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The wall gong exhibition

Molested on June 11, 2006.

I traveled across the globe this week on the HMS Gormless Bastard. She was a fine ship, but sank halfway to my destination—the wall gong exhibition at Wollongong, New South Wales, Australia—so I had to swim the rest of the distance wearing nothing more than a paperback Dictaphone on my head and an innertube wrapped around my ankles. The Gormless Bastard went down when she was attacked by a colony of murderous tadpoles off the coast of the Philippines. Captain David Pinnfarb went down with his ship. I swear I had nothing to do with it, no matter what those tadpole commandos tell you.

Wearing nothing but a freshly painted fez (alas, not my favorite burnt-umber one) that I fished out of the drink as the Gormless Bastard sank, and possessing a deck of Athabascan playing cards hidden away in my underwear, I swam all the way to Wollongong, upside-down and playing with my doodle all the way. I was worried that I would be (or was I eager to be?) accosted by one of those horrible, slimy, strangely erotic tentacle monsters on the swim past Japan, but none were sighted. In Wollongong, the natives were glad to receive me, and promptly offered me a sheep to violate. I declined, naturally, as my stomach was already full of crème de la goat nipple and floating pi pie. So instead, they violated me, with a parking meter and a moving violation.

The Wollongong wall gong exhibition was wonderful! They had more wall gongs than you could shake a drumstick at: Big ones, small ones, golden ones, silver ones, square ones, round ones… and even one gong that was actually three gongs in one! Unfortunately, they only had gongs you can mount on walls; there were no ceiling gongs—but then again, it was a wall gong exhibition, not a ceiling gong exhibition. And then I got my head stuck in one when I tried to sniff its sweet, gongy aroma: I ended up being knocked deaf for four days.

I couldn’t find the Gormless Bastard where I had parked her (about 250 miles WSW of Wakayama, Japan, and at least a handful of miles below sea level), so I had to swim home again, wearing nothing more than a toilet brush on my buttocks and a new pair of cameras around my neck. This time, I was accosted by one of those horrible, slimy, strangely erotic tentacle monsters on the way past Japan—or maybe it was just a fishing net, or Cthulhu. Regardless, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

I finally arrived home only three minutes ago, by which point all that remained on my person was an empty bottle of fish food I had used to bait the tentacle creatures. I sat right down and wrote this, before I forgot everything and started hallucinating about garden gnomes and fantasizing about Alyssa Milano’s feet again.