SHORT: Shit Sandwich [2017]

SHIT SANDWICH

- A heartfelt parable for a day like today –

“Eat up, Theresa!” says Nigel, spoon-feeding the Vicar’s Daughter the last few dollops from his brightly-coloured Tommy Tippee utensil. Several years, this has been going on now, apparently without significant effect for either party. Needless to say, Theresa’s absolutely busting at the seams, finally ready to pop after season upon season of interminable, constipated misery. 

“HINNNNNNN!!!”, she strains, exasperated once more by the lack of movement. No belt can tame the bulging in her lower intestine; no ceremonial cummerbund can alleviate the undulating in her gut. She longs to tame the vicious swipes of the quadruped raging within. She aches for the mercy of sweet release. 

And then, something irrevocably changes. Call it providence or the work of some higher cosmic force, but she instinctively senses the prevailing shift in tide. “Prepare the bun!”, she instructs, prompting a bow-tied minion clad in royal blue to deposit a ready-sliced roll beneath her throbbing sphincter. Theresa rotates her hips in a circular motion, stirring the gumbo one last time for posterity before evacuation commences. 

She squats like a Haka, heaving for England as the spoils of peristalsis succumb to their bidding. “Strong and stable!”, she roars, empowered by the moment. “STRONG AND STABLE!!!” 

It is then that the floodgates open. Backed up, stacked up, ready for wilin’, a last-minute enema administered by the hand of fate finally does its duty. “HUUURRRGGGHHH!!!”, she blarts in euphoric rapture as it all comes hosing out in a voluminous flume. Theresa sees stars begin to bleed above, feels waterfalls gushing within, her torrid expulsion finally undammed. 

She is caught now in the sweeping torrents of history. It is too late to go back. And so she unloads clip upon clip of streetsweeping surges from her yawning back passage, chunnering the lord’s holy word onto the unsuspecting breadcake waiting below. Work the body, work, work the body - slow down, girl, you’re ’bout to hurt somebody! Theresa's penguin-like features contort in gnarled satisfaction as her fartsack drools out a steady slosh of slurrified slop, curling it out onto the floury roll like so much Mr Whippy. 

The torrent is seemingly endless. It charges from the caverns of her rectum in roiling, rapacious waves. Winnets surf the shit-tide like tourists fleeing the wrath of Da Hui. Eventually the stream begins to slow, and is punctuated by a truly dismal phlut as one last glob of dysentery dribbles weakly from her belaboured glutes. Nigel, always the most enterprising of gastros, re-enters the picture stage-right brandishing a napkin. 

“Very good, Miss May”, he imparts, patting his protégée’s head before motioning to the lone customer waiting patiently to sample this bounteous feast. “Are you ready then, Monsieur?”, he demands of the ravenous punter lining up for the first chomp. 

“Boy, AM I...!” squeals the excited recipient, Union Jack bib tucked hungrily into an open pastel shirt as he drums cutlery on the table in anticipation of this most illustrious din-dins.

“One moment, sir,” Nigel snivels, wagging an admonishing finger at his insatiable charge. The industrious gourmet administers the finishing touches, swabbing a last few errant nutty bits from the chef’s withered gunge-pipe and garnishing the final dish with a sprig of parsley from his own miserable, racist plot of land high in the home counties. “Bon appetit,” he implores, whipping away a decorative sheet to reveal the sewage-drenched delicacy beneath. 

Britain sets hungrily to work, demolishing the platter in record time, gorging itself on this Brexitous banquet. Its unique flavour swills around in the trough, teasing the diner’s palate with perfumed piquancy. “Funny,” ponders the still apparently unknowing stooge, munching sourly as his tastebuds absorb the pervading effluence. “This tastes like absolute shit.” 

“ - Perhaps sir would also care to try a glass of the local Kool Aid?”, asks Nigel, proffering a bottle of lukewarm liquid rendered in hideous chartreuse. “Why, it’s fresh from the hose; I squeezed out every last drop of it myself just this morning.” 

“...Don’t mind if I do!”, Britain replies, gulping back this latest offering with unquestioning acceptance. Smeggy sea-urchins cling to his front teeth while the backwash mingles with the twang of left-over grot. With friends like these, who needs anemones? 

The last few morsels safely devoured and all other excess successfully suckled in a moment of lip-smacking revery, Britain leans back in its chair, satiated by the reprieve of short-term satisfaction. The feast, for the moment at least, is over. What follows is the long, hard famine. 

The vomiting begins just a few minutes later. Taking position over the cracked ceramic of our national pride, Britain’s frenzied heaving soon yields the most poisonous of fruits as the crippling pangs of diphtheria begin to take hold. “Make it stop!”, he cries, sweat streaming from every pore and stinging his desperate eyelids, but no-one is listening. They’re all too far away now, merrily ensconced upon a continent forever banished to some distant horizon. Blarghing in perpetuity to God on the great white telephone, Britannia pleads for absolution. No-one answers.

“It is the end of history

It’s caged and frozen still

There is no other pill to take
So swallow the one that makes you ill..."

C.C. 05/04/17