Short Story: Text ‘Film’ to 241

Orange Wednesday is my favourite day. I’ve never really subscribed to the whole ‘T.G.I.F’ thing as I’m allergic to acronyms (you can’t see me right now but I am coughing like mad and getting phlegm all over Siri!) and Saturday has always felt a bit too ‘working-class’ for me. I don’t mean that in an insulting way, it’s just not a time I feel I fit in. I tried attending Night Clubs like most of the public, but Night Clubs are a haven for dancing and my dancing has been described “intrusive” and “fuck off freak!”. The only dance-move I feel comfortable performing now is the ‘stand-in-the-corner-staring-at-my-phone-menu’ and that’s something I prefer to do at home. I appreciate that Night Clubs are a good place to meet women, I do, but the type of women I would like to meet are not the type to fraternise in the Night Clubs. I once saw a woman I thought was perfect in the Swindon ‘Liquid’; she had legs like a gazelle but just two of them (legs that is, not gazelles, and they were shaved. Legs like half a shaved gazelle, I suppose) and the firm, grey waist of mannequin. Her face looked like a puzzle assembled by someone with experience of completing at least thirty extremely difficult puzzles. I vividly remember approaching her to tell her she had beautiful eyes. “HELLO?” she said, “My tits are down here!”

I’ve actually had a bizarre relationship with the opposite sex, particularly when it comes to intercourse. My previous girlfriend’s favourite sexual position was ‘celibacy’ so my experience is limited and as such I’m a very sheltered individual in the bedroom. The last time a female approached my ‘groinal package’ (Sept 17th 1989) I had an allergic reaction my ‘fragile contents’ swelled to 170% its original size, at which point I panicked and ran out of the room shouting “I sent it recorded delivery and there’s no one home to sign!”. 

Still, live and learn.

I’ve been single now for sixty-seven months. I don’t really mind though because I have frequent female companionship in my friend Sandrine. I met Sandrine in the Atlantic Ocean and I really can’t go into any more detail than that. She is quite large for a non-American woman (her breasts look like two half-inflated beach balls and her stomach looks like one fully-inflated super beach-ball) and she has a certificate in fortune-telling. I never understood why, but she would always ask to read my palm, so one day I wrote “Get a real job!” on the inside of my hand and when she saw it she thought it was so funny she didn’t return my calls for three weeks. Another incident I remember is when she complained at me that she had “so much work to do it’s not even funny” and I wondered just how much work she’d have to have for it to be hilarious. I think Sandrine is pretty but not in appearance, and as we’re both single, we made one of those pacts that friends make, that if neither of us are married by the time we’re forty, we’ll join eHarmony. 

Anyway, I’d better go now as the movie starts in 3 hours and I’d like to iron my suit before I leave. Thanks for your text, Orange, and I hope this answers your question “Did you enjoy the film last week?”. Please could you send me this weeks code? I don’t have anyone to bring but I’ll give the surplus to a smartly-dressed passer-by. 

Much appreciated.

Yours Sincerely,

Stanley Keegan

Advertising Campaign: Cup-A-Soup

Dear Mr Batchelor,

I have an idea for a viral advert for your ‘cup-a-soup’ product. My concept is called ‘2 Girls, 1 Cup-A-Soup’ and is based on the now notorious internet fecal-pornography ‘2 Girls 1 Cup’.

Let me paint a picture. Two girls (early 20s, attractive, buxom, maybe a redhead one?) are in the supermarket (your choice, could strike a deal with Sainsbury’s here? Please note I will not work with Aldi) near the soup, obviously in order to purchase their favourite vessel-based savoury lunch juice, when they spot that there is only ONE (1) Cup-A-Soup left!! Naturally, this is not enough for the both of them so they throw each other a John Wayne stare and a showdown ensues as they both race towards the only Cup-A-Soup left on the shelf. During this slow-motion pursuit there are explosions everywhere, hair blowing wildly, blokes with their jaws dropped, tops unbuttoned(?!), the lot (at this point you could even have one of them spitting on that Campbell’s soup painting? Up to you). They begin launching cheap rubbish unbranded soup at each other along the floor which they both jump successfully despite their incredibly sexy high heels, until eventually, flustered and sweaty, they both reach the Cup-A-Soup at the exact same moment, one hand each on the can(/box/packet/look I’ve obviously never tried Cup-A-Soup). 

Next thing you know, one of them has an idea. Thinking back to that excretion-porno she had watched the night before she realises that 2 girls and just 1 cup doesn’t have to be a situation of conflict, but can be a sharing and loving experience. 

CUT TO: The two girls in just underwear (naked ideally but this is going online and maybe even TV remember!?) seductively sharing the soup in the same cup through straws, winking at each other and maybe even touching hands(!!!). 

Voiceover appears: “2 Girls 1 Cup-A-Soup. Finally something that DOESN’T taste like shit.”

Please let me know if you are interested in using this campaign. All ideas copyright Rejay Productions 2012, all rights reserved, terms and conditions apply.

Yours hopefully,

Rhys James

My Kettle

My kettle’s incredibly smug,

A pompous and arrogant twit.

He’ll lean and spit up in a mug,

And think that makes him Mr. It.

He’s short tempered, het up and rude,

He is wired and too highly-strung.

Push his buttons and he’ll blow a fuse,

Enough so he might burn your tongue. 

He bubbles and shakes ‘til he steams,

He huffs and he puffs and he blows.

No whistle, for this kettle screams.

I should just use a pan on the stove.