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Meat Feast (After the watershed)

by Flashy 

Posted: 27 April 2008
Word Count: 1770
Summary: Midnight observations

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Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.


Ok the jokes about Gordon being a mean Mr Bean have all been said; you however preferred and saw the more obvious comparison with Joe Stalin. You know…hmmm I mean what… what was he thinking, giving the ok to his subordinates to block a News night documentary team from filming him, and in every feasible, sneaky, childish way.

However, surrounded only by plodders, Gordy can’t really risk straying too far. A big stubby finger just has to be in every pie. Furious Gordon shakes and shudders at question time, as each Tory jibe and Flashman type jape connects like a haymaker to the temple on his bemused head.

Yes Gordy looks a little like a bitter and frazzled Salieri now; the coveted Mozart crown he’s inherited has lost its gleam, it’s a little too tarnished and weatherworn now.

Meanwhile smashing Tony is standing back blameless and shameless, grinning buck toothed and smug. Bugs Bunnying this Daffy McDuck, who spits and dribbles fury as it dawns on him, he’s been made to look like a cartoon stooge. Frustrated, shaking and hung jawed like Yosemite Sam, a dim and dismal dud like Elmer Fudd. Yeah, Road Runner Tony beep beeps cheerily away, as our bungling Wiley Coyote Brown slowly comprehends; he’s actually the desperate tormented kitty that has just got his butt fucked by Pepe stinky Blair Le Pew.

On C4

In the country poor folk have been deprived of hunting foxes, so with many blood lusts being left un-satiated, a lot of internal foot stomping is going on, they’re deeply puzzled you see. What is wrong they say, with the notion of 60 backward red backed inbreeds on horseback along with 200 hounds rampaging and terrorising through country communities, on a quiet Spring Sunday morning?

Instead a lucky few get to blow the brains out of baby calves, I add baby because that is what they are, little four legged babies with cute baby faces, whom for reasons not really explained (economics, bad cross breeding, space) just have to die. Each murder nets our rustic assailants the princely sum of two quid and a bag of butterscotch…Yummy! And oh yeah the skins net a couple of bob too!

A posh version of one of these assassins, appears on screen muttering ‘poor little things,’ as he pulls what looks like a Luger from his Land Rover’s glove compartment, ‘it’s the only thing that can be done,’ he says sadly?

Well I don’t know… maybe you could let them live? A big field of green grass, a trough and a tin shed that ain’t exactly the Ritz would suffice, wouldn’t it? Hey but what do I know?

Meanwhile the eloquent guy with the Luger, walks composedly into an enclosure, three little babes, although curious immediately scatter. ‘Calm down, calm down, ‘he says soothingly and raises the gun, ‘there, there,’ he smiles. He could be Amon Goeth, the calves could have names like Isaac, Gilda and Danka, and this could be a scene from a certain infamous eastern European camp, from over fifty years ago, played out with same callous indifference.

Now I understand a little bit more about country folk.

Across the water so to speak on BBC 2, I get a fleeting glimpse of the new black messiah from funnily enough across the pond. Dashing, urbane, handsome, witty and articulate, in fact everything our Gordy isn’t. Up against him are all kinds of scaries, catatonic war heroes, happy smiley religious despots, liars and redneck psychopaths, a whole freak circus. All of these of course will gracefully accept his almost overwhelming mesmerising superiority, when he ascends the whitehouse steps... well of course, they will.

You can almost sense the desire of bookies to accept bets; in fact, you can almost yourself envisage the picture of the time and day when the bullet with his name on it, is delivered home.

Images on the pc and their diversity now compete more voraciously than ever for your attention. From saved video to computer tricks and animation, through to real time Webcam interaction, all this makes the TV seem a little dull. Watch all of everything now or wait a year later or never for the BBC to catch up. The latest movie, or a 1996 Steve Segal disaster, shown for the third time this year? You choose.

Tonight though it’s the murky world of social network sites, and one in particular recently has caught your attention. One where public and private camming is prevalent.

Safe and unsafe cammers are grouped erratically, with the safe mixed in with unsafe, and vica-versa. Ninety five per cent in the unsafe category are men seemingly from the Zombie Borg collective, with an instruction to wrench their cock’s off. Pensive looking women of all ages or bouncing cleavage makes up the rest… some are more bouncy than others ... oh and don’t forget there’s twitching knickers too!

A girl on this site caught your eye a while ago, an 18 yr old redhead smiling in a still cam frame, looking like a slimmer younger version of Gillian Anderson. She’s captivating and alluring, capable of being a girl one moment and a woman the next.

You’ve read her profile and she’s an all American, small town girl from one of those mid to mid-western states. She’s exemplary in every way, beautiful, well mannered, respectful and motivated. A virgin she says waiting for the right guy. For now though her life and love is devoted to Jesus, oh dear, oh dear.

Alarmingly though, she was then and still is the number one most viewed girl on public cam, for someone who’s set strict age parameters, for those that can message her, this was at the time odd.

So you flicked on the cam option and joined in with the other rabid hounds, for a session of intrusive sneaky voyeurism, just to get a hint of her attraction you understand.

And so indeed, did you settle down and watch too.

After a few minutes it was seemingly evident, that this young woman didn’t realise she was putting on not only a public visual show, but unwittingly a vocal performance too! In between, the long doe eyed gazes into camera, and infernal keyboard clicking; you got to hear snatches of a pure voice without flaws, with out accent or dialect. Perfect English almost, spoken by an American. And that’s what’s drawing the danger in.

And at the time you thought it’s...

Not just a glimpse of thigh, or a flash of virgin cleavage. Not just her pristine smile or the shake of her long flamed locks. Nor the sight of her milky white hips, when she unbeknown causes the groins of ninety men to twitch, when she sits up and stretches on her bed. Or neither her sweet innocent eyes poring intensely and with wonder, into what is behind her monitor screen.

No, it’s the open honest voice and what she says so casually, unaware of what this is, that reveals her and her demeanour, and tells you just how vile this invasion of her privacy is. She’s a perfect vulnerable dream for your average dysfunctional voyeur, she pours out just too much information.

‘George I love you too girl, yah... you too take care, bye now xx’ she says at the end of her cell phone call.

‘Just my jeans mom, yeah that’s what I said, just the jeans I left outside. Ok... Thank you.’

‘Lasagne... is that what you mean? Oh, ok! Yeah, I like it too. But my favourite Italian dish is Fettuccini Alfredo’s. What! You mean you’ve never heard of Fettuccini Alfredo’s. Wow!

She‘s so polite and sweet, dealing with an uncouth Brit on her mic. ‘But my all time fav is French toast; my mom is making me some now,’ she closes her eyes and expresses her drooling anticipation, god only know what the guy is expressing. ‘I can eat French toast 24/7.’ She says emphatically.

She smiles again before flitting to a puzzled expression.

‘You’ve never heard of French toast either, are you being serious?’ She looks genuinely amazed. ‘Just bread fried in butter mixed with cream and cinnamon, maybe with strawberries sprinkled on top afterwards.’ She continues politely.

These vocal vignettes happen sporadically; always you hear her voice, sometimes to herself.

‘Man... Why are some people just so gross on here? ‘She exasperates, as she sees the latest chat up line for her sleaze across her screen.

Sometimes you hear the other party in a conversation.

‘All though she has a red bushy, I’ll take her up the tushy.’ Here you just see her giggle and collapse forward on her bed at the lewdness of her suitor’s crass rhyme. Then you see the mischievous twinkle in not so innocent eyes, when she lifts her head from the bed and shakes her hair, smiles beautifully, and then gives herself to the camera.

You want just 2 minutes of her time, just to say, ‘Are you aware fully of what is going on out here in the jungle, are you really this naive?’ However, you can’t because you’re outside her age parameters for messaging privately.

Instead, you watch desolately, as she lolls about on her bed, sometimes lying on her back, thinking of what 18 yr old girls think of, in-between the tedious bouts of keyboard tapping. Occasionally a sweater is removed and as she stretches, you get an idea of her full slim figure. But most of the time it’s her looking with abject disillusion into the screen.

‘I wish I was there,’ she tells someone one night, ‘here it’s just so, soooo boring.’ There turns out to be Leicester, oh dear, oh dear.

Tonight though she has gone, account now suspended it says. Did something go wrong? More I hope, that it went right. Maybe she’s on her way to Leicester, to find out the hard way about some places being bleaker than small mid-west American towns. Maybe she sussed her audience, recoiled and withdrew, perhaps even Mom or Dad intervened. Who knows?

And perhaps in reflection, although your intentions were noble, they were half hearted and you really wanted it all to linger on.

Yeah it’s all good now, she’s gone and that she moves on, no more live online domestic squabbles with mom, no more Rita Hayworth shakes of her long blaze of hair. You’ll have to speculate on what life has in store for this all American girl.

And in any case after one goes, it’s never long, until another of these girl comes along, and life after the watershed goes on.

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