AB#1 – Stuck in the House

7 Jul

Today is Thursday and I have decided to pen my latest diary entry just in case I die. You see i’m trapped, trapped in my own home and have been without food and water for almost 76 hours. I even refuse to masturbate because this will take up vital energy (I did slip up yesterday, although this provided valuable nutrition).


It all happened so fast. One minute I was watching Super Nanny on the TV, whilst simultaneously practising my extreme ironing/bestiality combo hobby. This involves ironing, using an ironing board and iron, in an unusual stance, pose, position or place, whilst taking sexual revenge on an animal that has upset you somewhat. I think you can see where this is going.


I had one foot on my sofa, one on the floor. The ironing board was in the same position, forming a perfect 45-degree angle between itself and the floor. In my right hand was the iron, not plugged in of course because this would just be stupid. Straddling the ironing board was a 6-year-old goat, white/grey in colour, and wriggling like you do when you accidentally inject steroids into ones scrotum. My left hand was venturing up the goats sphincter, and I was opening and closing my fingers like a starfish.


After a few grunts, and loud squeal noises, the goat had calmed down a bit, so I took the opportunity to try and milk one of his little udders into my favourite Thermos flask, Thundercats in design. “This will make the little bastard angry”, I thought to myself. I gripped his rubber like teat in my mouth, steadying myself by leaning against the ironing board, and careful not to let go of the iron. If I had, I would have had to disqualify myself (and I don’t think I could hold urine in for that long ever again).


This is where it gets a bit hazy, and quite messy.  I yanked down on the teat with my mouth, and aimed it towards the open flask on the floor. The goat took quite an offence to the fact that I was pulling at what is essentially his nipple. Milky fluid squirted out onto the carpet, missing my flask by a matter of inches. As part of it hit my slipper, I lost concentration for a split second and lost my tight grip slightly. The goat slid down the ironing board, my arm in his arse was now up to the elbow. A piercing shrill filled the room and I felt a painful kick into my chest. My iron holding hand flew backwards, hitting me on the head as I fell, and smashing a small ornament of Cyndi Lauper as it hurtled towards the floor.


The sheer force of the goats kick sent me spiralling backwards, and freed the goat to make his escape. Up he leapt, almost salmon like, and bolted through the door of my living room, dragging the ironing board behind him. I heard another crash as he managed to free himself from the board, possibly with a wild shrug, I wasn’t sure, and the door closed behind them both.


My eyes closed at this point. I was in pain, my head spinning, ribs aching, and bonar diminishing. I awoke 2 hours later to an eerie silence, with a puddle of blood and goats milk around my head. I surveyed the carnage around my and almost broke down in tears.
“Better go catch the bugger”, I thought to myself, and went to push the door open. It was jammed. I pushed a bit harder, still nothing. I took one step back and leapt forward, shoulder first into the door, but alas it did not open.


Squatting down, I peered through the keyhole and saw what the problem was. My ironing board had become wedged between the door and hall wall, trapping me in. I started to panic for I knew that it would be impossible to cry for help. Not many people live in Siddlesworth anymore and my phone had been disconnected.
The next 24 hours were pure blood, sweat and fears. I pushed, bashed, threw every possession in sight at the door, but still nothing. I bawled at the thought of the goat telling his friends and them coming round to get revenge. I took up a foetal like position in the corner of the room and rocked, sobbing to myself.


As a day passed I became more hungry and thirsty. I had sucked as much milk from the carpet at possible, and eaten a cactus that I had in a nice pot next to the TV. I had even contemplated licking the moss that grew in the damp corner of the room. Many hours were spent looking at myself in the mirror. I didn’t feel ashamed, the manoeuvre I had attempted was one of the hardest, I just felt a bit silly.


That was 75 hours, 43 minutes ago, and now I am worried. I still haven’t worked a way of getting out. My nails are worn and brittle from scratching at walls, and do not allow myself to sleep, as the nightmares are far too scary. I am starting to wish I had have taken my father’s advice. When i was a youngster, probably 10 or 11, my dad would let me watch him perform extreme ironing/bestiality moves in the back garden. I had seen him perform this trick only once in his short life ( he died at the age of 37, on stage in Camden, London, playing bugle for the Merry Feltchers). His trick however was in the safety of the garden. I remember him using a polypropylene rope to tie the goat steady, and the trampoline was used instead of a sofa. He looked at me before he started, winked and said, “Arthur, if you ever try this, always do exactly as I do, never different”.


I’m sorry Dad, sorry for ignoring you. I fear I will waste away in the next few days and I leave this behind as a message to all ironing enthusiasts as a warning. I leave this behind as a message to all animal haters to kill goats, and I leave this behind as a message to Cyndi Lauper to say, “Boys wanna have fun as well”.


Until next time, if there is one, Goodbye diary, Goodbye World (perhaps)

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