The Importance of Glass Tables
'Point of View'
Carl. Shortsighted and jaded. Driven to distraction and desperation, tired of televisual deception.
Seeking fresh content to stimulate, he seeks a window into a new world, where he is the axis, demanding greater interaction than the red buttoned, remote controlled, SkyTV inaction faction.
The master of events, a latter-day Kubrik sitting astride the world like a colossus. But in limbo with lumbago, he foregoes the director’s chair for futon.
Fascinated with forbidden caves ever since reading Ali Baba & the Forty Thieves, and latterly a veteran of Club Kopros – the club nights for ‘discerning gentlemen’ at the Society Club with Ronnie K and Lords Boothby & Driberg - he invests his gilts in a succession of hookers to ‘lay one’ on the glass table on his command of ‘Open sesame.’
‘Time for another booty call…’ muses Carl.
Enter Wobbly-like-Jelly, the unsteady working girl hiding a secret – two weeks of intense constipation (despite the profligate use of enemas).
Donning leather helmet (the ball mask is away being cleaned), Carl takes his position under the glass.
As Wobbly squats with uncertainty over the table, she fights the mental picture of her body passing something bigger than a bowling ball. She instead focuses on the image of Anne Robinson and begins her contractions.
Eventually succumbing to the enema surplus, bowels and sphincter synchronise and release on target, two weeks of highly processed food, smashing through the pane, killing Carl with glass-infused faecal fragments, as he cried ’Ex-Lax!’
Upon hearing repeated THUDDING sounds coming from Carl’s head – and after giving thanks for finally being able to shed her burden – Ol’ Wobbly surveyed the carnage, and finally learnt the importance of dietary fibre. Carl didn’t see his life flash before him, for his goggles had misted over.
As the coroner was heard to remark after the inquest, there were no flies on Carl.
Carl. Lying in the morgue. Cold Carl.
The red chair, 9th October 2006
Carl. Shortsighted and jaded. Driven to distraction and desperation, tired of televisual deception.
Seeking fresh content to stimulate, he seeks a window into a new world, where he is the axis, demanding greater interaction than the red buttoned, remote controlled, SkyTV inaction faction.
The master of events, a latter-day Kubrik sitting astride the world like a colossus. But in limbo with lumbago, he foregoes the director’s chair for futon.
Fascinated with forbidden caves ever since reading Ali Baba & the Forty Thieves, and latterly a veteran of Club Kopros – the club nights for ‘discerning gentlemen’ at the Society Club with Ronnie K and Lords Boothby & Driberg - he invests his gilts in a succession of hookers to ‘lay one’ on the glass table on his command of ‘Open sesame.’
‘Time for another booty call…’ muses Carl.
Enter Wobbly-like-Jelly, the unsteady working girl hiding a secret – two weeks of intense constipation (despite the profligate use of enemas).
Donning leather helmet (the ball mask is away being cleaned), Carl takes his position under the glass.
As Wobbly squats with uncertainty over the table, she fights the mental picture of her body passing something bigger than a bowling ball. She instead focuses on the image of Anne Robinson and begins her contractions.
Eventually succumbing to the enema surplus, bowels and sphincter synchronise and release on target, two weeks of highly processed food, smashing through the pane, killing Carl with glass-infused faecal fragments, as he cried ’Ex-Lax!’
Upon hearing repeated THUDDING sounds coming from Carl’s head – and after giving thanks for finally being able to shed her burden – Ol’ Wobbly surveyed the carnage, and finally learnt the importance of dietary fibre. Carl didn’t see his life flash before him, for his goggles had misted over.
As the coroner was heard to remark after the inquest, there were no flies on Carl.
Carl. Lying in the morgue. Cold Carl.
The red chair, 9th October 2006
posted by Harry Twatts at 8:12 PM
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