Untitled (Peanut's Forkette Woe)

Another delightful day presented itself to meet the gang at the Paramount (or The Mount as many of us like to call it). I was first there, sliding my big arse down the golden banister of the grand stairway entrance to a rapturous round of applause from the bunch of rubes stuffing their faces with dim sims and fried chicken at the bain marie closest to the lifts up to the Babuloo Nightclub. I waited and eventually Jelly wandered in aimlessly. He wandered around for a bit and I had to wave my withered hand a few times in the air to get his attention. He sat down and we greeted each other cordially as I noshed into my usual chicken and vegetables from the Chine Express (Ed - don't you mean The Cockaido?). I was having trouble really penetrating the chicken matter with my plastic forkette. But I persisted as us sad chumps will always do with our pathetic, unsatisfactory eating implements. Jelly and I thought we were going to be it for the gang for this session. I mentioned to Jelly that I had lunch solo with Butter the other Friday and that perhaps he and Butter were the same person. Of course, Jelly had to hurtfully mention that sometimes I called him Butter anyway. This was a low blow against my legitimate and debilitating brain injury that I carry the burden of in silence. But then a very glamorous Mayo came swanking in, tossing her golden locks in the air and the precious stones around her neck. She sat down and told us all about her holiday to the exclusive resort town of Moama just across the big river. We bowed our heads in jealousy as Jelly could only talk about his recent vacances to his home town of Perth. But it was worse for me who had no trips to put forward at all, except a recent trip I had to my local milk bar where the Libyan owner sits around with his friends from the Levant smoking cigarettes next to the chocolate bars and chips. At last Butter turned up and everyone commented how slim and fit he was looking, like he could just slide into a holster and sit there all day waiting for his moment to blow his wad. Butter had some kind of Chinese roll thing which he said looked just like his friend’s penis as he slid and popped it seductively into his hungry mouth hole. Jelly told Butter yet again about his trip to Perth and Butter responded that he had once visited a rough part of this city to buy some items at a supermarket where a group of neer-do-wells lounging around the door had told him he “walked like a slut”. I actually initially thought he had said “walked like a slug” which didn’t make any sense as slugs don’t actually have feet just slithery, slidey tentacle-like things. Finally, it was time for us to adjourn to the next meeting of the gang of The Mount, and Butter showed us his slutty walk all the way up the grand stairs on his way out. We all had to admit, it was really something, almost as good as Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. Bravo Butter!