Turbank’s on the Case

You punks have heard about my goddam mother (see the About Me section you louses. It’s aboutmeforgeddaboutit).

Did I ever tell you about my Aunty Fran?

She was a big woman with pleny’o'knees and no underpants, geddit? And I’m a little fella on account of my goddam dwarfism, ok shitheads?
Anyway, one day, when I was 7 or maybe 23 years old, right outta the blue, my goddam Aunty Fran yells out at me,

“Turbank! C’mere you liddle honey pot!”

So I goes over to her. Because I’m a goddam good little laddie and I’m standing directly in front of her, just like I’m told to do. Then, for crying out loud and Moses in a goddam bacon-burger, she hoiks up the curtain of her dress!

And a crowd forms.
And I’m standing in the crowd for chrissakes.
And I cop a goddam mouthful of an evil wiffin (on account of the position of my head and mouth being directly proportionate to the height of the source of this goddam evil wiff). All of the tastebuds on my tongue die right there.

And the crowd goes quiet.

And my Aunty Fran kinda cackles and her whole body shakes and convulses what with the heaving of her lungs to laugh and she’s really laughing now. My goddam Aunty Fran.

And then her laughter stops.

And the crowd goes quiet again.

And I’m still standing in front of her.

…

Then, all of a sudden, outta the goddam sweet jesus pink and blue nowhere,
her goddam poonie gives me a wink!

I swear to goddam God on a barbeque.

My uncle Dravvy? He was nothin special. He had a dancin doodle. But who don’t, for chrissakes?
Later punks.

Sometimes I’m standing in the rain and I’m letting it pour down my face.

That’s when I cry.
(So no-one can see me cry, geddit punks?)
Sometimes I find a nice lady, a real dame, and I walk her back to her place real gentle and chivalrous. A gentleman.

She might make me a cup of coco or fix me a squirt of happy milk.
She might loosen my tie a bit and bend down to take the hat off my head. (I’m a tiny guy, you perverted fucks).
Anyway, the dame always look pretty. She’s got a floral blouse on and smells like a rose dunked in myrr. You gettin the picture?
She walks into the kitchen and clink clink go some glasses as she gets all hospitable and settled for a chat with the ol’ Turbank.
She’s walked into the kitchen but she goes on talking nonetheless, all sweetness and bubble geddit?
I’m alone in the living room. The couch. Enormous. Like a goddam insult to dwarves. I forget about it.

I’m alone and I light up a biscuit (lung crumble geddit?).  She’s still in the other room and she says somethin about Art or the weather or about sporting heroes or about post-modern architechture or about refugees or somethin.
I hear her collecting items for entertaining (snacks, cheeses in red wax, soda water, you know).

That’s the moment.

She don’t know it, but I do. That’s the moment I choose (when she’s still in the other room) to walk over to her handbag on the enormous couch and I lay myself a little nard in the dame’s handbag. Real quick. Pants down, nard out, nard dropped, pants up. Real quick. I don’t even take the cigarette out of my ol’ moosh.

I don’t make a sound.

The dame comes back into the room and she puts down the tray, festooned with the whathaveyou of facilitating whatnots, and she’s pretty and blushin and her eyes give a little twinkle, because she thinks she’s in love. There are tiny pickled onions of different colours in a bowl.

I give her one goddam look and I say to her, “lady, you got another thing comin if you think I wanna spend more than 5 goddam seconds with some lousy bitch who shits in her own handbag! GEDDIT!”

Then I leave, real indignant (as the broad is looking all dumbfounded and shocked, glancin at her handbag on the couch).

And as I slam the door to her apartment I hear her sob.
I’m at the front door to the building and the doorman is sayin, “nighty-night Mr Turbank Sir, pleasantries of the eve to you and your kin etc”, and the boggled lady is upstairs giving a liddle wink into to her handbag for a peeky boo, when I hear her scream.

That’s when I’m standin in the rain.

Although, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.

My Grandmother once called me Turbank and I hacked her ankles off with a mattock.