The street rustles in anticipation. Leaves roll nervously across the slick pavement and the steady drip drip drip of residual rain tumbling from heavy branches gives the otherwise silent scene a steady beat.

The Latchkey Kid arrives, turning the corner of Phillips and West with a bravado all of his own. He fails to notice, through his shades and above the rim of his cap, the black plume of smoke rising from the Tennerbrook’s yard. Like some west end reject he swings and spins his way down the road, careful to avoid the puddles as a commanding throb of music pumps directly into his cerebellum from his pink earphones. He has great plans for the privacy he expects upon reaching his homestead, the thought of which already has him at half mast. Nothing, nothing, can bring him down.

Three storeys above him and Jeremy Whiplash is rocking a modest five- inch, the first erection he’s sported for over six months, for all the good it will do him. He runs a hand over his balding head and thinks of biting sarcasm to hurl at his wife, Bridgette. After a couple of moments contemplation he decides upon what he considers to be a real zinger and, without further ado, opens his mouth.

“Perhaps I’ll make like your libido and fuck off” he exclaims triumphantly. Bridgette blinks, raises an eyebrow in painfully slow increments and fails to cover up a twitch playing at the side of her lips. She lifts her scotch in a mock-toast and sips. Furious at her excellent retort, Jeremy angrily ponders – as angrily as one can ponder – whether the hoodie outside the Spar that sold him the viagra can score him some rohypnol too.

Fourteen miles away, on the outskirts of Pleasantville, Jonathon Tennerbrook is having a mediocre but ultimately uneventful day. He is completely oblivious to the goings-on taking place in his back garden as his stares, zombiefied, at an infinite loop of PudPud’s Pudding boxes. The conveyer belt and its unhurried gait are endlessly frustrating. Time trickles slowly away as Jonathon peers into each single-serving PudPud Pudding, making sure the four strawberry slices are all present and aligned correctly, to make sure the whipped cream sits delightfully in the centre of it all, to make sure there are no human fingers protruding from the vanilla base.

It isn’t until twenty two minutes later, when the fourth fingered pudding rolls past, that Jonathon even registers the first, and suddenly he’s up on the conveyer itself, whooping and yelling in a horrified manner as he searches desperately for the ones that got away.

Alfred Witherbottom, CEO of PudPud Pudding’s, pulls – with considerable ferocity – Jonathon from the belt.

“Goddamnit Tennerbrook,” he snarls, “We’ve got kiddiewinks from St. Agnus’ School for the Clinically Retarded in today, and I’ll be damned if you make a mockery of PudPud Puddings. what the hell is the meaning of this royal ruckus?”

At once Jonathon remembers the itinerary for today’s visit. He looks to the clock. Taste test time. A lone wail, joined quickly by its brethren, erupt from a room somewhere in the facility.

“Oh… shit,” Jonathon sighs.

Somewhere in London in 1689, Samuel Pepys pores over his newly finished ‘comeback’ diary, a piece of work that will sling him back onto the autobiographical scene and prove his peers – the dogs at the Diary Society who insist on dubbing him one-shot-Sammy – embarrassingly in the incorrect! Ego aside, he is incredibly pleased with it, especially the documentation of the year 1684 in which he was abducted by extra-terrestrials and violated in a manner he found to be wholly unpleasant. Delicately he sips his tea and smiles at an account of a particularly buxom brunette whom he had his way with in 1687. Suddenly, a chambermaid, entirely consumed in flames, bursts into the room screaming and startles the young Pepys terribly, who exits himself so swiftly from his chair that the very tea he had been drinking spills all over his diary (entitled, by the way, Up Yours, Fuckers). As common knowledge would have you believe – and rightfully so – paper back then was ‘all brown and wrinkly and shit’ and the document was destroyed in its entirety, never to be seen by the Diary Society.

With the direct cause of such a travesty becoming ashes before his eyes, Pepys had not a soul to take his unfathomable anger out on, and cast his rage instead on the inanimate. With an almighty roar he hurled the contents of his bedroom against the walls and doors and any servant unlucky enough to seek out the source of the commotion. An inhuman bellow erupts from his chest as Pepys takes his treasured twelve inch steel double-headed dildo – a parting gift from his alien encounter – and tosses it through his window which, peculiarly enough, was hosting, for a nanosecond, a crack in the space/time continuum, slender enough only for dildos thirteen inches or less to fit through. The phallus disappears.

Pleasantville, present-day, and The Latchkey Kid is but one-hundred metres from his home when he is flummoxed by a stray dog defecating on the pavement in front of him. His burgeoning erection falters. Of all the fetishes the Kid subscribes to, poop is one of the few niches he does not appreciate.

If only that had been a portly, middle aged housewife in men’s clothing performing musical numbers from the hit stage production fame instead,’ The Kid can’t help but think to himself.

The dog, a small Jack Russell who seems content with himself, pads off – adorably – leaving his mess to take care of itself. And what a mess it is! The Kid, however, is determinably unperturbed, and decides that this is just a hurdle before he can engage in wrist-born-bliss.

He steps delicately through the minefield of faeces that paves his way towards home, tentatively tip-toeing through whilst reminding himself to breathe. He inhales deeply – a decision he regrets instantly – before a fire engine screams past, sirens wailing, and nearly sends a surprised Kid toppling into the mess below.


But balance is regained and finally, on the other side of the scatological nightmare, The Kid resumes his saunter and begins up his drive, thinking about his English teacher – Miss Fattbutt – in a bowler hat. Oh yes.

Twelve doors down and Tommy Tennerbrook is shitting his pants. He has been performing a strange dance of anxiety in his back garden for the best part of four minutes. His father’s shed is currently ablaze and has been so since the beginning of Tommy’s strange rendition of Michael Jackson’s thriller choreography.

His three friends, Billiam Bradsheer, Jamie Joggingbottoms and Frank, just Frank, are being slightly more proactive and spitting on the roaring inferno.

Billiam takes a break to say something insightful.

“Playing firemen was probably a bad idea, faggy Francis is cooked fo’ sho’

Two real firemen, having spent the last thirty seconds trying the doorbell at the front of the house, round the corner carrying a hose.

“That sight never gets old,” Says Eric, the fireman with a five o’clock shadow. The other, Bradley, simply smiles in response, sparks of golden flames reflecting in his already warm eyes. Eric’s hand edges subtly towards Bradely’s, a daring index finger brushing against his knuckle. Bradley’s expression changes imperceptibly, but he does not move his hand. Eric, spurred on by his colleague’s lack of reaction, slides a slightly sweaty palm into Bradley’s and locks fingers. Bradley simply turns, lovingly, towards Eric.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispers, tearing up slightly.

“As have I, my love,” replies Eric, who leans forward. Bradley does the same, their lips, trembling in anticipation, becoming closer and closer against the backdrop of the flames.

Tommy, Billiam, Jamie and Frank stare incredulous, aghast, horrified and interested, respectively.

With the timing of a San-Fran Sitcom the shed erupts into a cacophony of noise; cracks and pops and whizzes and screams as Tennerbrook’s stash of fireworks ignites, sending catherine wheels and bottle rockets and pinwheels and sparklers into action simultaneously. The two firemen break apart, nervous laughs erupting from their barrel chests.

“Uhm…” Eric says, scuffing his large black boot on the turf awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Bradley agrees, scratching the back of his neck.

They douse the flames. Metaphor.

Despite the destruction to the shed, Faggy Francis emerges from the soil at the other end of the garden, having dug his way out with one of Tennerbrook’s shovels, sooty and muddy but one hundred percent uncooked.

“Ah, nuts,” says Billiam.

Eric and Bradley walk back to their truck after having dealt with the fire. An awkward silence fills the air between them.

‘If only something would reignite the mood,’ Eric thinks to himself.

At that moment, a twelve inch metallic double headed dildo falls violently through the sky and lands – with a soft thunk – erect in the soil between them and their truck. Eric and Bradley’s eyes fly from the phallic object to each other.

‘There is a God.’


~ by Joseph Blame on July 30, 2010.

One Response to “Pleasantville”

  1. This is bonkers. But fantastic fun.

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