THE SECRET LIFE OF A PIECE OF PINEAPPLE
I am, of course, as an exotic tropical island fruit, used to climates mainly consisting of hot air and wide open spaces.
However, today was a different scenario altogether.
The day had started off in comfortable climes. I found myself placed delicately by a manicured and perfumed hand upon a plate of fresh paw paw, breadfruit and mango. A short journey and we were soon in what I thought was the inner sanctum; safely ensconced in the studio, in a comfortable climate of hot air, although I have to say the air was far from fresh.
The banter was snippy and pithy; a bit of “Yes we Cane” here and a bit of “Our PM is no porcine paedophile” there. The juices you might say, were flowing. So much so in fact, that they needed a fillip. I could sense my moment was coming.
This time it was a different delicately manicured and perfumed hand that descended upon me, and before I knew it, I was in what one can only describe as the ultimate inner sanctum. Or so I thought.
The orifice, with its speckles of gold fillings, backwash of cocaine and proximity to a dark and empty occiput, reminded me of my days with Justin Bieber. But this time, something was different. In place of the pierced epiglottis and the tattoed tonsils, was a single large dark tube, descending vertically into a frightful abyss. And somewhere, deep within this tunnel of despair, I could hear a sinister gurgling. This was no ordinary throat people.
As I teetered on the tongue, recently imbued with a scent by something of a cetacean nature, I realised with horror I was staring into an abyss the like of which I had never before experienced. This mouth had a direct, uninterrupted line to the sphincter.
Now I’m as realistic as any other digestible comestible; we’ve all gotta go sometime right? But this was different. This was digestion without the sex. This was digestion with no soothing bath in a pool of light acid, or the loving clutch of the small intestine as it sucks one dry of one’s juices. This was a journey through the centre of the girth to the back bottom, which, with the help of the luminescent qualities of a couple of fragments of magic mushroom, I could see was literally full of shit!
Something must have happened in that empty occiput, because I could see the shit was starting to stir. It was starting to rise. It was clawing its way up this toxic tube, with I assumed, the intention to come pouring forth from the mouth.
I have to confess at this point I panicked. Employing my last ounces of strength, I quivered my rapidly dissolving pulp into a ball and headed back to the light, back to the gold flecks, the crusted islands of white powder nestled amongst the perfect molars.
This seemed to trigger an immediate reaction. The shit descended back into the gloom as the throat was gripped with panic. The voice box began emitting sharp squeals, gasps, cries and sobs. Then; there was a sharp blow to the head and I found myself free-falling, past the saliva-spattered microphone, the gel encrusted headphones and onto the desk. I lay there for a moment to catch my breath, among the PM Office’s letterhead paper and the other love notes.
Slowly I turned to face my tormentor, now towering above me. I looked up to see a pair of watery eyes and a blue face.
Then, I heard another voice behind me say “Ha ha Mike, didn’t think you’d stay red for very long mate! You’re already looking like your old self again! Just as well I didn’t have to get out the ah, whale oil again eh?”
“Now put that piece of fruit in your Pina Colada and let’s get on with the show.”