It's all Edeny round your way, right? Y'all have fig trees and animals and
general perfection, right? Y'all have fenced off your fig tree to keep away
all the smelly created people with their spendthrift, wastrel "Ooh I must
buy a new outfit" ways, right? (Fig leaves don't cost money, natch, but they
do cost in a raping our earth's resources way. Y'see? Y'see? Wear your
leaves just a little longer, cope with the slight tattered edges, make them
cut-offs, just be wise, ok?) With me so far, yes? Yes? No-one feeling left
out because they don't have fresh figs or animals or semi-naked people
clambering over barbed wire? You're all along for the ride? You all know
what I'm talking about? Y'all are sharing the common experience and saying
"Tuh"? Goodo. Background set.
Take one fig. One eaten by birds and brides and wasps and more brides. Root
through their faeces to find all the figgy bits. Do that. Or find one that
has been partially eaten by the non-you fig-eating cadre. We don't use whole
edible figs because that's a shocking waste and Adam and Steve (shoddy ink
back in the day, and lesbian friends with 12 inch strap-on pipettes) would
scream blue hypocrisy. Huk it. Huk it good. Huk it against a wall. Cool huh?
Looks like a dead baby bird, but vertical. Quelle grooviness.
Oh feel the arm, feel the tightness there. You've not thrown anything that
hard for ages, have you? Ah, but 'twas worth it: look, look at the popped
fig. Popped better than anything else, non? It done gone popped good. And oh
but look, look at the flies (hours later): they're eating it, they're eating
the dead baby bird from the wall. They'll eat it all up, stains and all, and
there'll be no evidence of it this time tomorrow. Yay. And what do you do
when there's no evidence of a hukked fig? Huk another. Huk hukketty huk huk.
Huk those hukking hukkers. Don't get greedy, don't huk them all at once.
Don't. The flies won't eat them all, they'll just sit there and look like a
baby bird suicide cult in right angled gravity. No good. 'Tis fun now, but
you don't want to be staring at that sort of carnage two, three days down
the line, when you've matured, moved on, fucked her best friend. Go slow.
Huk one. Wait. Set up the video camera on stop-motion stuff to capture the
busy busy flies. Watch the dead baby big fig bird fird disappear. Yay. Ooh
it's all so much fun, and it's not a waste because the flies and the birds
were only going to eat them anyway.
Eat around the eaten bits. Eat around the eaten bits. Such is the repetitive
cry of people who can't speak with speech marks - retards. They're wrong,
y'know. They're wrong. They know nothing, they wouldn't know rightness if it
shat in their nose and handed them a hanky for one big blow. Don't eat
around the eaten bits, it's all skanky. There's nowhere more filthy than a
cat's mouth, except a human mouth, and I brushed my teeth today. Cats eat
birds, birds eat figs, as do flies, wasps, buzzy things. See? See the
connection? Filthy. Eat a half-eaten fig and you'll get cancer and die.
That's fact. That's stone cold, honest to goodness, lie to God, fact. Eat a
partially eaten fig and you'll get cancer and die, probably within an hour
or two, three if you're lucky, four if you're unlucky and die slowly and
painfully - and you know it will be painful, because cancer's not nice, just
ask that guy who died from cancer really painfully. Don't eat the fucking
half fucking eaten fucking figs, because you'll die. Huk them. Watch the
dead baby bird, then watch the greatly popped fig that looks like a dead
baby bird. See the similarity? See how you've not got cancer and died? See.