Dirty deals goin' down

Everything can be bought at the Para
20 bucks is 20 bucks

some music

Three gents having a gay time

It was a bright, cold day in May, and the clocks were striking thirteen. The Paramount was looking resplendent in the golden haze of the shimmering Autumn sun. Peanut, Jelly and Butter gathered, sadly without Mayonnaise, to chew the collective fat.

The three effete aesthetes made merry in the garrulous food court. All were in a particularly gay mood.

Chef Wanka was keeping the masses well fed with his hot, spicy meat and protein-based sauce. Peanut had ordered his meal from somewhere else but his meat was smoking, so much so that he had to slow down and use some lubricant. As this was one of his better days, Butter only repeated the 'lubricant' joke four times.

Jelly regaled his friends with stories about his move to a new abode, replete with impaired folk next door who are apparently giving his missus a good seeing to. Peanut lamented sadly that he wasn't allowed to drive the bus, although all agreed that this predicament was better than 'furry fat fanny'.

There was further fascination in Butter's oversized Le Coq Sportif hooded jumper. Clearly, Peanut and Jelly were quite jealous of Butter's big red Coq. Discussion turned to Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Junior, and then the piece de resistance, Freddie Mercury who clearly remains the gents' idol for his unorthodoxy.

As they trudged wearily back to their jobs, all agreed that he loved Big Brother.

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!

Paramounted - The Christmas Special

Today the three chaps (sans Mayonnaise) gathered to shoot the breeze in advance of the anniversary of the birth of our lord Jesus H Fucking Christ. Jelly, the author of this episode, came first and after mopping up his juices exited by the back door (Lil' Bourke Street), bored wandering around the interior waiting for the chums. He spotted Butter cumming down the road and both re-entered the back door, surprised to notice that Paramount has a resident night club, "The (B)Ass Lounge". Neither had been there, lately.

Once seated at their usual table, outside Chef Wanka's, Jelly mentioned that he'd originally mistaken a strange bald bearded cunt slurping noodles for our friendly bald cunt Peanut, but it was a different bald cunt altogether. Butter had brought some edible substance with him but Jelly didn't see what it was, a negligent lack of attention that the scribe of the episode should be ashamed of. Jelly upped from the table to choose and buy something for lunch (a rare treat as he usually brought home made leftovers to the Paramount). He settled for Chine's, a tall pile of fried food that will doubtless cause menace to his digestive tract later in the day. Upon return to table Peanut had arrived and was already shovelling Wanka into his maw. Bits soon flew out of it though, through nose too I'd guess, upon hearing Butter's usual below the belt japes. Mayonnaise was missed... where was she?

Discussion was pretty heated for such a brief gathering, and took on the subject of cunts, the world being full of them, among other things. Christmas parties had been attended (Penaut, Butter) and rejected (Jelly). Butter had also attended the Office of the Community Sector's reunion, with DP present and retired and moving to South Australia, and then DP ensuing (and all in the Sector cumming and rejoicing, except for JP, the foul bush pig, who'd have caused instant droop to all male parties had she been present). Jelly left a big fried dim sim on his plate which appalled all, particularly when lifted aloft, hanging only by a thin stream of cabbage that resembled our favourite life-giving zinc substance.

Peanut and Jelly had also forgotten this blog vehicle, thinking it abandoned, shame, but Butter assured all he'd been keeping it active (and then some). Christmas carols were heard, but not as rocking or funky as PB and J would have liked. Butter had to go, Peanut and Jelly accompanied him only for Peanut to remember forgetting his bag. Got his bag and then all left to return to the joys of work. Merry Christmas!

POSTSCRIPT: Jelly's belly suffered a nasty upset after dining at "Chine's". Surprising but it turns out the pre-prepared fried morsels displayed in the "help yourself" bain maries aren't as nutricious, or, frankly, delicious, as they look or as the vibrant salesmanship touts them to be. BYO or good ol' Chef Wanka from here on in.