Jonathon Repander's Extraordinary Circus

Born into an elite race of musclemen and women, my childhood was an amalgam of competitive posturing and hardcore muscle stretches. Us kids went behind the silver trailer and hung weights from our own parts. This was curtains for the girls. And they were thus strung to a life of freakery. But this was normal for them. We never used the homemaker phrase about clinging to the apron strings out on the road.
I showed prowess. My father sat me on his knee at seventeen and looked me straight in the eye with his greyed pinky socket. ‘Jonathon,’ he started, chewing on crud. ‘You know I loves you, don’t you?’ I nodded and licked my lips. ‘Well, I wants you to take on the family business and all that...’ I had then become the very man that we had been inventing behind the trailer all those years. Tears ran down my cheeks into my unnatural cleavage.

I'm Lemonade!

I found my calling last night when I slipped my Jamaica through my legs to the bum crack and taped it up. Next I enveloped my legs in synthetics and twiddled my dee. An hour passed in a rush of titivating. Complete as I woman, I stood rapturous before the mirror and mumbled Buffalo Bill seductively. My mother entered. She looked mid stroke. ‘It puts the lotion in the basket,’ I shouted, waving ferociously at her to leave.

Epiphany

Yesterday was a landmark day. I was sat on the floor, things lapping at the piss puddles in my thigh caves, when I understood life. It dawned on me that the meaning I had been searching had always been present. I was life. And it was like that moment in Short Circuit 2 when Lieutenant Harris from Police Academy rode in on a tank. Everything made sense. I said to myself, ‘Chuckles, you are the very epitome of life on earth. It shall be your duty herein to make our planet a place of scents for all.’ And so, I shall now spray you with my musk, my very bud.

Fruits

When there's little of public interest that happens to you it's hard to write here. So, instead of an account of what happened, I think we should focus on what might have happened. Yesterday I began work on a novella set in an imaginary banana republic governed by an ox of a man known to the peasant population as 'il furiotal' ('the hard block'). 'Il furiotal' was known for his sexual peccadillos throughout the land. He had a penchant for baskets of fruit. He would sit on his throne, a fat hole cut out of the velvet seat, while small servants with thin moustaches fed him grapes through his very own. He would do this for hours while the general population revolted.

Fannies drenched with product

So the failure of my last blog led me to this one. All 3 of you who read my last piece of shit, I thank you. The gratitude I feel for you is like that of the man who, his body shredded, a child pissing on his cuts, turns his face to look at you as you walk past him and says, in Tony Blackburn's voice, 'thank you, dearie.'

And this time I'm not going to proclaim anything about my prowess or ambitions. All 3, maybe 2, of you are fed up of hearing me talk. Every fucker is. Boring, boring, boring. Stinky old chopsticks up a slapper's flapper covered in brown.

But to those new to the game, let me welcome you all with a big fucking 'toot toot'. I promise you that this will most likely be the last entry in my fat fucking book of failures.