MY EYES!!!!

There are times when I wish my head was detachable and I could reach inside and clean thoughts and memories off the surface of my brain with a Cif wipe. Sometimes I want nothing more than to permanently purge horrible thoughts and imaginings from my psyche forever…

I work in an office with a group of what are loosely termed ‘ladies’. Luckily I manage this office, allowing me the luxury of closing my door and avoiding their inane and often grossly incorrect discussions. I try to distance myself and refrain from correcting their grammar, facts, arguing against their bigoted points of view and attempting to enlighten them from their jaw-dropping lack of social awareness. However, sometimes I am at such a loss with their conversations it is impossible to do anything other than listen. And then regret it.

To describe the girls I work with as slim and attractive would be an understatement. To describe ‘understatement’ as ‘lie’ would also be an understatement. I think. They are, in a nutshell, bigger in girth and ugliness than they are in brain capacity. So when, earlier today, they described to me the items they bought form an Ann Summers party, I literally fetched a can opener and attempted a full leucotomy (Google it). Together with the altogether stultifying and brain-crippling purchase of crotchless underwear (a horrid idea, even on the prettiest of axe wounds), they also purchased a cheerleader outfit (in size 22), Pina Colada lubricant (for a size 18), nipple tassles (for a pregnant size 20), chocolate body paint (I’m sure at least one of them could eat a human, so this is surely just a garnish) and a spray to delay the male orgasm. That last one has to be taking the piss; personally I couldn’t manage an orgasm with any one of them if they had pictures of Rachel Weisz tattooed on their faces and I was drinking liquid speedballs from a pint glass.

The idea of fugly sex with, between or featuring any of them is alien to me; and I’m guessing that seeing one of them in chocolate body paint and un-gusseted panties would be the very personification of a polished turd.

I made attempts to etch-a-sketch erase my brain, but the violent shaking just made my head ache and I felt sick – as if I didn’t already. Having spent the week listening to frightening reports of illegal torture techniques used on terrorist suspects, I feel sure that it is only a matter of time before fundamentalists (guilty or otherwise) are howling in agony and pleading for their lives in a secret CIA camp, their eyes bleeding and their brains melting with the sight of these girls, loaded on WKD and Cheeky Vimto, erotica catalogue in pudgy hand, dancing to Dizzee Rascal; wobbling and gyrating in ill-fitting lycra sex-wear, edible and titillating items adorning them, spilling fat and grotesque gobs of unhealth like great big deep fried human Mars Bars. With tits.

See? I bet you want me to pass the Cif wipes now, while you attempt to unscrew your ears and flip open your cortex. Grim, isn’t it?