For those of you who might read my blog on your tablets you've probably noticed in my next-to-last post that the right hand side of my cut-out 'arse-wipe' isn't perfectly parallel with the left, even though they are when viewed on PCs and laptops (at least the ones I checked). I don't really want to mess with it so I'll just leave it for now and think of it as a kind of metaphor for the Republican Party. HAH!! Please feel free to do the same. Thank you.
Onwards...
"HEY!"
I winced as I urinated in some unkempt bushes in the Rue de Salete, a length of street usually desolate at the midnight hour except as a haven for the most brazen of thieves, rapists and murderers. On this night, though, the desolation pervaded and for good reason, because over at my left towered that extraordinary monolith of a man, Gargantua, son of Lord Grandgousier and future sire of Pantagruel. He was urinating as well, the flickering street lamps illuminating his stream's glistening arc shooting down the also unpeopled and intersecting Rue de Sillon. But I say I winced, not from any discomfort on my part, but chiefly because-
"I CAN ALMOST FEEL THE DAMNED SPRAY, FOR GOD'S SAKE!! MOVE AWAY A SOUPCON, GARGANTUA, PLEASE!!"
"Oh, my apologies, M'sieur!" he chuckled while shifting the arc away from me. "Sometimes I quite forget myself around the petite. I did not dampen you at all?"
"No, I'm fine," I replied more calmly. "And I'm also done."
Gargantua's stream ebbed and I averted my eyes as he readjusted his giant cock back into his codpiece while I did the same with my own small organ. "'Tis amazing how much red wine I drink can transform so easily into a yellow river, one to rival that in Cathay."
"Wine into water. Perhaps you're the Anti-Christ," I half-muttered.
"I? Hah! Yes, that may often seem so, M'sieur 'Rivulet', were I not so assured of the Holy Mother's benefice and an occasional friendly wink from St. Martin. But-oof!-I may yet need more aid. To Fontainebleau!"
"Fontainebleau! The King's Forest! But why?"
A great rancid fart blew out of Gargantua's ass, extinguishing all the lanterns on the street. Suddenly we heard stirrings among the lowly dwellings behind us.
"My friend, you-oof!-have a choice: if you can feel for it in the dark climb into my palm here or else take odds with-oh!-the hidden malefactors in the Salete. And believe me, if I leave now they-ah!-will not remain hidden long. Choose!"
I quickly clambered onto his hand, remembering with a grimace that he just grasped his penis with it. Soon all lights, houses, people and eventually open countryside became a nauseating blur to me as Gargantua rumbled through the streets, panting and farting heavily as he sped. Meanwhile I fretted over the notion of being inadvertently squeezed to death in the man's filthy hand, or even released too soon and sent hurtling far and fast down to my bloody demise, but after much time and distance had elapsed was glad when we finally arrived at the dusky expanse of Fontainebleau Forest far south of Paris.
"Yes! Almost-oof!-there!" he cried happily. "Here!" He put me down as gently as he could but I still tumbled down head over heels into a patch of tor-grass.
"MERDE!! GARGANTUA!!" I shouted.
"Tut, tut! You are still in one piece, yes? Now I will be near that -ah!- steep outcrop close by the Seine A bientot, my friend!" And he hurried off into the forest. "Please don't follow me!" he called back.
Of course I would not directly follow Gargantua, realizing full well what was his aim. But disgusted as I was I decided to at least for a bit move down to the calmly flowing river and walk along it while enjoying the lovely Spring night but then turn back when I became aware of of Gargantua's...doings. But the longer I ambled along in a state of reverie the nearer I came to the outcrop. When I learned my error I did turn, but then my vision was arrested by a huge, indistinct shape skittering about in the woods until it ceased just in front of the outcrop, which I must add was smooth and bare of any tree or brush. I heard the violent rustling of clothing and still more farting, but also such a terrible, ghostly moaning that would try the courage of any soul happening near.
"Ohh, I swear by St. Timothy I will never gorge upon stuffed capons ever again!!" I heard Gargantua vow. "I swear, oooh, I swear!!! Never never ever again !!! Oof!! UH-OHHH, HERE. I. GOOOO!!!!!!"
Yes, I must now say with a heavy sigh there followed just a bit more prolonged farting (Dieu!), but also some ominous rumbling noises and the stifling odor of shit.
You should know, too, dear reader, that I had not been so well aware of what my blind curiosity led me to until it was almost too late - I was standing in front of the outcrop.
"Jesu!" I croaked, crossing myself as I dashed madly out of the path of what I perceived to be a fat, dark log hurtling down the incline. I watched it bounce along until it rolled over the grassy riverbank and into the Seine with a soft splash. I knew more was coming but I had already seen and smelt enough. I silently thanked the Blessed Virgin (may God and the saints adore her forever!) for my hasty deliverance and ran furiously along the riverbank and then further on in search of the main road back to Paris.
"How far did you think you would get, my friend?!" Gargantua bellowed with a jolly guffaw later as we strode up to 'Happy' Pierre Laborde's raucous tavern over in the crowded Rue des St. Michel, a much brighter and gayer street by far than the Salete. "To run thirty-odd miles all the way back to Paris? Faugh! Madness! Oh, I suppose you could have roused a poor, choleric farmer out of his hard-earned sleep, hired out a good steed or a cart, perhaps, but at this time of night-?"
"Mon Dieu, you stink!" I interrupted dully. "Did you even wipe your filthy arsehole?"
He shrugged. "No sufficient arse-wipes in that forest, I'll be bound, and I'm not about to uproot any part of that beautiful spot just to aid my own cleanliness! As long as my offal is nicely hidden in the deep, dark Seine I'm not too concerned. And I really must remember no more capons ever again! But now let's have a few more drinks before retiring to bed. So please, my friend, go in and beg-I mean, ask-Pierre for the keys to my special wine-house."
"Oh, all right. Still amazes me that that place is as big as Notre Dame!" I remarked.
Gargantua snapped his fingers. 'Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me! I'd left my special goblet atop their roof!"
I gasped and crossed myself again. "Jesu! Not the one that resembles a Mahometan minaret!"
"Bah! That's what you say, but seeing as how not one Parisian has made a big to-do about it yet I can only surmise that it more resembles a cathedral spire. Turned upside-down it does, at least. But enough talk. I'll go and fetch it now while you see about those keys, yes? I'll be back!" Gargantua then carefully made his way up the street through the instantly parting throngs of citizens.
"Oh, St.Martin," I prayed softly before entering the tavern, "if thou dost ever wink in benefice at Gargantua, I beg thee to do so with thine eyes wide open!"
Inspired by Gargantua and Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais
DB/c1992, 2015
