19 Dec


Colin.R.James 2010


Zipping up his trousers John reached over to wipe the sticky mess from his fingers. He was a three-a-day man and considering it was only 10 o’clock in the morning he had already beaten his personal best! Nothing like a bit of lesbian porn to get the motor running!  Finished with the tissue he screwed it into a ball and threw it with practiced precision into the waste paper basket by the television overflowing with the lost lives of millions. He searched under the stained cushions for the remote control and pressed pause, preserving his moment of ecstasy forever, the girl in the nurse’s uniform frozen in mid stroke. He shivered. It was getting cold in the mornings and he reached for the discarded t-shirt. Experience had taught him that his quotidian exercises always left him hot and sweaty; it was wise to disrobe before getting too emotionally involved.

Rolling off the couch, he landed on the detritus of a week’s worth of curry containers, empty beer bottles and the accumulated collection of personal DNA worthy of Guinness Book recognition. Scratching his arse and farting, he shoved his feet into the toe less slippers, his yellow nails accenting the blue of the terry toweling, and shuffled his way into the kitchen. Starving to death as he was, having eaten nothing since the previous evening, he was barely able to contain his enthusiasm, keen to discover what the cornucopia-of-crap had to offer.

Standing in front of the open refrigerator the soft electric light broke over his matted hair, shadowing his copious folds. Like an impressionist painting of the Tuscan hills he was for the briefest of moments a joy to behold. The Etruscan scene was broken by the loud rasping sound of flatulence curling around his arse cheeks as it made a break for freedom.  Sniffing at what passed for personality, his scum covered lips curled in a hideous smile, recognizing the aroma of curries past. Loved his chilies did John however, they didn’t reciprocate. Although Gandhi continued to exact his revenge nothing could deter him from reinitiating the cycle every time he passed the curry-house down the High street.

“Vindaloo as hot as you can make it, and don’t spare the bloody poppadoms!”

They knew him well in the restaurant; ever since he had taken the job down at the local shopping center. He had become a regular figure and his persistent orders of the same arse-burning-shite meant that they had quickly come to know him.

 “How are you today sir? Did you have a busy day sir? See you tomorrow sir…Merry Christmas Sir!

His red bleary eyes stared into the cavern that was the fridge, the mold on the inside accentuating its grotto like qualities. Miniature stalagmites hung from the now opaque glass shelves, the cure for cancer secreting itself behind an overgrown yogurt pot. Like the Holy Grail, the tin foil containers with the remnants of last night’s feast shimmered in its own heat haze. Gratified by its presence he reached in and grabbed it greedily.

Let the feast begin, nothing like left over curry, it was always better the second day anyway!

Before he could complete his quest he felt the familiarchurning in his belly and slammed the door quickly. Kicking over half filed beer bottles and stampeding over crushed pizza boxes he ran, or rather waddled, as fast as he could to the bathroom. Barely having time to rip down his already christened underpants the pyroclastic blast breached and splattered the pan. With a great sigh of relief he sat in reverence enjoying the peace that the sweet release bought him.

His office, as he liked to call it, was strewn with magazines and empty cardboard toilet roles. The floor barely visible from where they had been dropped and discarded and left for dead. The girlie magazines on the floor were damp from where he had splashed; never having lived with a woman, standing to piss was a matter of habit rather than choice. Lurking over the pot, loosely aiming in the general direction of the empty toilet freshener, he managed to get most of it in most of the time. The toilet brush, still pristine in its shop bought plastic, stood like a monument to forgotten hygiene. What the hell, it didn’t matter, it was just him!


Dragging the paper across his hairy arse he inspected it briefly before discarding it and reaching for the next sheet. Like an automaton he repeated the process until he was nearly clean. Good shade this morning, obviously the curry house had upped their game! John enjoyed a challenge and clearly the chef at the Taj Mahal enjoyed his work.

He flushed and turned to watch the cyclone of crap disappear down the bend, the gurgle of brown water and wet paper slapped porcelain bearing testament to his passing. Sniffing his fingers and scratching his nuts he pulled up his pants. Catching sight of his watch he cursed; he was going to be late to work if he didn’t get his backside in gear. He knew that he shouldn’t have committed to that last five-fingered-shuffle, now he was going to be late, he’d been warned twice already! Never mind the shower that would have to wait until tonight, as would the toothpaste and the hairbrush. There was no time!

Walking over to the table where he had left his work clothes from the previous evening he began to dress. Luckily the uniform they had provided for him was nice and warm and given the horrible grey snow sprinkled December day he was going to need it. It wasn’t too bad, and to be honest it was as though it had been tailored for him. The large red jacket fitted him perfectly as did the huge blousy trousers. It was just the black boots he hated; they bit into his bunions and made his feet sweat.

He ran for the door, stopped, remembered, and returned to the table.


He had nearly forgotten the white beard! The manager would burst a blood vessel, what was Santa Claus without his beard?



  1. susanchambless December 19, 2010 at 2:09 pm #

    Yuck — and I like the new look. Susan

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