The Date, The Funeral And A Talking Vagina

The Date, The Funeral And A Talking Vagina The Date, The Funeral And A Talking Vagina

Status: Finished

Genre: Fantasy

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Fantasy

Summary

This is a morality tale about learning to love others and yourself for who they and you are. It also features a talking vagina.

Summary

This is a morality tale about learning to love others and yourself for who they and you are. It also features a talking vagina.

Content

Submitted: October 18, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: October 18, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

The Date, The Funeral And A Talking Vagina

18 October 2012

Micky Feelan

 

I’m never terribly good at conversation, especially when it comes to women. In fact, I’m appalling at it. When under the pressure of the first meeting with someone who I eventually hope will become subdued by my quite crude charm, my vocabulay seems restricted to different descriptions of rain or else muffled vulgarities, like some sort of atmospheric Tourette’s syndrome. TITS! In addition to this, I struggle to conceive of unique and original date ideas which might distinguish me from other potential suitors. Everyone goes to the cinema or the pub or a restaraunt. For my first date with Maria I wanted to be distinguished. Special. Unique. So with these two issues in mind I invited her to the funeral of a close relative. Well she wasn’t altogether close, it was my aunt Anne-Marie  who had emigrated to Burma some years ago in order to ‘find herself’. Unfortunately what she found was a rather boring, un-interesting individual who had ruined a perfectly good career as a chartered accountant to become a homeopath. Evidently, the 0.000000000000001% lavender oil solution she had been using had not in any way alleviated her clinical depression (you wouldn’t believe how miserable you can get in the constant heat with non-stop diarrhoea owing to an inability to aclimatise to the food, even after two years you will still feel like a frube being palpated violently by a sugar deprived twelve-year-old.) Anyway, auntie Anne-Marie, never a slave to conformity, decided that the best way to commit Hari-Kiri in her instance was to feed herself to her pet python. I say pet, a pet implies that this thing gives a fuck about you. This thing wasn’t a pet. This was a pet in the same way that a paedophile might be considered a reliable child-minder. Fourteen hours they reckon before he managed to swallow her (w)hole (the reason I’ve parenthesised the ‘w’ in the previous word is that I wished to include the important fact that swallowing my aunt Anne-Marie’s ‘hole’ was equivalent to swallowing a more moderately sized person ‘whole’. She was quite a large woman.) Unfortunately there were two deaths on that fateful day as the python, greatly over-estimating both its own hunger and ability to digest rubber flip-flops and hemp clothing, deceased owing to the great pressures which it had placed upon its gastronomy. This meant that we were unable to receive just my aunt’s corpse but were delivered with her remains ‘pre-packaged’ inside the intestines of a large serpant. This resulted in quite a large closed-casket at the funeral service.

So far so good, I had just arrived to pick up Maria at her house. She was a plasterer. She had just finished a hard day’s plastering. What? You don’t need to re-read that. That’s what I wrote. P-L-A-S-T-E-R-E-R. Can you not comprehend the idea of a female plasterer?? No I do not feel emasculated. I am confident in my masculinity. Look, just fuck off. Anyway, she came out of the house, wearing a blue hat, purple dungarees and red shoes (look she was a plasterer, not a model). Her shoulder length sandy brown hair bobbed about on her shoulder like a similie I cannot quite remember at the moment owing to a hangover. She had a plump smile on her face which made her cheeks jut out like the buttocks of an overweight man squeezing themselves through the cracks in a park bench. Her eyes lit with dull excitement. Her hands, well she had man hands. She was a plasterer. She could have exfoliated a dinosaur with her palms. She lived in this wonderful house which she would just plaster all day. Some days she would plaster the living room, some days she would plaster the kitchen, she plastered all her pets, cutlery and furnishings. She would plaster more in a day than a fifteen year old boy who’s just discovered how to bypass the ‘Net-Nanny’ on his home computer would do in at least an hour. She hopped onto the back of my red Vespa 180 SS and gave me a quick peck on the cheek and an indian burn on my chest as she hung on with her fucking incredibly manly hands. We rode to the church (not what you’re thinking, on the scooter which I mentioned earlier in this paragraph) where the funeral service was just about to begin. I directed her attention to the closed casket which contained the remains of both my obese aunt but also her sadly departed python. She seemed puzzled as to why we had not removed my aunt from the remains of the python; ‘why haven’t you removed your aunt from the remains of the python?’, is what she said, laughing. I explained to her that by the stage my aunt/python had been discovered she had already been quite severely digested so such an operation would have proved futile; ‘by the stage my aunt/python had been discovered she had already been quite severely digested so such an operation would have proved futile’ is what I said, aroused (funerals turn me on in the same way that weddings make women cry).

I proceeded to introduce her to various members of my family; my uncle Jimmy Feelan, an alleged child molester who was quite happy as it happened since he had just landed a job as a popular children’s television presenter (depending on when you are reading this then this sentence will have some sort of topical importance); my Dad Willy; my Mam Fanny; my brother Dick; and my four cousins Pussy, Gui (he was French, you pronounce it ‘Gee’), Pedo and Granny. She in no way found these character names suspiciously lude and took the introductions with honest credulity. We sat down near the casket. We found it quite difficult to carry on the regular ‘date rapport’ owing to the constraints of the funeral, finding it difficult to hear eachother’s conversation over the sobbing and wailing of distressed relatives and herpetologists (I just realised having written this that herpetologist can be split up into the words ‘her pet ologist’, which is mad cos it totally fits into the whole narrative!). We were also getting gradually more disapproving looks from the altar as we graduated from laughing loudly at the way my grandmother’s make-up was running down her face from her suppurations to actively groping eachother and dry-humping on the church floor. The date was going PERFECTLY! When the funeral service had climaxed in the most non-sexual way imaginable we all proceeded with the funeral cortege to the grave. An important thing to mention at this moment is that my aunt had worked with many amputee victims as a homeopath and had made it expressly known on the corn flakes box on which she wrote her suicide note that she wanted these ex-patients to transport her remains to her final resting place. Bearing in mind that the combined weight of her, the python and the casket was forty two stone, the fact that most of the pallbearers had a maximum of two fully intact limbs and that the graveyard was many, many miles away, this resulted in the coffin being dropped a total of ninety three times, at which point the amputee victims decided to drag what remained of the combined python/aunt corpse to the grave behind them using bungee cord. The funeral service had begun at 11:30 in the morning and my aunts remains were finally in the grave by about 20:33 in the evening. Two days later.

This was an incredibly succesful date so far. I could tell that Maria was slowly being charmed by my aggressive sexual groping and I was growing accustomed to the agonising stinging sensation which her hands left upon my groinal area. We decided that after all the laughs and fun we had at my aunt’s funeral that we would go for something to eat. So we went for a Korean Barbeque. No, don’t worry, we didn’t eat Koreans! Ha! You insane cunt! We chatted about our hobbies. I learned that as a young child, she would defecate herself constantly and was unable to walk and also learned the harrowing story of how her mother would sexually abuse her by lactating into her daughter’s mouth in public. I fondled Maria’s nipples in sympathy.  She cried. So I punched her in the head really hard to distract her from her painful memories. It worked. She stabbed me in the head with a spoon. As I felt the blood cascade down and across my face from the enormous head wound she had just given me, I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back. She slowly grasped the handle of the spoon and retracted it carefully from my forehead and then licked it seductively. And as you’re reading this you can tell that the sexual tension and intimacy between the two characters is beginning to escalate. And that sentence I just wrote there is an example of a type of metafiction where I actively address the fact that this is a piece of fiction and the fact that you, the reader are reading it. And that sentence I just wrote there is an example of meta-metafiction, where I describe how I addressed the fact that this is a piece of fiction and that you the reader are reading it. And that last sentence I just wrote there is an example of meta-meta-metafiction where I  describe how I described how I addressed the fact that this is a piece of fiction and that you the reader are reading it. And that sentence that I just wrote THERE, well, you get the point. She was beginning to recover from the severe concussion I had just given her as a result of having punched her and I had just fashioned  some kalamari and mustard into a makeshift clotting agent in order to stop the quite heavy bleeding which I was experiencing from my head. I knew that tonight, I would be getting laid.

It had been about three days since I had initally picked up Maria in order to go to the funeral/date and things had been going swimmingly. I had kept her laughing, kept her interested and involved by doing things like punching her in the head and she had now left most of my body looking like a trout caught in a nuclear holocaust owing to her groping me with her fucking incredibly manly hands. We went back on my red Vespa 180 SS to her place and she asked me in for coffee. ‘Would you like to come in for coffee’ she said to me coquettishly while I grasped her in a powereful vicious headlock. ‘I’d loved to’ I said, still holding her in a headlock. I followed her into the kitchen, which was quite sticky as a result of all of the fresh plaster she had laid down on the floor. I sat there for four hours waiting for her to supply me with some coffee, until she finally explained to me that the expression ‘would you like to come in for some coffee’ was a common way to discreetly invite someone to partake in the sexual act. I laughed, embarrassed at my ignorance. ‘Ha!’ I said. ‘So do you have any coffee then?’ I said. ‘No’ was her quite cold and factual response. So I asked her ‘would you mind going for some then? I would actually quite like some coffee’. ‘Alright’ was her grimaced response. Things weren’t helped by the fact that I had insisted on freshly ground espresso and since she did not have either the coffee beans or an espresso machine it meant that she had to go to a local supermarket chain who are a shower of wage supressing arse fuckers, in order to purchase both the beans and the Lavazzo espresso machine. This resulted in an expenditure of €345.58, which was quite a substantial amount to her considering the fact that she didn’t really have an income as such, it being the case that she only ever plastered her own house. The result of the night was beginning to look a little bit ambiguous, but once I had managed to subdue her in a second, more powerful headlock she began to see the funny side of things. I could tell what was going to happen next. We slowly drifted on the still quite liquid plaster which coated all of her floors into the bedroom area. I laid her down upon her bed. I kissed her lips. Her chin. I unfastened her dungaree straps and loosened one of her breasts and played it like a harmonica. I worked my way down, slowly easing her dungarees off as I progressed. She grabbed my head and stopped me from proceeding to the crotchal area and said with a certain urgency; ‘before you go any further, there’s something I should tell you’. All the while I could hear certain muffled words, mostly expletives, coming from somewhere in the room which I could not quite locate *fuck you you utter arse!* I moved to reassure her; ‘whatever it is it can wait!’ slowly pulling her dungarees down further. ‘But it’s about..’ She had not spoken in time as I had removed her dungarees and undergarments and now rested my eyes upon the very aspect of her person about which she was expressing concern.

‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE MAN, COME ON AND GIVE ME A DAMN GOOD THRASHING! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THAT, I COULDN’T EVEN USE THAT THING TO STIR A CUP OF TEA!’ were the words which emitted from her crotchal area. What Maria was about to inform me of was that she had a very rare medical condition whereby instead of having been born with the usual ‘female equipment’, she instead had been born with the head of a popular 70’s British comedian, in this case  Brian Blessed, where a sexual organ would normally reside. ‘FOR CHRIST’S SAKE LADDY I’M GASPING HERE, ARE YOU GOING TO PUT IT IN OR ARE YOU GOING TO STAND THERE LIKE A SHY TWELVE YEAR OLD GIRL!’ I looked up at Maria’s kind face searching for some reassurance or explanation. ‘It’s a genetic thing’ she said. ‘All the women in my family have it. My Mum has Jimmy Tarbuck. And my two twin sisters have Morecambe and Wise.’ I looked at her confused and bemused, ‘what do I do with it’, I inquired. ‘Well’ she said ‘if you just put it in he’ll stop talking.’ I was slightly daunted. ‘Ok, but he’s not going to bite though, is he?’ She offered a resolution ‘well I can leave it like this, or else I can transform into Brian Blessed with regular female genitalia, would that be easier for you?’ ‘Kind of, actually, I’m a big Blackadder fan...yeah do that then’. So, nine years later and I’m still happily courting Brian Blessed. So if there is a morsel of moral advice which I hope this piece offers to you, then it should be these two things: number one; don’t ever feel daunted or apprehensive about pursuing someone you like or in any way feel beneath them, everyone has their own inadequacies and fears and theirs may in fact be even greater than yours and number two; October is the ideal month to pick mushrooms.


© Copyright 2018 Michael Feelan. All rights reserved.

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