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 HellPizza: An alt.tasteless Classic (Parts I & II)Posted 02.17.2005 by Swan (21)
Gentlemen, here is a story I wrote some eight years ago in the Usenet group alt.tasteless. I think you will find it an excellent submission to PoopReport. I have updated it a bit from the original.
PART THE FIRST The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Christmas 1996, I discovered the truth of that adage. Being in a mixed marriage -- she, an Episcopalian; I, Asatru -- neither of us truckles to the other's beliefs, but we DO respect them. Not having any Disirblot to attend, nor Modranicht, I decided to accompany my beloved to HER house of worship for Christmas Eve Mass. As I said, the road to Hell... Since my beloved was working Christmas Eve, we would have to go to the church in the Haight straight from her workplace. The shop closed at five and Mass began at nine; thus we had time to groom the mud from my guide dog, Delsie (who had dug up a particularly large and particularly dead gopher during our frolic in Golden Gate Park) and grab a bite to eat. The only place that was open at five in the evening on Christmas Eve in Haight Ashbury was a truly wretched pizza joint. I gave my partner the cash for my half of the feast and off she went. Back she came with a drooping box. Quoth she: "This was what they had..." "What they had" turned out to be the most scrofulous, vile, glutinous mass of fake cheese, dough, rancid pepperoni and oil that I had ever seen! Not since the Great A La Crud-o Pizza Attack of 1977 had I come face to face with such a petrochemical paragon! I nearly heaved at the sight. I lifted my piece from the box -- or tried to. The crust was the consistency of moistened paper towels, its only binding agent the oleaginous false cheese topping and the angry-looking festered pepperoni discs scabbed to the cheese. I reached underneath and caught the piece before it slumped off the waxed paper. My hand came away dripping with unnamed fluids. I felt a faint tingling, but attributed it to the heat (calor, not piquant) of the item that rested on my unprotected skin. I peeled up one of the scrofulous circlets to discover an open weeping lesion in the cheese. The ichorous sauce flowed freely from the sub-layer of dough. As I choked back the bile, a fresh cascade of the cancerous pepperoni scattered onto my fingers from above. A FINE time for my Lovely Assistant to practice her vegetarianism! I was to eat both helpings of the stuff! Greater love hath no man... Valiantly throttling my better judgment, I consumed the portion allotted me by a sniggering Fate. The miasmic reek dissipated as I consigned the last bite to the Benthic depths of my inward self. I was trusting to luck that I would see no more of that meal. "Since you're hungry, you can have the rest of mine," offered my adoring spouse, handing me the greater portion of her own oozing slab of putrescent perfection. Recalling her recent bout of projectile vomiting and the heady reek of French Onion Soup (which will, alas, ever be connected in my synapses with chunder), I was minded to upchuck a witty rejoinder, but stifled the impulse as less than chivalrous. I ate her offering with grace (and a prayer for deliverance). We waited about for a brace of hours or so and finally departed: one harnessed guide dog faintly redolent of dead gopher; one vegetarian Episcopalian, a tad green about the gills; and my illustrious self, laden as I was with a stomach still fairly full of sulphurous 'za. Bound for Glory (or Midnight Mass, at least) -- of such are the Sagas sung... Midnight Mass. The words summon images of cherubic singers, of songs of great age and beauty, of a ritual made timeless by the loving exercise thereof, and of people and spirits united in worship and praise. Add one pizza-fed Heathen and one vaguely malodorous canine; stir, and wait. We waited. I admired the creche. We waited. Deep within my corpulent recesses, the pizza was yearning to breathe free. Finally, the first notes of the organ pealed forth and voices rose, united in that seasonal grim ecstasy known as Christmas carols. The pizza began a contrapuntal rumble. Whilst the carolers were Silent Nighting, the 'za was doing the Funky Chicken with a throbbing bass beat. I was not feeling well. Then came the processional. We Pagans understand the practice of walking clockwise around the area drawing the Magic Circle. Familiarity breeds contempt. I relaxed slightly. Past me came the priest, innocent and unaware that the bosom of his congregation harbored a gaseous viper! Past me filed the crucifix, bearing celebrant. I watched as the Bible was borne in, and the candles, and the various altar items. Within me surged the Italian Cthulhu. The Leviathan of the Old Testament sought the air! I sweated. A great oily bubble began thrusting delicate probing tendrils of vapor, testing the resiliency of my clenched sphincter. Wonderful. I clamped down. After all, we were sitting on hardwood pews. Only now did the name of the bench whereupon rested my tensed buttocks register on my brain in all its symmetrical appropriateness! A world-class fart seethed and bubbled behind the fleshy portals. Finally came JUST the one I wanted to see: the censor! Here came the incense bearer, swinging -- swinging Oh God, please hurry -- "Captain! Captain, the ENGINES canna stand the STRAIN!" -- Closer... closer. Sweat beaded upon my brow. Finally the article of my deliverance was abreast of my row. I essayed a trembling maneuver known to generations of terrified Catholic schoolchildren as the One Cheek Sneak. FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTT. (Thank Odhinn! A Silent-but-deadly! I might get away with this!) Whilst I would like to state here that I owned up to my crepitus misdeed, I shamefully cannot. I am a heel! Heads turned. Gasps were muffled. I looked down, reproachfully, at my faithful guide dog, snoozing innocently at my feet, dreaming doubtlessly of deceased gophers as a dietary supplement. I blamed it on the dog. "It" was a silent, toxic miasma that slowly began to pervade the room. I noted that people began fanning their programs and staring reproachfully at one another. Could it be that I had not been noticed? I could not be sure. I sat rock still as the service began. There were several more trips 'round the place with the incense. Lucky for me -- as I was by now pooting fairly often. Desperately glad for Big Mama's Anal Silencer ($l3.99 at all fine outlets!), I timed my releases to coincide with the passage of the swinging metal censer. People began to shoot venomous glares at the poor fellow carrying it. Twice he inspected the thing, shaking his head in puzzlement; I was desperately grateful that the growing cloud of garlicky effluent had passed the flashpoint stage and was not ignited by the smoldering coals within the polished brass censer. I could easily have blown us all to Kingdom Come! When finally the Mass was ended, my internal rebellion was quelled, or at least moved offstage, and we attended the small party afterward. My dog dashed about, freed of harness and leash, to mingle with the people and meet the priest's own dog, there for the occasion. The faintly gopherous pong seemed to indicate to those present that my dog was the author of the zephyrs of destruction that had plagued an otherwise beautiful Mass. A craven act, I will admit, but I commented that we had just changed dog food, and... sadly, I am a thoroughgoing cad! I do recall that, as we left the church, the priest smiled sickly and murmured, "Thanks for coming... please come again and (gulp) bring your lovely dog!" And they say priests never lie.
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear! First Grogan of Christmas! We slept in after the mass. Christmas dawned bight and clear; but we, slugabeds both, remained nestled beneath a huge eiderdown comforter. I was finally nudged awake by a persistent sensation of impending anal birth. The Christmas Grogan was pressing on a full bladder and nestling amid my hemorrhoids, calling plaintively for release. It heralded its arrival with a serenaded reprise of the divine wind of last night. I farted -- a great noxious, wet, splattery, fizzling fart under the eiderdown. I tucked my nose beneath the coverlets to ascertain the true nature and strength of my soon-to-be-born grogan... it was awesome. Gingerly lowering the sheet, I was cautious not to allow any of that nectar to escape. I arose, careful not to let too much cold air under the comforter, ever mindful of my snoozing partner's well being. Tendrils of the putrid offering tickled her nostrils. "Mmmphhh! Gmphhh...God DAMN!" she murmured, coughing in her sleep, twitching like an electrocuted frog. The dog got a whiff and rose from her bed next to ours; a reproachful look at me and she stalked off in high dudgeon. This from a dog who eats dead gophers! I padded into the bathroom and turned on the light. We had gotten to bed by 1:00 AM and it was, by the bathroom clock, nearly 10:00 now. Nine hours sleep. It had been sixteen hours since the HellPizza had slid down my protesting gullet. It was about to return to the light. I sat down and busied myself with the Reader's Digest. I was halfway finished with "The Littlest Pet" when a rumbling surged through my intestines. The fart echoed and bounced off the porcelain walls of the loo, beckoning forth the nose of the beast. My ringpiece stretched, stretched and began to quiver as its tensile limit neared. Oh, God, this was going to be one of THOSE... I began to sweat as my pain threshold was met and exceeded. This was gonna hurt! I pushed, only to be rewarded with a searing stroke of agony. I had forgotten that the pustulant pepperoni circlets had had a thin rind which now cut like surgical steel razorwire at my unprotected 'roids. Oh God! I yelped as the head of that great monster emerged. Usually the head of the baby is the hardest bit of labor. The rest is passed with the next contraction. Not THIS enfant terrible! It was a mammoth cylinder of ex-pizza, fruitcake (consumed at the party afterward), pepperoni rind and eggnog. Sharp bits of nut (from the fruitcake) excoriated my bleeding arse. I grunted. Remembering the Lamaze breathing in which I'd once coached a friend of mine, I began the shallow panting and blowing. Whooooo whoooooo huh huh huh huh huh huh WHOOOOOOO! The neck of the grogan emerged and its greasy shoulders lodged in my anal canal. Half in and half out! I needed a distraction. Any distraction. Picking up the Reader's Digest, I looked at the story I'd been reading. "The Littlest Pet." Hmmm. No, I needed something OTHER than the mental picture of shitting a Chihuahua. Something more soothing -- Ah! Page 150! "The Circumcision Decision"! (in READERS DIGEST? My!) I turned to that article, hoping for at least a line diagram... no luck. No pictures at all, and a dry-as-dust text. Leave it to the Reader's Digest to milk (no pun intended, but gleefully noted) any drops of prurience OUT of an article on the male organ! *sigh* I read on. A stab of pain from my distended ringmeat brought me back to the task at hand. Dropping the Digest, I began to bear down in earnest. Umumggggbhhhhh! Now came the belly of the beast -- it was huge! The pepperoni rind and walnuts scraped and gouged as the horrible thing wormed its way into the Christmas morning air. I yelped again as the tailing end of the thing whipped past, delivering a final fillip of pain. The resounding splash drenched both butt cheeks, but the icy bowl-water soothed my distended, hurting rectum. Without wiping, I turned to see the mighty destroyer of my morning sleep. It was huge. Too stiff and distended in its own girth to bend or fold, it lay propped against the side of the bowl, half in half out of the bloody water. I wasn't sure if our already cranky Swanage plumbing could handle the monster. I debated the wisdom of cutting it into pieces, but realized that to pass the bend in the loo, it would HAVE to be sliced and quartered -- butchered like a hog! I could not do such thing to my trusting brown friend. I hobbled achingly to the kitchen, where I found tinfoil and paper towels. Making a sort of cradle, I returned to the bathroom and gently scooped the huge turd from its chilly resting place. Lovingly, I laid the newborn on the edge of the sink and completed my morning task. A rather small and ordinary little brother to the huge grogan passed without a whimper into the crimson wash. I wiped and inspected, pissed and flushed. My dog Delsie was evincing the greatest interest in my morning's labor and its result. She began, tentatively, to lick at it. This gave me the very best Christmas idea of all! We had been debating for some time on what to get for Delsie's present. Karen had opined that a new collar would be lovely. I was of the notion that if you are going to get a person or animal a present, get one that the recipient will enjoy! Delsie, I said, would not notice a new collar, much less enjoy it. But HERE was a treat! Ready-made and still warm! Delsie had looked longingly at the HellPizza as I had devoured it the night before. I had scolded her for begging and then felt guilty about it. Rules are rules, but it WAS Christmas Eve! We went into the kitchen -- I carrying the large bundle, Delsie in high tail-waving excitement. I took down her special dog dish (the porcelain one with her name on it) and placed the grogan inside. She was jumping up now, patting me with her paws as she does when she knows she is to get a treat of some sort. "Here, girl," I said, stroking her faithful silken head. "Merry Christmas, hound!" The last sounds I heard as I nestled snugly back under the warm, cozy comforter were the scrape scrape scrape of a now clean porcelain dog dish being nosed across the hardwood kitchen floor. -- Swan There's more! Read Parts III and IV. Post new comment
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