Kiwitober 2021 - Inktober's autistic cousin - Thank you for a great one!

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Weeb Slinger said:
Day 27 – Halal

“It is a female clitoris,” said Kamil. “I know this for a fact. I had my first wife's removed on the occasion of her ninth birthday.”

The three men peered down at the fleshy, greying pink nub that was gathering dust on the floor of the train carriage.

“I am not so certain,” said Hibr. “There is a penis-like quality to it, as if it originated from within the body of a man.”

“And I suppose you are an expert on the penis, having seen so many.” criticised Qabar. “It is this expertise that allows you to confidently pass judgement.”

“I know my own penis,” replied Hibr, patiently. “I laid eyes upon it only a few minutes ago, in the station toilet. It is beyond the reach of my prayers if you cannot recollect the last time that you were able to see your own genitals.”

“Qabar is so fat, his mother was stoned to death in Revolution Square for leavening the vice of gluttony in her son,” observed Kamil.

“It is funny because it is true,” added Hibr.

“When you are finished in your mockery of my God-given shape and my mother's well-deserved execution, then maybe you will see that the question that lies before us is not one of identity, but one of origin,” argued Qabar. “From where did this clitoris come from? Clearly it did not fall from the wanton and wretched body of a woman.”

“It is true that women seem intent on keeping their clitoris,” admitted Hibr. “They become tearful and angry when any attempt is made at removing it.”

“It fell from the heavens,” said Kamil. “In this I am confident.”

“But to what greater purpose?” enquired Qabar.

“As a sign!”

“But a sign of what exactly?”

“That is why we must delve more deeply into the matter of identity. Then the way forward will become clear to us.”

“Could it be a gift of manna sent from the heavens?” speculated Qabar.

“Are you suggesting that we eat it?” queried Kamil.

“I am merely submitting this course of action as a possibility.”

“I must strongly voice my disagreement,” said Hibr. “We do not know that the clitoris is halal and have no way of establishing whether it is lawful or forbidden. It may have been placed here by Satan to trick us.”

“It is true,” conceded Qabar, sadly. “ We do not know.”

They would have discussed the matter further but the train had arrived at their destination.

Rising from their seats, they let out a ragged cry of “Allahu Akbar!” and detonated their explosives.
Click to expand...
You have a hell of a way with words. I wonder if it was Yaniv's runaway necrotoris?
 
Day 26- TRIGGERED!
(Been busy AF with main Inktober stuff and work and life so I haven't had a lot of time to participate. But I love what everyone else has been posting!
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10/26 - Triggered
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At a psychology training a few months ago I was informed we shouldnt use the word trigger as a psychologist anymore because it triggered people.....So glad I do not work with reliably verbal clients....
 
October 27 - Halal

I don't really care
What the Muslims approve of
Pass the bacon please
 
October 28 - Politard

Only reads headlines
Doesn't bother to learn more
Thinks they're an expert
 
October 29 - MATI

Life is pretty good
But I've heard people are mean...
I am so oppressed.
 
Day 29 – MATI

Friday, 3pm SMJS (Serbian Mechanical Public Clock Time):

In a former tractor parts factory, that is now the Republic's seventh most-advanced television studio, last minute preparations are underway for a new episode of the long-running online talk show 'Mad at the Internet'.

The talker in question – the self-styled Internet Monologue King - Joshua Conner Moon (contractually referred to by his co-workers on set as 'JC') flops down on the duct-taped green leatherette of the make-up chair. He drags a dented, finger-marked head-shot of the actor Brad Pitt, circa 1997, from the side-pocket of his scuffed man-satchel and lays it flat on the counter in front of the dresser mirror, raising a scented cloud of make-up foundation.

“Make me look like this,” he says.

Larysa – formerly a beautician to the Gorbachevs – now Moon's long suffering stylist – reaches over his shoulder and picks up the photo. Her fingers work the bent corner up and down like a loose hinge, while she shakes her head and tuts. For a split second the vanity lights purge the image of Pitt, transforming the surface of the glossy paper into a white mirror that reflects a passing member of the crew vigorously giving Moon the finger behind his back.

“I make you look like 1970s Cossack pop star Johnny Panibud'laska,” says Larysa. “He sang the songs of my people for men who were to be executed by firing squad. He had a strong jaw and good teeth.”

She pinches Moon's jaw forcefully between her bony thumb and forefinger, straightening his head in the pitted mirror.

~​

Across the studio, on the set of Kay's Kitchen, the continuity team are supervising the painting of simulated burned grease spatter onto a 1980s gas cooker, that has been rented from a nearby village for the day.

Perched on a stool in the corner, the supermodel, Marie Weston, is on the home stretch of a four-hour de-beautification process that is required to transform her, from the toast of the Parisian catwalks, into a dumpy, post-menopausal, northern British woman. In previous seasons of the show, the voice of Kay has been added in post-production by Geoff Eaton. Eaton voluntarily stepped down from the role in August, citing white male privilege as the cause, making room for the Zimbabwean trans actor, Teresa Parry, to step into the role.

On the other side of the kitchen, Kay's son and taste-tester, Lee, played by the bassist Ben Wood of the indie band – The Gymers, is being talked through today's recipe.

“This week Kay will be making Savoury Italian Easter Eggs,” says the director Emily Keating.

Wood – who appears in the skits subject to his band's tour schedule – nods in acknowledgment while suppressing a broad grin.

“What she's doing,” explains Keating, “is cracking open an egg, and then draining the white and the yolk down the sink. Then she is going to fill the bottom half of the shell with unseasoned, grey British mince and top that with a layer of tomato ketchup. Then she is going to fill the top part of the shell with a spoonful of cooked spaghetti and then balance both halves of the egg together.”

“So I take the top off and then just eat it as normal?” enquires Ben. A spark of an idea kindles behind his eyes. “Actually, do you want me to knock back the mince and the sauce like I'm downing a vodka shot?”

“No, we want you to eat the whole thing, even the shell,” directs Keating. “And then I want you to look into Camera 2 and say that it's 'Noice'.”

Wood takes a step backwards in mock awe.

“Wow, just wow,” he says.

In the corner, his co-star, Weston, erupts into giggles.

“You only have to prepare this shit. I have to eat it,” says Ben.

“I'm going to recreate it for my husband when I get back to Milan,” announces Weston, as she slips into a washed-out Iron Maiden T-shirt.

~​

On the studio floor, the audience are being warmed-up by the British vaudeville entertainer, Jerry Sprat, and his ventriloquist dummy Russel - a mangy, ginger-haired puppet, whose eyes no longer move back and forth, and whose jaw hangs permanently open. Recently, the dummy launched a succession of spurious, time-wasting lawsuits against Moon. An act that has drawn a dark cloud over the production.

“It's got nothin' t' do wit' me. I'm just t' puppeteer,” says Sprat. “I'm t' straight-man in this act.”

“There's nothing straight about you,” crows the dummy.

Rotating its head a full 90 degrees towards the audience, it shrieks: “Gottle of Greer! Gottle of Greer! Which one of you lovely ladies wants to pay a visit to my olive garden?”

~​

Back in make-up, Moon raises the bun of his Serbway footlong and inspects the contents.

“I ordered banana peppers,” he grouses, huffily.

“And where are the espressos for my pigeons?” he adds, referring to a pair of semi-tame birds that are currently strutting around on the lighting rig.

Returning his attention to the mirror, Moon examines the two streaks of deep purple make-up under his eyes.

“I look like a pharaoh,” he murmurs to himself. “Hey Andy! Don't I look like a pharaoh?”

The stage manager, Andy Boatman, raises his head from a discussion with two of his aides just long enough to give Moon the thumbs up.”

“Looking good, JC.”

“Chris and I have gone in different directions,” explains Moon, in reference to a question regarding his departed co-host, Chris Chandler.

“Isn't it the case that Chris is in jail, facing serious charges of rape and incest?”

“Yeah, Chris went in the direction of the jail. I drove to the set, which is in the exact opposite direction,” counters Moon, irritably.

“Don't make eye contact with my reflection,” he snaps at Larysa.

“When the revolution arrives, my grandsons will work you to death in gulag,” mutters the old woman.

“Okay we're good to go,” shouts Boatman. “Everybody on your feet for the Serbian National Anthem.”

“I'm not standing. It will ruin the crease line of my trousers,” protests Moon.

“I think, one day, they will shoot you even before the journalists,” says Larysa.
 
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