Is there anything in life that you can’t fuck up?
This is the closest you’ll ever come to killing someone. As she lies in intensive care with a case of food poisoning so acute her delicate pink ringpiece which Aerial Telly so sensitively violated for the first time on Valentine’s Day is now an infinitely tiny pinprick surrounded by a mass of inflamed tissue. Thanks to your horrific food preparation techniques she is now shitting her brains into a nappy in an isolation ward, through the world’s tiniest starfish. What a stark contrast from that magical evening when she asked Aerial Telly to take her arse cherry and he, being the man he is, obliged with his customary sensitivity and millimetre perfect sexual technique and timing. What was once a source of ecstatic pleasure is now a source of unholy pain and it’s all thanks to you.
What were you thinking as you grated that nine-week-old cheddar over your abysmally undercooked shitty chilli? Weren’t you aware that kidney beans shouldn’t actually smell like kidneys? Wasn’t the meat still being red a clue? She was too drunk to notice your deathtrap cuisine of course having necked the customary five bottles of wine she needs before spending time with you. Alcohol-induced oblivion is her only escape these days, even though she shouldn’t be mixing it with her anti-depressant medication – taken for the depression YOU caused.
What were you thinking as you grated that nine-week-old cheddar over your abysmally undercooked shitty chilli?
As you drowned the rank mince with a deformed onion the size and shape of a pumpkin, badly diced, skin still half on, mixed with the blood from your fat fingers, cut by your weak ineffectual chopping, didn’t something inside say “stop”?
And do you remember the 90 minute bout of inept post-dinner cunnilingus you performed, still with chilli sauce around your mouth and onions between your teeth as she slipped in and out of consciousness? Do you remember taking her snoring for moans of pleasure? Fat fucking chance of that. An entire football match worth of rug munching and you still didn’t get her wet.
Do you remember the 90 minute bout of inept post-dinner cunnilingus you performed, still with chilli sauce around your mouth
“I don’t feel well” she moaned as the stomach cramps started to kick in but you were paralysed by inaction and were helpless as she shat hot liquid streams of diarrhoea over your lice-ridden sofa and balding carpet. Even as she puked bulbous wads of molten undigested minced beef into your lap mixed with cheap Tesco’s wine and the murderous convulsions kept a steady flow from both ends of her body you sat there motionless wondering what could possibly have happened.
And now you sit there holding a 24 hour vigil at her bedside, blubbering like a girl, wiping your snot on her sheets, wailing how it’s all your fault in the vain hope that somebody will disagree with you. She would be better off dead than staying with you. Yet, I pray that her and her arse pull through because I see better days ahead both for her and it.
As for you, I think it’s time you changed her nappy again – I think I heard another ‘brown birth’ issue forth.
What kind of “man” are you?
Aerial Telly wishes his readers a good weekend.