There’s nothing quite like a challenging title to get all titillated with offense. Take this splendid headline I had to reject the other day:
Prolapse: Everything you need to know about a collapsed c**t.
For me, this is an incorrigible one-liner that smacks the liberal roughly across the face with several wet fish. You can bask in its glow and get wetter than an otter's pocket. The great infallible British public wouldn’t stand for it of course. They like their semen spread on toast and chomped down with beans.
Regardless of the offense, boundaries must be pushed. Evil villains lurk around every corner condemning Oxford commas and getting knickers twisted. I was once plagued with a twelve-level Dante hell. I had mistakenly wandered into an evil convention that had a myriad of convention meeting rooms. An entanglement for the bewitched meeter and greeter. Not sure how I got out of that one.
‘Rizz My Pooper’ is what we refer to at the Chateau as ‘A Sloppy Dog of a Dim Herring’ story. My former legendary hamster now squats stuffed on my office mantlepiece gazing heavenly. His eyes are in a constant gesture of insufferable mocking at the stupidity of man. Every once in a while, some clueless maverick would present their genius idea only to be roundly abused by the gathering horde of advertising execs.
‘Prolapse…’ was one such moment.
We award the dimmed with gold plaques and stuffed exotic animals whose rarity is only equaled by their shocked expression of death. Fritz the fizzy therapist had won several in her congealing madness of overgrown toenailed campaigning. She never gave up presenting one shocking campaign after another, desperate in the hope that we would all say yes.
Here’s Fritz’s best three:
Dodge the Toed — a stunning campaign that would involve the release of several thousand toads with various forms of plague. People would be encouraged to kick the beasts which would be a metaphor for ingrown toes.
Nailed A Toe — aimed at the religious ingrown toe afflicted. Saved by Toe cream and extreme surgery.
In-groan Toe Molester — this was my personal fave as it involved beautiful celebrities meeting face-to-face with warped toenails and told to suck. We had Britney Spears lined up for that one.
There’s little that shocks the worm-generation of the Chateau recyclers. It can sometimes be like reading an attempt at nihilism written by a five-year-old. They long to shock but fail to realize that I’m the first man to die in my own horror movie. I’m not the survivor. I’m not the hero who fights back or bravely rescues some lost pet named Shep from a zombie horde. I’m that guy whose name you can’t remember. I’m the fella whose first scene is his last. The one that meets a bloody ending. It’s why I’m a true nihilist. I know my place in the pecking order of the forthcoming apocalypse.
The studious know this. It’s why they’ve stuck around for ten years sweetened on the fat of the ad-land. They know I’m the convenient scapegoat who’ll gladly get his balls chopped and delivered for an international audience.
Fritz became infamous overnight for pooping in public. He now runs Poopy Pants Boy on Instagram sporting a fashionable pair of spoiled briefs. That’s him in the photo. Good on you Fritz. I like it when the queer cum good.
If you’ve read this far, you’re probably lost and despairing at the twist of my reality curves and struggling to make clear sense. It’s an infallible business. Advertising needs to eat the young. Headlines are generated to scare and shock and I’m an old seadog who supples the breast of the ungodly.
Check out my awards cupboard. I know a fatuous story when I read one.
Rizz my Pooper young man, that one’s good for the trash.