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Thread: The Big Bad Wolf.

  1. #1
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
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    The Big Bad Wolf.

    The Big Bad Wolf.

    Part 1: Rumblings.

    It was the third day after Christmas and in the gardens of the Playboy Mansion, the prospective Miss January 2013 screamed,

    "Give it to me! I'm so frigging wet, give it to me now!"

    She could scream all she wanted, Wolf was keeping the umbrella.

    He went back inside, a worried man.

    It was a book-lined room with a desk, a Dictaphone, word processor, great padded armchairs and a furry rug. A painting by Jack Yeats stood above the mantelpiece; sombre, Celtic, yet delicate, it had something in common with the other red pastel drawings by Henry Moore, whose sad classicism against the wall was in keeping with the dark shades that dominated the interior.

    What had been found was a snuggery, a den such as might be found in any vicarage or small country house in England. The only suggestion of an obsession, or of anything out of the ordinary, was a collection of seventy-four different brands of toilet tissue, ranged on top of a bookcase, as bizarre in context as a convention of Salesian novices for the priesthood.

    He sat down before the fire, a lonely figure.

    Increasingly he had been suffering from colitis, a chronically inflamed colon and rectum, the symptoms being the almost uncontrollable urge to defecate. Whilst previously he used to enjoy rising from a slumber littered with dreams about large black MILF’s wiggling seductively in his face, now he was obsessed with the proximity of the toilet where he invariably nestled with a façade of ferocious concentration etched upon his vein pulsating brow.

    His physician had said he needed a colonoscopy to determine the cause of the problem, possible followed by radical surgery, nappies, a colostomy bag, divorce and being perpetually enveloped in an unmistakable and unpleasant aroma of fecal leakage.

    His psychiatrist however was more positive and suggested it was perhaps a revelation pointer of the way forward in the strains his business was currently sustaining.

    He, who had been the ground breaker so many years ago, was now in a market where supply outstripped demand. Everywhere there was porn and sexual titillation. It had become so pervasive, so comprehensive, that if it was not on the internet, it flaunted itself in the form of naked weather girls, rival magazines, lap dancing, strip clubs, blue movies, escort agencies, chat lines and Lord knows what else.

    His close financial adviser Milky Mikalarko entered. Wolf had employed him on the strength of his background as a mono-sexual ex crane operator with a head for figures, who had been discharged from the LA docks for operating his equipment in high heeled shoes. He was into coprophilia, urophilia, exhibitionism, voyeurism, frotteurism, telephone scatophilia, transvestic fetishism, plus MSB. He had also served time. As Captain Jack Sparrow had invariably reiterated, "It's the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they're going to do something incredibly stupid."

    “Hi Boss, how are you doing today?’

    “Usual problem Milky,” was Wolf’s reply, “Want to take a dump but can’t. How are the circulation figures?”

    “Not too good. Excessive competition.”

    “So, what have you come up with in terms of new initiatives?” Wolf asked.

    “Well I was thinking of that advice your shrink had given you, about turning unfortunate aspects of personal experience into an advantage.”

    “I don’t follow. We are in the sex industry, what’s the new angle?”

    “Defecation.”

    “You must be mad! You mean no more beaver! Is there a market for defecation?”

    “Boss, there are parts of Germany, Japan, and the lower Balkans where it’s almost regarded as a religious experience. Up till now the only implicit bodily function we have marketed for is sex.”

    “And masturbation!” Wolf added.

    “Yes, that too. But think of other aspects we could portray; breaking wind, nasal mucus accumulation, burping, impotence, vomiting and sweating. All new material virtually untouched from a non-medical commercial aspect.”

    Wolf was silent for some time and then reflectively he mused, “Perhaps after all there is a possibility that this stage of my life is behind me.”

    “Send in Red Riding Hood.”

    His buxom secretary in a velvet thong, ear rings and a smile joined them both.

    “Get me the most qualified person to discuss coprophilia, and open a new business file titled “One Foot in the Crave.”
    Last edited by MANICHAEAN; 12-28-2012 at 12:13 AM.

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    Funny, in a gross sort of way. I particularly liked the opening, how it threw the reader a
    curve ball, or maybe I should say "screwball." But you know, Manichaean, methinks you have a deviously clever sense of humor, and that this particular opus is presented not only for its own sake but as a send up example of the type of writing a certain LitNutter is advocating --throwing it back in his face, so to speak. On that level, this is a humorous kind of "inside baseball" type of posting. That's enough sports analogies for now.

  3. #3
    Registered User miyako73's Avatar
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    "Give it to me! I'm so frigging wet, give it to me now!"

    She could scream all she wanted, Wolf was keeping the umbrella.

    LOL! Very clever.
    "You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you because you're all the same."

    --Jonathan Davis

  4. #4
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
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    Aunty
    “All the characters are fictional and only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.” T.V. Series Dragnet.

    Miyako
    Don’t you just find that the short punch lines are the best?
    Thanks both for reading.
    Regards
    M.

  5. #5
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
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    Part 2: Research.

    When Dr Hildegard Lunchbox attended the interview two days later, she was to all outward appearances antitypic to the other Mansion female inhabitants. In fact she was a quite remarkable woman in many ways.

    “Far from your average broad!” was how Milky expressed it so cogently.

    Not that she was not attractive, for she had a svelte figure, but wore a formal Prince of Wales double breasted business suit with smart, expensive pumps and no apparent make-up. But most of all, she was very clever. She had a brain on her that was envied by her contempories and peers and had graduated originally from Princeton with honours as a sociologist and later gained her doctorate based on her paper entitled “What’s the point of a penis?” Later research into “Vague Virgina’s of Virginia,” confirmed her status in a highly specialized and unusual sphere of interest.

    Wolf was intrigued. More surprising, the business suit apparel of his visitor seated opposite, with one shapely leg crossed over the other was giving him serpentine stirrings.

    He began the meeting by giving an explanation of the proposed direction of his business interests into coprophilia and asked her advice, not so much on the financial aspects, as on the general subject matter.

    She explained, by way of introduction; quite lucidly and with no embarrassment that the human fascination with crap came from evolution and our paleolithic ancestors. Back then, starvation was always around the corner. They practiced what was known as a second harvest. They would essentially take their crap and eat the parts of it that contained undigested food. This was a necessity to stay alive. Over a million years this evolved into having an intimate relationship with one’s waste. That is why, she explained, when you take a crap; you always look at it with pride and feel a primal bond with it, like you did a good job. So from this alone, she continued, it was easy to see that every single person has a mild paraphilia. For some people, that primal bond goes a step further and they are able to use it to elevate their sexual arousal to a higher level.

    Wolf was fascinated.

    “So there is a sexual link?” he enquired.

    “Oh yes. I think it is because sex is strictly a primal urge and we also have a strong primal relationship with our poop. Some people combine these two feelings, along with the sexual pheromones that are in poop, to create an elevated sexual experience.”

    “Although,” she added, “An obsession with excrement often points to an immature personality. In fact the discharge of the bowel is usually a symbol of the wish of the dreamer to live without responsibility or to reduce his inhibitions. Thus although some authors have defined the focus of coprophilia as the act of elimination, a common analytic interpretation is that the excrement symbolically represents the penis and that the presence of the fecal matter serves as a defense against castration anxiety”

    “Is coprophilia a common phenomenon?” Wolf asked.

    “Strangely enough,” she responded, “The most common examples occur in socially dominant people being sexually submissive and vice-versa. Thus the most infamous copraphiliac was allegedly Adolf Hitler. Hitler’s close boyhood friend from Linz, August Kubizek, wrote of him in “Mein Jugendfreund” as, “Adolf did not engage in love affairs or flirtations. He always rejected the coquettish advances of girls or women. Women and girls took an interest in him but he always evaded their endeavours. During deconstruction, it is customary that the person is sexually abused in the manner which is most embarrassing to that person. In Hitler’s case, he was sodomised, thereby creating a submissive distant respect for homosexuals like his bodyguards and some of his highest-placed leaders. His natural bent was developed into coprophilia.”

    “What about yourself?” Dir. Lunchbox enquired. “What are your own feelings on the subject so far?”

    “Well, I must admit,” said Wolf, “That I have always been interested in two things sexually; dehumanization and transformation. I am intelligent, university educated, consider myself well-adjusted, (if somewhat unconventional) and with a rich social life. But looking back now from a young age, I have gained arousal from bowel movements. The idea of being totally dehumanized, transformed into a toilet, is to me powerfully erotic. Some smells of decay I find erotic too; the smell of rubbish in bins can arouse me sexually. I believe part of this is the degradation factor, becoming less human, more animal.”

    Dr. Lunchbox smiled. “You are correct.”

    “For various social reasons, (many very modern), a large number of people are turned on by other human scents; sweaty feet, armpits, and so on. In the 16th century, the creation of “love apples” was not uncommon by women for their husbands who were going to sea, or to war, or trade abroad. An apple would be peeled and carried in the arm-pit to absorb the woman’s scent before being gifted to her lover. I have even heard it said that Napoleon once sent his wife a message, “Home in three days, don’t wash!”
    Last edited by MANICHAEAN; 12-29-2012 at 09:40 PM.

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    Oh, you know your dung, all right.
    ---The Lyin' King, Part Eleven

    Bad form to quote oneself, mesupposes.
    No apostrophe for the plural of "Virginias."
    By the bye, "love apple" was the old name for a tomato. Come to think of it,tomatoes are exactly what you're talking about, the two-legged kind.

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