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!

Brat Pack Bain Mammaries

On the twenty sixth day of March in the year twenty fifteen, two of the chaps met with chapette at the Paramount for the usual gastronomic pleasure, conversational repartee and cheeky hi-jinx. Jelly passed Mayonnaise while entering the complex, having just traversed the automatic doors on the complex's south entrance, Jelly entering the building, Mayonnaise leaving. Jelly paused and looked at Mayonnaise, puzzled.

"Wrong way?"

"No", Mayonnaise replied, "I'm going to buy my lunch from a competing, non-Paramount food outlet across the street."

To which Jelly enquired, "No Chine Express?"

No further comment was made. Mayonnaise strode out, Jelly strode on, and descended to the bowels of the Paramount via the southern escalator.

At the food court, Jelly found Peanut seated in front of Chef Wanka's, the old favourite, smug and cosy, shit- (or rather cheap bain marie produce-) -eating grin on his chops. "The old favourite spot", said Jelly. "Yes, the old favourite spot", said Peanut. Jelly mentioned running into Mayonnaise upstairs, and her snooty refusal to partake of Paramount wares. Jelly clarified that Johnny Turncoat Mayonnaise was off to buy food from the glass ceilinged, open air, contemporary, atrium food court, Paramount's nemesis. Harpee!

Perhaps to explain Mayonaiss's defection (nay, defecatation?) Jelly noticed an absence of rice at Wanka's. "Running low on rice today, isn't he," Jelly muttered. "Yes, he's been churning out the Sri Lankan delicacies today," Peanut muttered. "The Paramounters can't get enough of Wanka today. It's like an adolescent convention!" And they laughed and laughed, until tiny spots of normal yellow wee wee pipped upon their Depend adult undergarmants.

Eventually, Mayonnaise came in with a paper cup, inside of which were rice noodles, red onion chunks (Jelly thought they looked a bit conspicuous) and liquid, which Mayonnaise revealed to be soup. "Soup?" enquired Jelly". "Yes," answered Mayonnaise.
Earlier, while waiting for Mayonnaise, Butter and Jelly had looked upon the grand stairway, a topic usually reserved for their exit from Paramount festivities, and discussed how such a resplendent passage could be utilised by a member of the female gender, such as Mayonnaise, to recreate scenes from 1980s Brat Pack-esque adolescent comedies, where Butter and Jelly could stand at the foot of said stairway, besuited and anxious, in Tony Danza (father) / Anthony Michael Hall (nervous-horny-prom-date) guise, while Mayonnaise slowly, sensually, in saucy puffy ball gown, descends the stairs in soft focus slow motion, in Molly Ringwald (nerdy-ignored-high-school-girl-rendered-beautiful-by-removal-of-spectacles-amidst-air-of-horny-adolescent-prom-date-get-laid-expectancy) guise.

Alas, such romantic hopes were quashed, Mayonnaise slinking in grumpily via the southern escalator, sloshing a cup of cheap Vietnamese chain store soup.