Spread

by

Is Spread out yet? I’m not sure. Will I go and see it? ’Course not chums. Here’s my review:

Slumped like a roofied Eskimo on the hard glute of a humpbacked whale, Kutcher dog-ends his way through the twilit boudoirs and strip-lit bonkshops of the modern day 1950s. He funks up a semi-digested stomach twitter on to the cold kerb, lights a continental Yellowfinger and walks to meet his destiny. His destiny is Ms Destiny, a battered toast, butterless and down on her crumpet. But Kutcher knows how to twiddle her defribillators and send a pulse of arousal smirking through her bent old bones. That’s his talent, see. He gets the old geese jerking and fills his pockets when the post-coitum ozone of gratitude turns to green rain. He used to be a pretty boy, but Sandwich Jones fed him a knuckle toastie, and now the little boys blue down on the strip call him Breville Face: all melted cheese and crispy crust where the dishiness was. Still, the randy old penguins can’t get enough of him.

The title of this piece, Spread, works on many levels. For those readers au fait with the classical attitudes of lovemaking, it denotes a gesture of unambiguous hospitality. But it also refers to something that you put on an old piece of toast, which is of course what Kutcher is. And finally, it is what the police shout at Kutcher when, at the end of the film, he is found slinking off from the creped and garnished cadaver of a twisted tryst gone sour. He, of course, fails to comply and is showered down in a gunfire of hailstones.

On the downside, the film had the unfortunate effect of turning me into a hard-hearted womanising screwbum. My doctor tells me it might not pass for a month or two. Watch out the be-gizzard-ed: I got my Kutcher-vision on you.

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6 Responses to “Spread”

  1. oldrope Says:

    I’ve certainly seen you spread more than a few times… and each has been more grizzly than the last. Vom!!!!!!!!!!!!

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    What can I say. Stop reading Agoraphobes Illustrated.

  3. oldrope Says:

    My annual subscription was a Micklemas gift from my good aunt Agnes and cancelling it would be an insult and an impudence.

    Besides, penning missives to its editor provides one of the few indulgences I can truly enjoy in this vulgar modern world.

    Speaking of which, when are you due your next breast reduction opperation…?

  4. johnlebaptiste Says:

    Dear Sir,

    Like Hamlet, your wit is diseased.

    And like Hamlet, your breeches are disordered. They are a DISGRACE!

    Haven’t you heard of wet wipes?

    Yours truly,
    JLB

  5. Banjo Fett Says:

    I like your second para a lot. Here’s a cut-up version:

    Him breville face: now funks up a kerb, lights bent old bones. that’s cheese and the modern destiny, a battered a get enough of him but day 1950s. crispy crust randy old penguins his dishiness was. still, hard smirking through of to twiddle her the and send the old geese blue down where the gratitude semi-digested stomach a knuckle toastie, and turns to twilit way through the glute of a humpbacked continental toast, on to the cold pockets jerking and fills his talent, see. he yellowfinger and walks be a pretty boy, but boudoirs and his strip-lit bonkshops of pulse of arousal gets to meet his destiny. dog-ends eskimo on the kutcher knows how call her post-coitum ozone the little boys he butterless and twitter down on her crumpet. when the defribillators him whale, kutcher green rain. he used to his destiny is ms can’t slumped like a roofied a sandwich jones fed on the strip all melted.

  6. johnlebaptiste Says:

    “twitter down on her crumpet”

    ee-yew.

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