts… Though, it could have been her and me; it was difficult to tell.

Truanting work, I would drive around town, looking for them together. They met often, over the next few days, on street corners and in deserted car parks. He would just stand there, holding a briefcase, and she would stand next to him. I never saw them speak, but she was beginning to look wetter than normal. She already looked flushed. She’s going to cheat, I thought, lights the same colour as her skin going off inside my brain.

Worse, our moments of intimacy were growing shorter. She was beginning to treat me like shit, often accidentally defecating me on the carpet. Our closeness had passed. There was something between us, now, where the closeness had been, something worse, something alien.

He didn’t even smirk about it. He certainly didn’t talk to me. When she wasn’t around, he would point at me and scream. It sounded like the Spice Girls had been given one note and told to hold it for a whole song. I peed myself slightly every time he did it. I began to wonder about the briefcase. Did it hold love letters from their time together? Dirty photos? Was he growing their baby like a portable plant-pot? Did it look like me, but the size of a ring-binder, and given to pointing and screaming at midgets? The questions played tag in my mind. Then tig.

The ex attempts 'Wannabe'.  Accurate, I thought.

The ex attempts 'Wannabe'. Accurate, I thought.

Obviously, I had to confront him, and did so, with an axe and a small electric heater. Strangely, he didn’t scream when I burnt his pieces alive, but made a long and satisfied farting sound. Breath holed up behind my teeth like a teenager in front of Babestation, I opened the briefcase. It contained several changes of fresh underwear, and several soiled y-fronts in a plastic bag. There were some things about me he hadn’t copied so well, it seemed. That, I suppose, is what he had been doing on the street corners. Quietly pooing himself. I had to smile, but didn’t when I closed the case and took to pointing and screaming at strangers.

I told my wife the real me had left home, last seen running wildly beneath an underpass. Sadly, she seems to prefer me now, but at least our love-life is back to normal. The sex is, perhaps, even better, and I get to wear fresh pants three times a day.

The Return of the Blob

Posted in Journal on July 29, 2012 by tobystone
My wife during courting.

My wife during our courting. You can tell I've just kissed her.

I have long dreamt of being obese. The reverse-Atkins diet didn’t work for me. Carbohydrates and alcohol and sucking the edges of steaks only led to an uncomfortable excitement during KFC adverts. (One dark evening, I built a manikin of the Colonel out of a Family Bucket, and gently stroked his legs and breasts.)

I was banned from Weight-Watchers for trying to accumulate maximum points. There were no ‘red’, ‘blue’ or ‘yellow’ days, for me, but ‘rainbow’ days, when I ate cod, lamb and potato stew, covered in chocolate and deep-fat-fried. On the Tuesday night weigh-in, I crumbled like a flapjack in a jacket pocket. I was a failure. Unable, even, to garner a handful of flab. I was removed after clutching at the bellies of my co-aspirees, and screaming ‘I WANT TO BE FAT LIKE YOU’.

It wasn’t a mean dream, obesity. I dreamt big.

I realised, then, that I was a littler man inside than I’d thought. There was no fat person, tardis-like, trying to get out. I considered lipo-pumption, but the doctor told me there was a slight possibility of exploding. This deflated me.

So I turned away from dreams, and into dating. If I could not hold my own lard in my arms, I would fondle another’s. I had always liked big women. This was my sort of penis envy. I placed an ad, waited expectantly, and received a wad of replies. One reply transfixed the eye, like Boris Johnson in a crotchless leotard on a pogo-stick. I licked my lips. She had been the star of a 1950’s sci-fi/horror film. Bit of a celebrity, I thought; definitely experienced. Growing tired of the paparazzi, and of the air-force trying to drop her in the Arctic, she had gone underground, and pretended to be an American with an average eating routine. Letter led to email, and email to first date.

The diner was considerably smaller by the time we had finished our courses. It began with the slurping of spaghetti, and reached its mains with the consumption of diners’ limbs. Oh, what an evening. At the very least, I was in love. She blushed a beautiful crimson when I kissed her for the first time.

We would meet, then, and wander the streets, my hand in her amorphous bulge. I would giggle, she would make the sound, I’m pretty sure, of digesting a stray dog. A rather large one. On the weekends, we would go to the park and eat the ducks. By fall, we were married.

On our conjugal night she ate me, and ate me good. Our marriage, I suppose, is one of convenience food. Some say we are too close, that I don’t do the things I used to. My friends never see me anymore. People whisper (and sometimes scream) in the street. I am weary of the prejudice and wish they would stop, but I’m happy. I feel I am a part of her. My dreams have come true, and I want to tell the world about the beauty of our love.

Coming family meets my new wife.

Next family meets the new wife.