On March 1st 1972, I attended a party with several world dictators.
I wasn’t nervous at all. I even wore my pin-striped strawberries and cream suit with the purple pocket square made from cherry-flavoured liquorice.
Everything started smoothly until Adolf began to argue with ‘the unknown Dictator’ Larry Shortfish about which was the best fruit. Larry kept going on about Kiwi fruits and how they were Chinese Gooseberries.
Predictably, Adolf was all about the locally grown pears and apples found in his hometown of Van Lutz in the country formerly known as ‘Austria’.
It became apparent that someone had spiked the punch when Vlad stripped off
As usual, he started doing naked handstands on the fourteen-foot walnut dining table. Mao kept barking at him to get down as particles of dirt and old skin from Vlad’s feet were coming loose and descending like microscopic base jumpers into the various dishes arranged below.
There was a bowl of truffled Hommous,
a plate of breaded horse willy — thickly sliced,
fourteen mutant King prawns drizzled with dandelion pesto,
a hundred and forty roasted almonds spiked with a sherbet of Chocolate Bhutlah, green peanut and cinnamon peppercorns,
and a sheep head stuffed with marshmallows, popping candy and ruby chocolate with Maltesers for eyes. That wasn’t even the dessert.
Vlad started his usual breakdancing activity, and half the food went flying.
Outside there was a kerfuffle aswell.
Steve Rider, the Compassionate Dictator, had just arrived on his giant golden horse, Muffeater.
Everyone just got so damn excited when Steve came anywhere. He always brought a never-ending supply of ciggies, weed, booze and McNuggets. Half the dictators rolled their eyes and bitched about Steve, but deep down, they were all horny to see him.
Steve didn’t need to fuck around and pretend to be someone else.
Steve was Steve, and his motto was:
‘Humans aren’t capable of making their own decisions.’
Genius. It was a creed everyone agreed with. But as Steve pointed out, it never worked for any of the other dictators since they were all subject to the same flaws of the humans they were trying to rule.
As usual, Steve stood up on the nearest soap box — in this case, a tiny man named Nigel. He started to hoof out his words like a flow of orgazmilk.
Everyone felt the bliss as he chaffed on about the principles of a good dictatorship. Some memorable quotes are as follows:
“What is special about a democracy run by total Schnubs? It’s just like a more inefficient dictatorship.”
“Dictatorships do come into power through violence. But show me a democracy that has not risen through violence, and I will show you the city of microscopic goats living on my seventeenth testicle.”
“The flaws of a dictatorship are not in the system of dictatorship but the mind of the dictator.”
“A dictatorship is a more efficient model because it lacks the quicksand of democratic red tape. Things just get done.”
Things started to get a bit serious, and Steve seemed to notice that.
He was always good at reading the crowd, so, as an American, he did three beer bongs with bourbon chasers and then started chanting the American national anthem, which was met with great boos and hoos and moos by most of the crowd.
Out of nowhere, Stalin came running out with a giant sword and sliced off Steve’s legs.
Now, if Steve were human, there would have been blood everywhere, but Steve was not human. Muffeater offered him his front two legs, and as a result, Steve looked like some fucking Centaur while the Golden horse started moonwalking and launching fireworks out of his third eye.
The rest of Steve’s retinue strung Stalin up, pinning him against an outside wall. Muffeater manifested a hundred thousand million trillion cakow custard pies, and the crowd all got a turn to launch them at Stalin, who by the end looked like he had been shat on by King FONG, the giant fucking munkee/physicist.
Steve started swinging his scrotum around in a rhythmic fashion while singing NO LIMIT by 2 Unlimited.
Everyone was beginning to feel wasted, so Steve breathed out as far as he could and then
into his diaphragm.
The entire world started to shake. Then one by one, the dictators, the food, the entourage and Muffeater all got sucked into Steve’s lungs until he had digested the entire universe and Steve was left standing there with his STUPID Centaur legs occupying all of time and space.
Finally, he sucked in his giant scrotum, and his whole body followed — ingested by the void of creation known as:
Steve, yet no Steve.
The credits rolled, and one of the Coldplay songs came on.
I couldn’t remember which one it was. It had a piano and some words if that helps.
I realised that I had eaten a whole bag of peanut M&Ms, a giant frozen cock, and a bifariously sized salty popcorn.
The experience shook me. No doubt, it was oscar worthy.
But, I was also late for my meeting with Gunther, the Hyponarian Preacher who was supposed to be redecorating my ego for me. I mean, Gunther would be fine. It’s not like he was relying on me for the money.
There’s no money in the Plutonian Baxter sphere, you idiots.
As I walked out of that non-existent cinema, I stared around at the world of a czmillion egos bumping into each other, and I grieved and wept and danced and stopped for a moment.
Then, I breathed all the way out before sucking it all into the realm known as:
THE EVENING THAT NEVER COMES
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