Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 2, 2010

International ‘Let’s Get Johnners Laid’ Day!

Filed under: Comedy,Comedy Rants,Rancid Comedy,Really Dumb,Twisted Fables,Uncategorized — johnnersintheraw @ 5:15 am

International “Let’s Get Johnners Laid” Day

Throwing our dignity out the window and being a socially responsible human being

Let us be blunt.  I would not be writing all this drivel if I weren’t so desperate that I was willing to throw what remains of my dignity out the window.  In other words, I want to get laid.  And I want to get laid now. So if you are in reach and can lend a helping hand, come and get me!  

Yes, I am talking about filthy raunch in a back alleyway.  But, on the other hand, that is not what I really want; I have done that – thank you very much – and while it was absolutely all it was cooked up to be, it’s hard to indulge in a little post-coital canoodling when the softest place to lie is the steaming pile of dog shit next to the rubbish bins. And don’t pretend you don’t know about this problem, chaps, because every fucking male tomcat has been there, done it, and sometimes even bought the gonorrhoea.  Fortunately – Hallelujah – God Be Praised, I somehow missed the gonorrhoea-dispensing day.  Then, also, I was out of town when the local evangelical church was offering a two-for-the-price-of-one herpes special at the Christmas Bring and Buy;  and then there was the time when I was nursing a rare cold in the head when the neighbourhood bareback club was hosting its by-monthly ‘Let’s all Get Positive and Support a Friend” swimming party.  And also (am I the lucky one or what?), I was never introduced to all those lovely sounding companions who promise to give you a lifetime of love, but who were not invented the last time my wanger got an airing.  So, in other words, I may be a pathetic dickhead who’s one step away from being re-virginised, but at least I am a clean and healthily pathetic dickhead.  And if that doesn’t stimulate some other lucky chap’s gonads to a heated frenzy, then I don’t know what will.

Now, when I was quite young – you know, back when I still knew what sex was – an acquaintance of mine, who was a nurse, told me about one of her patients.  Of course, right then and there I knew what kind of nurse she was: the kind who would reveal all to the first available ear.  In other words, she is the kind of nurse you want to sit next to at the dinner table, but not the kind of nurse whose flannel you want scrubbing you in a hospital bed, under a blanket.  Because let me tell you something.  When you are lying in traction in a hospital, and every bone in your body is splintered, and you look like you were run over by the bullet train, having just been stomped on by your horse for the fourteen time since the previous Tuesday, the last thing you want to hear is that ‘certain sniggering sound’ coming from the other side of that wonderfully soundproof gauzy curtain that is supposedly protecting your privacy.  And the thing is, you know exactly which nurse is doing the sniggering, because she is a friend of your mother!  And you also know that she is sniggering over the telephone.  Possibly to the only girl in the planet who can actually make your willy stand up and pay attention!  And because this nurse is on her tea break and has all that extra time on her hands, it will probably occur to her that it would be fun to text your vital statistics to her entire ‘phone-a-friend’ network.  Mind you, it would be even more of a minefield had it happened to me in the Year of Our Lord 2010, because in The Year of Our Lord 2010, it would be a given that every single measurement would go straight on to her Facebook Wall.  And accompanied by corroborating photos to prove she was actually in on the action.

So anyway, you hear this dreaded sniggering going on from behind the curtain, and then an second voice – the voice of the girlfriend of your flatmate, for fuck’s sake – chimes in and, in a helpful tone, asks if ‘he’ (the ‘he’ being the ‘me’ in the bed) would like a ‘little help with his… erm… problem.  And right away, of course, you know that your life is at an end.  Because you have this feeling that they are going to do something which you are going to enjoy, but which you will regret for the rest of your life.  But by this time, it’s too late to say, “no please, I have a headache,” because your willy is so excited it has a hard-on that’s more virulent than a that of a fifteen year old on the day he spied his best friend’s sister masturbating in the bathtub.  Of course, everybody is so furtive and it is so crowded inside your little cubical – (what with two nurses, three nurse’s aides, the tea lady, the doctor from the proctology department, and the two male trainee nurses, both of whom acquired their ‘vocation’ after having been booted from the chorus of the Thurso Amateur Dramatic Society’s touring production of ‘Joseph and the Technicolor Dream coat’) -.that rampant little willy short-circuits,  instantly jumping the gun and shooting a gallon of your own homemade mayonnaise all over the entire hospital ward.

It goes without saying that the whole episode has been so anti-climatic that everyone feels slightly disappointed.  And you actually feel guilty about it!  You, a truly innocent bystander whose every limb is in traction, and who is as helpless as a Brussels’ Sprout rolling off a table, actually feel responsible for ruining everybody’s afternoon.  And while you are sinking into the sort of depression that will cause your willy to go on strike for a month – and which will possibly require at least seven years of therapy – you hear that same sniggering lisp from the other side of the curtain. “I dunno,” it whines. “He’s got such a little one…” Whereupon one of the chorus boys chimes in with a helpful, “well, before we tag it on Facebook, we should really tip off the News of the World… because they might be able to run a two page spread on this one, and it might even help him to get a job.” Whereupon your flatmate’s girlfriend interjects, “Poor dear, it’s rather sad, innit… he’ll never get a girl….”

I used to kid myself that the reason I stopped riding was that I was getting so feeble I was afraid I was going to end up in pieces.  But I now realise it wasn’t that at all.  I simply could not take one more hospital bed humiliation.

But back to my nurse acquaintance: my ever-obliging font of gossip.  By now, she is in the middle of one of her endless stories (and no, we are not related) about her past experiences.  Her favourite one concerns an old trout who was under her care in a nursing home.  Now, apparently, this old trout was not exactly obsessed with her personal hygiene.  In other words, she stank like a navvy.  And the thing was, the poor biddy was mobile, and therefore was able to wash herself.  However, there came a point when the entire ward got fed up with living next to an abattoir, and there were some complaints. There followed a consultation, after which the appropriate person in charge approached her, and asked her if she had been using soap in the shower.  To which replied that, yes, she had been most careful to follow doctor’s instructions. “She said, ‘I washed up as far as possible, and down as far as possible’,” to which the person-in-charge replied.  “Next time, you might try washing possible.”  Now, I realise this is probably one of those ‘urban myth stories’ but it still makes me laugh, and has a certain visual resonance (if such a thing is possible).  Her other story – and this was the point of my whole fucking segue – concerned a very large and lively lady of African descent. Now, due to her size (the upside of morbidly obese) and her age (forty-nine and counting), the fact that her periods had stopped didn’t bother her in the slightest.  To put it mildly, she was relieved that ‘the change’ was finally upon her, and that she wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore.  Therefore, it came as a bit of a surprise when one morning, whilst making breakfast, her water broke and two squalling infants dropped out on to the lino.  Now, before you start worrying your head off,  let me reassure you:  the lady was fine, the babies were fine, she knew what to do with the umbilical cords, and her husband called an ambulance.  Satisfied?

Later in the day, when everything had been taken care of, the doctor – or whoever it was – asked her if she had thought about names for the infants, to which she replied that she was a fan of The History Channel, and that she had decided to name her two little babies after Greek heroes.  Namely, ‘Syphilis’ and ‘Gonorrhoea’.  Naturally, at this point the whole episode disintegrated into the inevitable exchange of incompatible philosophies. On one side, there was a list of  politically correct and condescending admonitions from the voice of officialdom.  On the other side, there was the usual torrent of politically incorrect and inventive obscenities from the mother. Her final word on the word on the subject was that they were her babies, and that they were being given beautiful names and that it was none of his bleedin’ business. She then added that she was going to call the police and have him arrested on charges of discrimination.  Of course, this story is also probably a lot of codswallop, but it’s fun and I love it.  And, I especially love it since I have never been formally introduced to either Syphilis or Gonorrhoea (neither the twins nor the infections).  Therefore, being neutral, I can sort of agree with the lady, that the names are perfectly delightful and that any child should be proud to wear either one on his or her nametag.  And fuck the registrar.

Ah… but let us return to several names of infections that simply weren’t available when I was a raging and irresponsible pustule – or if they were available, they were known by more antediluvian  appellations:  STD equivalents of polio formerly being called infantile paralysis or GPI (General Paralysis of the Insane) being a early blanket-term for a number of baffling conditions, including what we now know as Alzheimer’s, or even the fact that before the nineteen fifties, there was no such thing as a ‘teenager’.  In fact, before the nineteen fifties, human larvae were really non-persons living in a limbo-land, an attitude that shows a certain level of enlightenment of the part of our forbearers.  Because when you look at it honestly, it saves so much bother: for half-formed blobs living in limbo-land are not really human.  And not being human, they can’t claim that their civil rights are being abused, and what is more, they can’t refuse to sit up straight at the dinner table and eat your soggy, overcooked vegetables.

Having finished with our educational segment, I can finally mention a name that fills me with glee (but which would probably fill me with agony if I ever decided to participate in one of Manchester’s Saturday-Night- in-the-Gutter rituals).  The name is, of course, Chlamydia.

Now, I’m sorry, but Chlamydia is an absolute corker of a name.  It is lovely, it is graceful, it is like music to the ears. So why the fuck did some humourless pedant go and ruin it forever.  I mean, for fuck’s sake, be fair!  Stop befouling words and names of natural beauty. The next time you have an incurable and debilitating disease that is in need of a name, why don’t you go for something that is more current, more twenty-first century.  ‘Britney’, for example. Or ‘Keira’. Or ‘Brad’.  Or even ‘Michael Jackson’.  I mean, the latter name is available and it’s not as if he is using it any more.  Only give us back our Chlamydia!

I must apologise, and I also want to explain something.  I only allowed myself to be sidetracked into this rather tedious diatribe to satisfy health and safety inspectors. Because, you see, unless you throw in a certain number of scientific terms and profoundly grammatical sentences, chances are some stupid dickhead of a twat will take you to task for being socially irresponsible, as well as potential harmful to the young – in other words, to those very people who are making Chlamydia such a household name.  And then of course, once you are labelled as being socially irresponsible, you can be sued for discriminating against those who have only ever had sex in the missionary position and in a darkened bedroom.  With their cat.

Now, having settled all these problems and proved ourselves to be socially responsible, we shall now return to my original statement of purpose:  “Let us be blunt!” Let us not mince words!  Let us not beat round the bush!  Let us even shave the bush – that way we won’t be tempted to beat around it.  Because if you have ever been tempted to beat around your bush, and actually succumbed to that temptation, you will not be tempted a second time.  In fact, you will be doing very little – except lying in a hospital bed listening to whispered remarks to do with your person just before your blanket bath.  But unfortunately, since your injuries are far more agonising than mine ever were, and since your goolies were so badly mangled when you beat them, they are going to have to be amputated.  And then you will never have the pleasure of shooting your homemade mayonnaise all over the hospital walls.

And not only that!  You will never again be able to proclaim what I am about to proclaim:  “My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, please be upstanding and raise your glasses:  To Johnners!”

For Johnners is gonna get fucked!


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