I just love weird, weird combos.
A gay hat worn up top alongside a sturdy Aboriginal funk pipe slung from the lip!
Two strawberries plopped into a bowl of cream with a sprig of Rosemary and a single rat hair!
How I met Your Mother on the TV, a cold caller from Peru on the mobey, and Gymnastic Butt Hoes III streamed from the laptop to a pair of white nylon curtains via a 1960s cine projector!
It’s what life is made for — an occasionally, what life is made from.
But of all life’s throbtastically idiosyncratic duos, my favourite of the moment has to be Boulderneck Fungpants & The Nipplegrizzler.
They’re out on the street, they’re in yer face, they’re up their own celestial crack.
So let’s take them singularly, before we figure the dynamics of…a duo made in gloopiest Downtown Brainpurée hell.
He’s enormous. He stinks. His neck is like a section of some other fat guy’s stomach, stuck between his own fat head and his fat, fat body with ultra high yuck content lard.
His trackie bottoms are stained, his trackie top screams at the seams, and he rumbles along, THUMMA-THUMM, like a dazed, telekinetic bumble bee trapped inside a mountain who’s just trying to find its way back to the hive.
He’s the Incredible Hulk with all the green whooshed into his armpits and groin.
He’s a colossus of animated pastry with the gait of an unballerina.
He is Boulderneck Fungpants, fatarse whiffbastard supreme, and from a leather leash gripped tightly in his fist, he is tugged into oblivion by…
It’s like the ferocity of a thousand wolves had been condensed into a tiny hairball of a beast possessed of no other evident canine features whatsoever.
Its legs are as oiled matchsticks dipped in a down-at-heel barber’s floor as the very last octogenarian customer shuffles from the door, nostril hairs clipped.
Its body is wiry and skeletal, like the cage of a shrunken wren, and what remains of its drab and greasy fur pokes from every raised bone at random with the plumage panache of a burnt gosling.
Its nose is a freeze-dried prune glistening with the mucus of yap yappity yap yap yap yappity yap yap yap yap yappity yap yap yap yap yap yap yappity yap yap yap — and the occasional grrrrr grrrrrrr yappity yap yap yap yap yap yappity yap yap yappity yap yap yap.
And it tugs on the leash — pant pant pant pant grrrr grrrr YAP! — with the momentum of a giant asteroid hurtling through the cosmos allied to the brain of a spazzy, jumpy Twat Monster loaded with max power gazelle DNA.
It’s a raging scribble of petulant rage, mad to claw its way up your body and sink its tiny teeth into your tits, and as it yaps and fizzes on its leash, and Boulderneck Fungpants rumbles along making holes in the pavement with his fatty stink, I’m minded to wonder whether there’s good news in the combinatorial after all.
What if Boulderneck Fungpants lands a job in my local supermarket?
Or, worse still, turns up on my doorstep, with The Nipplegrizzler yapping and pissing its scraggy being all over my driveway, and says, “I’m here to read your gas meter.”
That would be a weird, weird combo too far.
Boulderneck Fungpants and The Nipplegrizzler, THUMMA THUMM and yappity yap yapping their way through my ornamental spoonery to the cupboard under the stairs where I store my Kilner jars of moth dust.
Then he’ll get down on his hands and knees like a stunned wrestler, odours of all the dinners he’s shoved down his lardstomach neck in the past week punching in clouds from the darkest stain on his trackie bottoms, while The Nipplegrizzler snarls and chomps at my furniture, spraying prunemucus more liberally and dangerously than ALIEN squirted all that killer acid.
So I’m locking the door.
I’m giving up shopping.
I’m shacking up in my cellar for a week.
And when I re-emerge, I shall chase Boulderneck Fungpants and The Nipplegrizzler down the street with a bazooka loaded with disinfectant-filled balloons and scritty scratty dog stunning cannonballs.