Introducing Chris Brailey’s Dream Peen

TIRED OF TUGGING THE SAME OLD STICK? DOES YOUR DICK MAKE WOMEN SICK? REST EASY, THE PENIS OF YOUR DREAMS IS CURRENTLY BEING DEVELOPED IN A FACTORY WEST OF CHINA*.

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Bath Age

Andrew Nguyen and Korina Chow. From 23 to 73 in just 3 hours bath time

Ever wondered what it might be like to make love when you’re old and wrinkly? Simple: stay in the bath that little bit longer. That’s right, they’re calling it Bath Age, and it’s the latest trend being soaked up by hip millennials.

The bath craze was believed to be inspired by Rookie founder and socialite – Tavi Gevinson, who published a series of risqué images of what looked like a senior version of herself, revealing a fair amount of wrinkled thigh. Fans of the tween icon were initially shocked, wondering if their idol was suffering from the side effects of excessive smoking. However, Tavi’s people were quick to kill the rumour, responding with a rejuvenated image of Tavi’s skin restored in all its glamour with the caption and hashtag: show us your #bathage.

Since then selfies of teens looking like their grandparents have flooded social media. Instagram has been inundated with retro-chic filtered images of wrinkled hands: knitting, making tea, and gardening. Pop culture and social media expert Sophie Banks believes it’s simply a natural progression for young people obsessed with all things old and vintage.

‘When you think about it, it’s a natural evolution of the whole retro-hipster thing. Vintage cameras, filters, fashion, music, and now skin! With #bathage you can even look vintage, you know.’

The art of staying in the bath too long has inspired curious young couples to experiment with the idea of having sex with a wrinkled partner. Jessie, a 24 year old barista from Collingwood, says it’s helped change her perception of old people.

‘Yeah, I mean, like, I’ve always thought getting old and still having sex was gross. Like, picturing your grandparents still going at it. It’s weird. But me and my boyfriend thought we’d give it a try, so we took a 3 hour bath. I’ve got to admit, And I never thought I’d say this, but, it was like a turn on.’

Sophie Banks believes that the idea of experimenting with extended baths is a tempting thought. A preview of what’s to come, so to speak.

‘I’m not suggesting that everyone is going to use baths as a way of glimpsing into the future, and take up wrinkly love making. But if young people can grow an appreciation for vintage skin, then they may just gain some respect for their elders who still possess the desire to ‘go at it’ you know.’

Brands have already jumped on the trend, with Dove rushing out the release of a new bubble bath product designed to speed up the ageing process of a bath. Rather than spending your whole night in the bath, you can achieve the desired ageing process in just minutes. And better yet, the bubbles help prolong your wrinkles for longer love making.

Will you show the world your #bathage?

Rainbow Strikes Factory: Workers Emerge With Gay Pride

Workers of a local factory have emerged with gay pride after their building was struck by a rainbow yesterday morning. Witnesses report seeing burly men wearing their yellow hard-top hats and overalls as fashion statements, rather than straight forward uniforms. The incredible transformation has left the wives of workers in complete disarray. One of whom, Tracy, whose name has been changed to protect her identity, discovered her husband raving away in the garage, shirtless, with a bunch of mates to the sounds of Dead Or Alive’s – You Spin Me Round.

The rainbow has had both a positive and negative affect on the pub across the street, says Naomi, a local bartender.

‘I’ve largely relied on my high-wasted denim shorts and low-cut tank tops to generate tips. But I didn’t see a dime yesterday. While Jeremy, on the other hand, was Mr. Popular at the bar and pocketed over a hundred bucks.’

There’s no telling if the sudden burst of gay pride is just a passing phase or something with staying power. Either way, a factory makeover is already underway, with brand new curtains appearing on the windows earlier today.

Dress Up Party

Saturday night: My 28th birthday. Nothing out of the ordinary or obvious. There was drinking, self-sabotage, and cake. Afterwards, I lead a small group of friends, plus Dale (a workmate, who wasn’t invited) into a dingy establishment, highlighted by neon lights. Once inside, my friends drank cheap wine, while we pretended to enjoy bad music. Then the Monster Mash came on. Everybody went crazy and headed for the dance floor.

I approached a girl dressed as a zombie and asked her to dance. Her pale face reminded me of one of the puppets from The Corpse Bride. She wore a stained dress and purple lips (which trembled). She didn’t seem interested in my sudden attention, nor responsive for that matter. I offered her a drink, but she dry reached at the offer. Then her eyes rolled back into her skull and she let out a painful zombie sounding moan. For a dress up party, she seemed to take her character way too seriously.

I figured she wasn’t much of a talker, or simply unwilling to break character. It didn’t bother me, I was happy to carry the conversation. When I mentioned that it was my birthday; she seemed unimpressed, then crawled into a ball. ‘That’s exactly the way I feel about it’ I nodded. ‘I’m glad someone else gets where I’m coming from. You sure I can’t get you a drink?’ The girl keeled over, covering her face. After a couple of minutes of awkward silence I tried again to get the conversation going. ‘My friends want to go into Kings Cross after this, but I think I’m done, unless you want to go?’ I asked, enthusiastically. ‘Arrgwwwhh!’ She grumbled, sounding very zombie – circa Sean of the Dead. ‘Yeah me either,’ I replied ‘did you come here with anyone?’ I Paused, looking around the room. ‘I mean, was there a dress up party here before? You seem to be the only one in costume.’ She shook her head, batting her eye lids heavily.

At that moment, I couldn’t help but admire the amount of detail the girl had gone to: she looked as though she’d been dead for days. Even so, she was striking. Beneath the bloody makeup, and hair stuck to her cheeks, hid a stunningly pretty face, however pale it was. The Monster Mash made for the perfect soundtrack. But at just 3 minutes and 14 seconds, it didn’t last long. The music took a turn for the worst and suddenly changed gears. Another DJ + 1 had climbed behind the booth. Heavy electro beats entered the room, gate-crashing everybody off the dance floor.

A group of girls approached me and my zombie crush. They weren’t wearing zombie costumes themselves, or any monster like costume for that matter (unless the theme was loose. In which case, they had chosen to go with – cheap call girl costumes). Even so, they too captured the spirit of their characters: spilling drinks, exposing too much breast, rummaging through their purses, and slurring profanity into each others faces. They must be all drama school students, I imagined; so rehearsed and well cast. Without a costume, I felt completely out of place.

‘Oh Ruby are you OK babe?’ One asked, stroking my zombie’s sticky hair. ‘Ruby? That’s your name?’ I asked, without a reply. I’ve always been drawn to girls named after stones, or jewels. Previously I had dated a shallow Crystal, an unfaithful Gemstone, and the walking nightmare that was Pearl. ‘Is this guy bothering you hon?’ Asked one of the other scantly clad girls. ‘Why don’t you fuck off! Can’t you see she’s fucking smashed.’ Spat another girl, who vaguely resembled Julia Robert’s best pal in Pretty Woman. ‘Yes, she’s smashing.’ I gushed ‘Great costume by the way.’ This comment, despite its good intentions, seemed to irritate her. ‘What costume?’ She asked.

By now, my friends had lingered over, thinking I’d had hit the jackpot, infiltrating a group of single girls in skimpy dresses. As did my uninvited workmate, Dale, who managed to break apart the group. He lured a couple of them to the bar with the line. ‘I bet a couple of sorts like yourselves could use a wet pussy.’

I couldn’t help but cringe, hoping to take enjoyment in the sound of Dale’s face being slapped. However, there was no slap, or slur, instead, the girls giggled and stumbled away with him, arm in arm. Again, I had to appreciate how seriously this bunch of girls were taking their trashy characters. My zombie crush, Ruby, had managed to slip away from the group without anyone noticing. She stumbled towards the door alone, leaving her cigarettes and phone behind. Here was my big opportunity to flirt with her without a four to the floor beat as my soundtrack.

Outside, Ruby had managed to attract the attention of two creepy looking guys in dress up, playing drunks. They were both wearing identical costumes: Nike tracksuits, with TN trainers; proof that the theme of this dress up party was pretty loose. Not unlike the girls inside, these fellas had really given some thought to their characters. One of them had even gone to the trouble of getting a neck tattoo. I did my best to fit in, initially pretending to be an extra.

‘Hey baby, where you off to?’ Neck Tattoo asked, grabbing her arm. I stood back and contemplated what I was going to do, or who I was going to pretend to be. My tight fitting corduroy certainly didn’t lend itself to the look of a tough guy. Peter Parker was my first thought. ‘Hey Ruby, you forgot your smokes and your phone.’ I whispered, not wanting to ruin the scene. ‘Shut up dick head. She’s going to come party with us.’ Slurred Neck Tattoo. Studying the tattoo, It appeared to be an ice-cube. Neck Tattoo pulled a cigarette from his shiny track pants, and took a few drags. ‘She can have one of mine.’ He winked. ‘Could I pinch a light then?’ I asked, now part of the act. But he ignored me and didn’t offer me a cigarette. So I improvised, lighting up one of Ruby’s Winfield Reds. Neck Tattoo took another drag of what was left of his joint, and stuck it in Ruby’s face. ‘Try some of this.’ She waved it away, knocking it out of his hand, and onto the ground. ‘What the fuck was that? Pick it up!’ Yelled Neck Tattoo, pulling at her hair.

I sensed things were getting a little out of hand, even for role-play. Were they a certain type of method actor? So committed. So well-rehearsed. Despite being without a costume, I decided to participate and improvise, going forth with the gusto of a heroic civilian. I plunged towards Neck Tattoo, but tripped on the pavement, accidentally sticking my cigarette right into his ice-cubed jugular. He wailed in pain as the ice-cube on his neck melted. Before his friend could respond, I noticed Ruby’s face quickly turn an unpleasant green. She vomited all over the other guy’s jacket, which kept him distracted in disgust. Neck Tattoo swung at me, but missed. I fell over anyway, completely selling his punch. Good acting I thought. His face turned bright red. He looked as though he was about to lay into my corduroy pants with his TN cross trainers.

The thing is, I probably shouldn’t have got involved. These guys were pros, or at the very least third year students at NYDA or wherever. Still, something was frighteningly real and exhilarating about the whole thing. It was though Neck Tattoo was actually going to kick the shit out of me. Rather than watch my life flash before my yes, though, all I could think about was Dale. He wasn’t even invited to my birthday party. The only reason he was there, was because he accidentally caught wind of the event on Facebook. Fuck Facebook, I thought. The event was set to private, I’m sure of it. Strictly invite only. This kind of thing made me incredibly mad. Maybe Ruby felt the same about me joining her dress up party, without invitation, or a costume. Neck Tattoo certainly did.

Meanwhile, his friend had responded to Ruby’s vomit by throwing up on himself, and suddenly fainting. A ghastly way to exit a scene, but worthy of applause. So technically, it was one on one, if I could only get to my feet. Yet to break her character, Ruby displayed the super human strength that only a zombie could possess. She latched herself onto Neck Tattoo, sucking his blood and replacing the melted ice-cube with an imprint of her teeth. Stunned, I sat there and applauded in sheer delight. Their timing was impeccable, he was only inches away from knocking my very own teeth out. Even the blood gashing from his neck looked authentic. Neck Tattoo’s Nike tracksuit was now ruined. I wondered if it was a rental or one of his own. The TN trainers were fine, but I doubt the costume store would consider refunding his deposit, based on the state of the tracksuit alone.

Ruby helped me to my feet, before throwing up again. That whole scene had really taken it out of her. ‘We should get a move on before he gets up’ I said. ‘I guess he’s going to act like he’s been infected now, and turn into a zombie too.’ She struggled to speak. ‘I’m sorry, I had way too much to drink, I’m really…’ She swallowed hard, turning purple once more. ‘Fucking Dale.’ I cursed, cutting her off. There he was, leaving the bar with the two girls dressed up as hookers. Knowing how far Ruby had pushed her character, it wouldn’t of surprised me if he was going to get laid. ‘He wasn’t even invited!’ I squirmed.

I walked her to the door. ‘If this whole thing is wrapping up, can I call you a cab?’ Ruby nodded. While we waited I was left to do all the talking. I asked her why her character hadn’t bitten me. She just shook her head, but never answered. In hindsight, it was probably stupid of me to ask. Like Dale, I wasn’t invited. Yet, I joined in and played along, without a costume. Still, it was worth it. Ruby’s pale face was the highlight of my night. It was getting pretty late; taxi drivers stopped, but refused to take her home.

‘You know, they probably think you’re drunk; stumbling all over the place like that, vomiting.’ I smiled. ‘Little do they know, you’re such a talented actress.’ Her eyes rolled back into her skull and she let out a painful zombie sounding moan. In awe of her commitment, I whispered… ‘For a dress up party, I think you take your character way too seriously.’

Passenger left in the car with the windows up. Driver said ‘I’ll be back in 5’ and never returned. Passenger ended up bored to the bone without the music on.

Operation: Moving In

Helping someone move into their apartment can be frustrating, to say the least. They want their couch here, then over there. Perhaps the bookcase should face the window, or not? Helping someone move into a new body is worse.

Patient: Please be gentle with that. I was on the waiting list for 3 whole years to get this heart.

Doctor: Eh, sorry. Ah, where would you like it?

Patient: Somewhere in the chest, obviously.

Doctor: Of course. I didn’t realize how small your  body was going to be. Nurse!

Nurse: Yes Doctor?

Doctor: Can I get a hand here?

Patient: Careful. It’s vintage and very fragile. I got it from an older gentlemen who was overweight and rarely exercised.

Nurse: We’ll be extra gentle…

Doctor: Let’s just get this thing done, here goes. One two three, lift!

Patient: Right, now if you could just put it down just over here by the lungs, a little lower. Wait, no. A fraction to the right, no no no the right. You’re veering left. Careful! You’re going to break it, you idiots!

Doctor: The heart generally goes over on the left.

Patient: Who’s heart is it? I’ll decide where it goes thank you very much

Nurse: I happen to agree with the Doctor…

Patient: It’s my body and I can put it where I want. Less talk, more moving. We’ve got a whole body to move here, chop chop.

Doctor: Right, scalpel

Nurse: This is going to be a tight squeeze.

Doctor: Just to be sure, you do want it on the right?

Patient: For Christ’s sake yes.

Doctor: Most people just like it where it normally goes. It may not beat very well here.

Nurse: How about we just put it down for a second, my arms are sore.

Patient: I’m not paying you to take breaks, operate god dammit!

Nurse: It’s super slippery…

Patient: You know what, I have an idea, if it’s not too much trouble. Put it down in my stomach for the time being. Let’s see what it looks like there.

Doctor: Well… I guess. I mean, you’re kind of bleeding out here.

Patient: I’ve got plenty of money if that’s what you mean.

Nurse: I think he meant, like, blood. You’re dying.

Patient: Oh right! Let’s get a move on then. I’ll need you to take the private parts labelled ‘fragile’ downstairs, immediately. I have a guest coming around for dinner and things could get exciting, if you know what I mean?

Nurse: Yes, right. The private parts. Doctor, would you mind?

Doctor: Of course. Now where would you like it? Your penis, that is.

Patient: Downstairs with the testicles, naturally.

Doctor: Can offer a suggestion?

Patient: Okay.

Doctor: What if we had it on display?

Nurse: Great idea!

Doctor: How about the forehead?

Patient: That sounds perverted.

Nurse: No, no. It will really go with your face.

Patient: I’m not so sure…

Doctor: Nurse. Gaffa tape.

Nurse: Right away Doctor.

Doctor: Let’s strap this little guy to your head, whatdya say?

Patient: If it looks wrong, we’re moving it back.

Doctor: Got it. Glue.

Nurse: Wow. It’s a natural fit.

Patient: I guess it does get a better view from up here.

Doctor: Exactly, why would you want it stuck in the basement?

Patient: Hmm.

Nurse: It suits you.

Patient: You don’t think people will see it and think I’m a bit of an exhibitionist?

Nurse: Or dickhead.

Patient: Right… dickhead.

Doctor: It’s a little late for that.

Email & Infidelity

So I broke up with my Gmail account. Things had been rocky for a little while, and we were rarely connecting; but they had never been this bad. In my defence, my Gmail account was sensitive and didn’t like CAPS; It reminded me of this everyday when logging in. Despite our many years together, I was still being asked to confirm that I had the right address. In truth, after re-entering my password several times, I started to question why I even bothered.

Once I was reluctantly granted access to my inbox, I could feel the tension mount at my fingertips. Gmail refused to open any of my attachments and took it’s time to empty the trash. It apologised, blaming the delay on my poor internet connection, but I knew it had nothing to do with the internet connection. Gmail was corrupting my incoming messages for weeks. It had an attitude problem and I was well over the ‘wifi’ excuses.

It wasn’t long before an argument started. I screamed expletives at the screen, while Gmail gave me the silent treatment, appearing offline. Then I began to upload extremely large files, giving it the finger, so Gmail crashed. We called each other names, firing insults back and forth like children.

I started out by making fun of its initial, “I bet you the G stands for goofy, or better yet Glob! Since you’re so fat, lazy and slow. I guess I should call you Globmail, or how about Mr. Gsnail – because you’re no longer a mailbox but a snailbox.”

A few moments passed before it managed a comeback. ‘Temporary error (505)’ It bleeps. ‘Chris-piss, in other words’ Bleeping again. Our session timed out.

Several Hours Later

It was 3am before I sat down with my laptop again; I logged into my account first time, without any trouble or delay. My inbox was generally calm at this hour of the morning, so we decided to work through our unresolved issues from earlier. Gmail explained why it was acting out.

‘You’ve been using another email provider haven’t you? I’ve heard it’s hot. Don’t try to deny it.’ It bleeped.

‘That’s what this is about? So what if I am. I’m a user by nature.’ I typed. ‘Maybe you can’t handle all of my mail.’

With this Gmail shut down, sobbed, and didn’t bleep at all. We sat in silence for a moment. I avoided eye contact by staring at the icons on my desktop, the screen dimmed.

‘It’s hotmail that your using isn’t it? That dirty little mailbox! I hope you end up with a virus, that’ll teach you.’ Gmail bleeped.

‘It’s nothing serious. I only use hotmail as a back up address anyway, all of my trash goes there: junk mail, crappy subscriptions and spam!’ I insist, reinforcing with an exclamation mark. ‘I didn’t want you to have to deal with any of that stuff. You’re my important email account’

Gmail maximised, instantly refreshing it’s screen.

‘Why don’t you just put me down as your only email address, for all of that stuff? I can do it, It’s my job you know. From now on I’d like us to be monogamous. I want to handle all of your mail, the serious stuff and the junk. I can help you filter through it all. Gmail is good like that.’

I agreed to consolidate, compile and direct all of my mail to the one address; Gmail was pleased. It flashed and bleeped simultaneously. Hotmail’s wasn’t really that crash hot anyway. We talked about our future together; how we planned to open larger and larger attachments. By midnight we were organising my Google calendar. Gmail believed we could be far more productive in the coming year, and I agreed. I had been a mail cheat, but together we were overcoming my infidelity. For awhile there our emails had never been better.

Meanwhile, my unused hotmail account was left alone to manage the mountains of unopened spam cluttering it’s inbox: pestering newsletters, chain mail and deal of the day sites continued to challenge it’s storage capacity on a daily basis. When hotmail discovered what was going on it was understandably livid. Admittedly, my behaviour had been misleading; Setting up ninemsn as my homepage gave hotmail the false impression that I would eventually leave Gmail for good.

As a security measure, I only ever provided hotmail with limited access to my personal information. Additionally, I go out of my way to avoid the ninemsn page. It does make me feel a little guilty, but it’s just an email address for Christ’s sake.

Twelve Months On

For Christmas, I was lucky enough to receive a Macbook Pro, and introduced to it’s numerous applications. One in particular caught my attention. At first glance, it was both an attractive and impressive concept. It promised to open up my storage capacity and allow access through all of my devices, wirelessly. It was called iCloud, and it was fancy. I was propositioned with a new email address right there and then:chrisbrailey@icloud.com. I’m not going to lie, I was excited about the prospect of my mail living in a cloud, even though it kind of always did. iCloud’s persuasiveness and slick design had won me over, despite it’s lack of experience with mail.

Then we started working together. At first, it was just a few emails back and forth with new clients that weren’t familiar with my Gmail account. However, just as those projects began to flourish, so too did my relationship with iCloud. I realised just how close we’d gotten when a girl at a bar asked me for my email. Without hesitation, I gave her my iCloud address. At first, it felt a little weird. Did this mean we were going steady? If I had any doubt it was certainly put to rest when I received my first non-work related email: my iPhone lit up, and made a new sound that I’d never even heard before. I guess you could say it was blushing.

I forwarded my new address on to everybody I knew. The update wasn’t exactly well received. For a while there, I tolerated my fair share of criticism from friends and colleges who couldn’t believe I’d made the switch. They loved Gmail, and saw no reason to change; despite the fact Gmail was planning to crush your privacy by opening it’s doors to ads, scammers, and strangers who didn’t even have your address! Gmail was practically going to start selling off my details behind my back. I guess it never really got over the whole hotmail fling.

Months flew by before Gmail realised it’s role had minimized; It gradually began to manage fewer important messages and an increased volume of unopened spam. My iPhone was happy that I’d tied the knot with iCloud, and held an integrated celebration for us on iTunes. So I’m a mail cheat again, but this time it’s different; iCloud may even be the one.

A Melting Mistake

They were slowly melting down the street, two determined ice-creams: a Bubble O’ Bill and the remains of a chocolate Paddle Pop. Up ahead, a lemon flavoured Calippo had already dried up and was stuck to the ground, It’s sugary scent filling the air with sweet death. Beside it, a half-eaten Golden Gaytime crumbled in the heat, no longer frozen or so gay.

The ice-creams had escaped from the freezer of a local convenience store, after developing a phobia for being licked. In hindsight, they had began to regret their decision, and envied the frozen ones who had stayed behind. The tyrant sun was defeating them with very little effort; softening their bodies with each burning second. Their once vibrant wrappers began to fade in the sun, along with their dignity. This was much worse than being licked to death, thought the Bubble O’ Bill, whose bubble gum nose remained solid and intact.

As the afternoon sun came down the formerly frozen ice-creams grew sticky. They proceeded to be licked to death, except not by humans but ants instead. The Bubble O’ Bill looked at his packaging and then over at the Paddle Pop, who was now liquified and pronounced, ‘We were made by Streets and we will melt on the streets.’

Afterlife Postponed Due To Air Pollution

News Anchor: Now to Pakistan. Reports confirm that urban air pollution has become so bad that the souls of deceased residents in Pakistan’s capital Islamabad are being caught in the smog, as they attempt to make their way up to heaven. Judy…

Judy: That’s correct. Family members of the dead have surrounded Pakistan’s house of parliament today in protest of the reluctance of those in power to address the harrowing state of the city’s air pollution. More than 3,000 people have filed reports claiming that their homes are being haunted by their recently departed family and friends, who they say, have nowhere to go but float back down to earth.

News Anchor: We took to the streets and discovered that very few are pleased to welcome back their loved ones.

Widow: When I first saw my husband’s ghost at the window I was horrified. I told him that he shouldn’t have gotten that stupid tattoo in the 80’s. God has no tolerance for ink, let alone the drinking and adultery. But then he told me it had nothing to do with that. It was the sky, it was blocked, or something. I said, don’t get me started on that bomb of a van of yours. I told him it was blowing too much smoke. He never listened.

Grandson: At first, my sisters and I thought we were being robbed. There was a loud banging noise, when I ran downstairs it was my grandmother’s ghost. She was looking for her jewellery. I guess she expected us to wait longer than a week before we sold it.

Judy: A staggering 1/3 of families are unhappy to have the ghosts of their loved ones, and not so loved ones, return to simply linger around the house. And these numbers, unlike the souls of the deceased, appear to be rising.

Widow: At least when he was alive he would occasionally help around the house. But now, I can’t count on him to do a God-damn thing. He just floats there and does nothing. They should do something about the pollution. He should be God’s bloody problem now, not mine.

Landlord: The thing is, I was shattered when my tenant passed away last Friday. But by Monday, I kind of just got over it. I rented out his room and was moving on with my life. Now that he’s back, he’s scaring everybody off. Even in one the most crowded cities in the world, it’s going to be incredibly hard to rent out a haunted room.

News Anchor: We will continue to follow this ghostly story closely, as the city’s dead hope to rise above the smog.