My Dick Is Stuck In This Pineapple!

My Dick Is Stuck In This Pineapple!

By Paul Crowe and John Morrice

Hello boys and girls! This is a story about how God can affect our lives in the strangest ways.

Once there was a boy called Percival who had a boil on the end of his dick.

It made him miserable.

First he tried putting on lotion, but that didn't work.

Next he went to the doctor, who said, “Why don't you try putting on lotion?” Percival said he had, but the doctor didn't believe him, and sent him off with a scolding in his ears.

So off he went, feeling very sad. However, on his way home, he passed a fortune teller's shop. An old wise woman sat outside and when she saw Percival looking sad, she beckoned him closer.

“Why so sad, little boy? Has a girl run away with your heart?” she croaked.

“No”, said Percival.

“Have your mother and father told you off for being naughty?”

“No”, said Percival. Then a gleam came into the old woman's eye.

“There is only one other thing that could make you so sad. You must have a boil on your dick!”

“Yes I have” said Percival, wincing in pain. “I don't know what to do.”

“Come with me, little boy, and I will give you something to cure your boil,” she said.

Percival followed her into the shop and gasped with amazement. The old wise woman's shop was filled with strange and wonderful things.

He saw a wasp stirring a cauldron.

He saw another wasp building a boat.

He saw a stick that knew how to smile.

He saw an electric chair.

He saw a man with tracing paper for skin.

He saw a horse fucking a ghost.

He saw three divers trapped in a fishtank.

He saw one million magic tangerines compressed in a barrel.

And he was impressed.

“Over here, little boy”, said the old wise woman, and beckoned him towards a towering fruit bowl. “Take this pineapple and stick your dick in it, for only this can cure your boil.”

Percival grabbed the pineapple and skipped gaily all the way home. Once there, he raised the pineapple above his head and brought it hurtling down on the boil. “Pop” went the pineapple. Almost at once, the pain from the boil faded, but when he tried to remove the pineapple, he found it was stuck.

“Help”, said Percival, “My dick is stuck in this pineapple!”

“How the fuck did that happen?” said Percival's father, charging into the bathroom. Percival's father pulled with all his might, but the pineapple would not move.

“I have an idea” said Percival's mother. She took some twine from under the sink and tied one end around the pineapple, then they tied the other end to the handle of the bathroom door. But no matter how much they slammed the door, the pineapple wouldn't budge.

“I'm going to call the fire brigade!” said Percival's mother. When the firemen arrived they measured the pineapple front to back and round and round. Once they had assessed the situation they said “There's no other way. We'll have to cut it off, and your dick too!”

Percival was very sad, but his mother promised to buy him a lolly, so feeling very brave he told the firemen it was okay.

The firemen took their big cutting tool out of their fire engine and placed it against Perical's

pineapple. But when they turned it on, the cutter began to smoke and whine, and no matter how hard they pressed it against the pineapple, it would not cut.

The firemen scratched their heads and wondered, until they got a call about a fire and had to leave poor Percival's dick stuck inside the pineapple.

Next Percival's father said “I'm going to call the army!” who arrived in a great big tank.

“Don't worry!” shouted the general. “There's nothing that can withstand our bombs. So they attached a big explosive to Percival's pineapple. “Kaboom!” went the bomb as it exploded. But when the smoke cleared, although Percival's face was all black and his clothes torn up, the pineapple was still there.

Seeing it was no use, Percival's mother began to cry. “How can we send Percival to school with a pineapple stuck on his dick?”

“Well honey”, Percival's father said, “All we can do now is put our faith in God that Percival's pineapple will some day be removed.”

“Let us pray!” cried Percival's mother. And so Percival, and his mother and father, and all the soldiers in their tank began to pray. God heard them and soon an angel appeared, who said:

“If you have something on your dick and you try to get it off by putting something else on your dick, you will be damned. But if you put your faith in God, you will be saved.” And just like that the pineapple slid off Percival's dick.

And so children, God speaks to us in many ways, even through genital boils. What Percival learned was that when a woman asks you to penetrate her fruit, it goes against God's will, and you should be content with your painfully throbbing dick.

1000 Moravian Nights: Crazy Tim And The Teenagers

Crazy Tim strummed his banjo beneath the monkey-puzzle trees that crowded around his crumbling home. As the romantic bards saw nature through rose-glass, Tim saw the world under the influence of whisky. Drunken and clothed in a state of crust, he sat on the old porch, casting arpeggios from his finger tips into the soundscape of the night; the rolling of corn under the spell of the breeze; a breeze that drew a groan from the stiff branches of those ancient trees that were his only audience.

Tim was born with the random forces in the world infused into his fate. He was never a drifter; he was a water-skater. He trod upon the system with step so light that the serious people of the county never once felt him. He was a ghost, a poet, a tramp, and a petrol thief.

Just as the sophisticates flock to theatre, and as the punks stand in lines before wailing overdriven noise, there was to be live audience for Tim’s nocturnal show. Indeed, it would be the only possible audience that could empathise with the irreverent Tim: three lost teenagers, darkest fear within them, galloped like panicked beasts through the pine wood surrounding Tim’s cabin. When they came to beat their steps over the gravel of Tim’s drive, they splashed those stones around, like salmon frantically dashing upstream on their pre-ordained flight.

As he heard the pummelling of boots, a suspicion formed in Tim’s mind. He laid down his banjo, poured a shot of whisky, and stood to address the interlopers.

“Damn crazy drunk bastards! I’ve a machine-gun that’ll shoot fists at your balls!”

At the very moment he finished with speech, those three troubled kids each skidded out from the darkness, and landed heaped in the orange light that streamed through the open door. Tim appeared to them in silhouetted form; his bedraggled dressing gown looked a robe of authority, signifying command in this peculiar realm. He downed the whisky shot and eyed the newcomers with a wary eye.

“Are you the feds?” asked Tim.

“Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god”, mumbled one of those teenagers, a girl in a hoodie that was decorated with blasphemous and bloody design. She lay trapped by the others at the bottom of the heap, limbs awkwardly spread over the dirt.

“Shit, are you alright, lady? Say, do you like whisky?”

“Help us!” the teenagers implored in unison.

“Why, whatever could be the matter, on such a beautiful evening as this?” enquired Tim, gesturing around at the darkness, and his ramshackle home.

The girl swore and then pushed the other two off her. They each wobbled to their feet; one was another girl who picked a battered trilby from the ground. The other was a boy, who dusted muck from his tracksuit. “We’ve been chased!” explained the girl.

“Chased? By what?”

The three spoke at once.

“Badgers!” shouted the mosher in the hoodie.

“Aliens!” shouted the boy in the white trackies.

“The police!” shouted the other girl with the hat and the tweed coat.

Tim dropped to his chair heavily, in clear shock. His expression was grave, and still he held the empty glass, forgotten in his hand.

“Are you alright?” asked the mosher, stuttering a little.

Tim placed down his glass with an air of one leaving the bar. When he spoke it was in a sombre tone. He faced the girl and said, “Tell me about the badger.”

And so the mosher girl began her tale.

The Tale of Two Badgers

“We were walking together when we saw these two bright lights ahead of us. Then I realised they were eyes. They looked really big and scary so I thought it must have been a badger. I heard badgers were really dangerous.”

“They assuredly are”, confided Tim with a conspiratorial quietness to his voice. “A badger can take a grown woman’s leg right off. What's your name?”

“I'm Sez. Yeah, so we ran”, she continued, “We just ran until we came here.”

“I think that was a very wise choice,” Tim observed. “I had a nasty encounter with a badger myself, and I can tell you that everything you’ve heard about them is true.”

“Really, what happened?” inquired Sez. She looked around, a little afraid that another beast would appear from the gloom; yet her attention was transfixed as Tim began his story:

“Back in the day, at school, I played with this cover band. We used to practise over at Ballsy’s house on the way to Garmouth. Well, we played in his garage, with the door right wide open. That was our first mistake. You see, badgers are attracted to noise, because where there’s noise there are always people, and people are a badger’s natural prey.

So after a while of playing the same song over and over, we had a break. I smoked a joint and then other guys just talked, when suddenly we heard this rustling down the embankment. This is where we made our really big mistake. We didn’t appreciate just how evil badgers are. We took our lives for granted and I paid for it. We snuck over to where we hear could better, and waited in grim silence for a glimpse of the creature.

After a while of listening and waiting, we heard a twig snap. Our senses came flashing back, and we ran the hell away. However, there just so happened to be a tree right behind me. So when I turned to run, I found myself tangled in branches. I snagged my wrist on one before I could free myself. I escaped in good time, and ran back into the house. But blood was pouring from me, so I had to get a bandage fast. Luckily, Ballsy’s older sister Cat was at home. She got out some medical gauze and antiseptic and cleaned the wound.

By this time, the other guys figured the badger had passed, so they went outside to practise some more. Meanwhile Cat was tying up my arm. I had a crush on her, and well, when she was done tying up my arm, I just asked her for a kiss. It was my first, and I swear I was completely lost within the sensation. Indeed I never heard the band had stopped playing. The first I knew was Ballsy standing in the door. He just said ‘What the fuck!’

Cat ran out embarrassed and Ballsy just walked off. I found the guys outside. They managed to get the song really tight without me. They said it was my fault that we couldn’t nail it when we tried before. They actually looked pretty sad, but still, they asked me to leave the band.

I never saw Cat again. And on that day, Sez, I lost a friend, my band, and a lot of blood; all because of that evil fucking badger. Yet I only heard the badger; you’ve seen one, Sez, and I think you’re lucky to be alive.”

With his tale at an end, he refilled his glass, and sipped, reflecting on the desperate episode. The three teenagers each swore they would always be wary for badgers, and would never risk their lives to seek one out.

“But we didn’t run from a fucking badger!” protested the boy in the white track-suit. He began speaking faster. “Swear, dude, it was aliens. They were just sitting there in a spaceship cloaked in smoke, making weird fucking bleeping noises. But the real reason I knew it was aliens is because I just felt this massive fear, like when aliens mess with your brain.”

“You are a reject, Chiz,” spat the girl in tweed. “There is no such thing as aliens. That was a police car. I can’t believe we had to run just because you like taking drugs.”

Chiz, coughed a greener before retorting, “No Megan, it’s fucking aliens. End of.”

“Simmer doon, everybody,” said Tim with the prim expression of a school-teacher upon his face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were aliens and police in the woods together.”

Dougie, the Police, and the Extraterrestrials

“Last time my pal Dougie was over, we had a bit of a situation. I was basically holding on to several kees of hash for him. Anyway, he sped into the driveway hoorna fast, jumped out and said “The fucking cops are coming.”

We knew they have dogs, so we couldn’t just hide it outside. We didn’t want to burn it either. So we were standing out here, smoking a joint and thinking what we could do. All of a sudden Dougie says “the fuck is that”, and points towards a star. It glowed all bright, and then came straight overhead.

It was definitely aliens, because that’s when we both got the idea. The aliens sent us the light as a message, telling us to hide the shit in the light fittings. So I just took out the lights, bunged all the fucking hash up there, while Dougie cooked up a bunch of bacon and sausages to cover the smell.

Anyway, after a while, the cops turned up. They were real pricks. The dogs went mental because they could smell the hash, but the cops couldn’t find it anywhere. They turned the whole place around, but never checked the lights. In the end they apologised and left, so we ate a bunch of bacon and smoked a massive joint. It was awesome.

Basically, cops are stupid, and aliens want us to smoke pot. So dinnae worry about it.”

The three teenagers each agreed that wouldn’t worry about the police, or aliens, any longer. However, the initial dispute had still not been resolved. Each still held their original opinion of what they had seen. The argument could have continued until the whisky dried. But their debate was cut off as the soundscape of the evening was ripped apart again, as an engine roared from afar. In the forest it echoed, booming like thunder, as if the spirit of life was rushing toward them. The darkness was shot apart by headlights, before the car halted with an ostentatious power slide. The engine shut down, its tumult succeeded by pumping techno.

“Oh aye, that’s Dougie now,” said Tim, who stood to greet his friend.

As Dougie stepped from his vehicle, he was followed by a vast outpouring cloud of smoke. As he trod toward the cabin, the others saw that blood had drained from his face. His steps were a little uneven; he faltered as in shock.

“Holy fuck,” he began eloquently, “Holy fuck. I just saw three aliens in the woods.”

“Fucking bat-balls, kids!” Tim shouted, “It was a spaceship!” He collapsed into the chair, and poured another dram.

On Horrible People

Friendship groups are in constant threat of destruction by utterly terrible motherfuckers. These specimens are invariably interesting and complicated people. They may be charismatic; they may be handsome; they may just be doggedly determined. A horrid person can't be defined in generic terms. Everyone – evil, fucked-up bitches included – has their own eccentricities. But bilious, walking-mind-fucks conform to a general pattern when invading the company of others, and there are some specific strategies that friends use to remove their poisonous, faecal presence.

The horrible person will mould the social structure of your group to better achieve their aims.  A core aim of a bastard is to cement their place within the group. The fucker needs to create dependence amongst the group members on their own continued membership of the group. With drugs, this is achieved through their connections to the underworld. The friends need them – and will be very obliging to see that they remain a part of the collective, in spite of their assholery. There are other ways of achieving this power: sex is a classic; money is another; someone influential in the local art scene is in a niche position, but it can suffice for being a complete asshat.

Smaller groups are easier to manipulate (we're dealing with local shit-heads, not Rupert Murdoch). People might realise that their new pal is a total douchebag. Evil misanthropes will address this problem by sewing discord. A common misconception is that discord will blind the victims to the evils of the perpetrator. Not so: being a known arsehole spreads more discord than being an unknown arsehole. No-one will be able to prevent the cunt from being a chronic shite-lord, because they have no choice but to react to the awful milieu.

Discord is created by bruising and breaking existing ties of affection. The smeg-bearer need not invoke a clandestine strategy. A common approach is that the parasite will refuse to socialise with one particular individual. Such an action causes an immediate schism. People will be forced to evaluate their loyalties. The arse will prefer to test close bonds: siblings and lovers are favourites. Wrecking close relationships affects an amplification of tension within the group: other people are upset to witness good relationships turn to shit.

These rackets mirror human interactions conducted in good faith: we all have small groups of friends, and we do prefer the company of some people to others. The important difference is that the black-hole-of-a-person we are dealing with has no concern for genuine participation: ideally, they want only to achieve their narrow goals.

Horrible people always inhabit a web of co-manipulation. They will introduce you to others. It is difficult to know your position within this scheme. The highly intelligent wanker is dangerous in this respect, for they will place their sluggish brethren tactically. This is the general method by which one becomes acquainted with people who are both dim and awful, for they otherwise won't find you. Horrid people who are slow on the uptake can ruin otherwise good company, merely by the unpleasant state of themselves. These people are exemplified by diazepam addicts who slur and cannot think.

Nasty personages can be identified by conversing with those whom you still trust. Manipulative cocks will be discovered in this manner, because they will impart different untruths to different people. But even a blatant pile-of-discharge must be identified in this socially forensic manner, because your friends may not be as brave (or sober) as you are.

Once a complete cunt has been identified, an intervention will inevitably occur. The friends may present a combined front to the offending gobshite. Formally announcing this new-found solidarity to the fucker can be an effective tactic: they will realise the game is up. Crucially, there will be a rule that no-one may speak to the turd. This is more difficult for drug-users, for everyone will most likely attend the same dealer's flat.

The strategy of rejection is not effective when facing an evil, psychopathic, bitch. The peril is that he will not be driven off, and will instead turn up at your place of work and cause a scene. A friendship group can deal with such demented freaks by denying them information. The unbalanced abuser will be unable to show up at your child's nursery, because they do not know where it is. This is difficult to implement, because of others known to both the friendship group and to the awful banshee. If the bastard is crazed enough, the friends may be able to convince third parties of the soundness of the plan, as the third party will know all about the craziness. However, if the third party is an arsehole themselves, this will fail. The friends may be forced to excommunicate a large number of people. Always remember that such people may have a genuine medical problem.

As information about everything becomes easier to access, absolutely fucking squamous people will become an increasing hazard everywhere. The core defence against these total cunts is to love your real friends with dearness and devotion, and to rejoice in the unity and trust that you've nurtured together without having all those bastards around.

Two stories contrasting banality with emotive in-universe fiction

Reflective Tabard

The red lipstick ran out before I could finish writing. I had to get the cleaner from the kitchen. I got distracted and ate a yoghurt, and dropped the spoon. It stuck to my stocking. Pretty annoyed. It left a stain so I dabbed it off.

The other cloths were in the wash, so I washed that one, then wiped the mirror and started again in burgundy. This time I wrote it out neater.

I wondered if it would be sexier if it wasn't so neat, but there wasn't time to change anything. I waited.

Closer to six, I had a glass of wine. It got cold, so I put on a dressing gown. I stayed very quiet. It felt like a vigil, so that the air could collect all of me, and this silent lust, and waft it like pheromones over everything. I was pretty excited.

He came in later, still wearing his reflective tabard. He was in a really jolly mood; he'd been to the pub, and was now havering. He bumbled off to “do manly things”.

I felt like he'd ruined the surprise, destroyed the atmosphere. I finished the glass. There was no atmosphere. Just me standing here, wearing a dressing gown and drinking by myself. Would he? Probably. So I went to find him.

He was already asleep, with game controller in hand. Still wearing luminescent safety gear. I watched his reflection as he snored. I looked fat, and the mirror wrote over my fat belly, in burgundy:

I want you in my cunt xxx

God on Canongate

Shy is really loud. Kept reading aloud on the train. No intonation, just volume and rhythm. The performance had a one-to-one correspondence with the meaning and context of his lyrics.

He ignores Clipes. I don't think he sees him, or anything that isn't pure TRUTH JUSTICE PUNK.

He can hear it in your blood-works, just like Moses heard GOD.

All day he sprawled among frayed receipts and old letters, all covered in squint words and terrible rhymes. He gave the impression of a poet composing in a blossomed orchard.

Clipes had nagged that we'd be late, but Shy times everything on his watch. He knows how long it takes to get anywhere, and if he doesn't know, it's probably written down on the back of one of those bus tickets.

So he suddenly got up, at exactly the correct time, and then we were out and to the station. Soon we were shitting it south amongst old drunks and silent, bored students.

At Waverley, Shy became quiet. Suddenly bashful amongst so many commuters. We thanked the conductor for some reason. Shy remarked on how PUNK it was to respect REAL PEOPLE, as long as we bear in mind that his employers are CUNTS.

Canongate, £3 and then we were in. A poor sludge band were opening. Shy grabbed me and pulled me through the din, and random skins, to a table. I saw what he'd spotted through the gloom.

I was with GOD. His beard was long. His morals were pure. He wasn't playing tonight but I was sure he was RIGHT and the WAY and even CLIPES was happy.