In which self-styled ‘ethnosexographer to the stars’ Dr. Y. U. Thropplenoggin embarks on a fresh expedition.

As an escape from the wearying excesses of my new-found fame, I decided to embark on a fresh expedition, exploring an intra-species species that went by the name of Bizarre Dwarf.  I had read the only literature I could find on this strange pint-sized blighter, a periodical that one might term haute-erotica and which bore the helpful appellation, Bizarre Dwarves.  Asking the Manhattanite tribe whither I might best encounter such a peculiar creature, the general consensus was to head to Coney Island, in particular, a freak show thither which opened its doors every Thursday eventide.

It was with some trepidation that I donned my safari suit and pith the following Thursday, and made my way across the badlands of Manhattan to the Coney Island Freak Show.

Verily, it was a place like no other.

Gadzooks!  if I wasn’t being thoroughly unmanned by my surroundings – an enormous Ferris Wheel and sundry other carnival gimcracks loomed large, diminishing my stature, seeming to, and I jest not, dwarf me! Me, the Big T, who had only recently trodden the boards at Thugz’n’Beatchiz, vanquishing the diabolical verse of R’d Cor! and matching The King of the Kanyes ‘est’ for ‘est’!

How could my poise shrivel thus?!

Yet this was nothing – a mere trifle – compared to how I felt in the presence of the fellow saps loitering roundabout.  The swarthy chaps who bestrode the machinations and festivities were rippled with taut musculature and their skin was possessed of a hale and hearty suntanned hue.  These “carnies” elected to dangle a pirate’s gold ring from the dusky lobe of each ear, whilst their hairs were grown to extraordinary lengths and then pulled back into something that bore a passing resemblance to a horse’s tail!  Beside such virile oafs, I looked quite dainty and effeminate, with my manicured nails and atomiser at the ready with which to keep myself suitably aroma’d with perfumed tinctures.

I was accosted by one quite suddenly, who demanded to know whither I came from.

‘Her Majesty’s British Isles,’ I said, my breast swelling with pride as I did so.

‘Ha, reckon you’s be meaning the Shittish Isles!’ he sneered, drawing forth a gaggle of giggles from the goons occupying the near-abouts.

Resisting the urge to jab a finger in the eye of this snaggle-toothed snotbag, (forsooth, ‘twas a Herculean feat!), I pushed on with this second expedition, but not without an ‘inbred bedwetter!’ tossed over one shoulder.

Unmanned I may have been momentarily in the presence of such gross testosterone-wafting, but I was not unmotivated.  I dallied not one whit in my search to ferret out and fornicate with the slight Cinderella, Bizarre Dwarf.  Dr. Thropplenoggin was ready to show this much-trumpeted Thumbelina the Big T’s tallywhacker, sheathed or otherwise, and do so in the making of the merriest sport known to Man, the Noble Game.

Indeed, upon ferreting my way betwixt the labial flaps of a canvas marquee upon the promenade section, I was instantly reminded of a line that Banquo utters in “the Scottish play”, and Shakespeare’s bon mot leapt from my tongue ere I had chance to halt it:

“You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.”

Before my very eyes were three bearded beauties, each in the same hirsute state as the Three Witches, or, as my school chums and I were wont to label them, The Six Tits (huzzah!), from “the Scottish play”.

One, a lady whose moustaches were twice, nay, thrice as thick as any this Thropplenoggin could grow, called herself Na-tache-a.  The two other hairy Marys called themselves: Hairy Mary and Wendy McWhiskers, a Scottish clan than only a dunce could believe actually existed!

I apologised for my outrageous ejaculation of moments earlier, and decided to engage these furry fillies in discourse.  Perhaps they would know the whereabouts of the microscopic marvel, Bizarre Dwarf.

To be continued…

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In which boshmonger nonpareil Dr. Y.U. Thropplenoggin responds to a knock at his door.

It was my new chambermaid, a delightful little filly called Rosalita, of Mexican extraction.

Hers was a sorry tale, comprised of begrimed U-bends and the ill-considered discardation of used prophylactics.  As far as the average Manhattanite tribe member was concerned, she did not exist. Mr. West, who had shown such largesse to me, remained indifferent to her, but, forsooth, I could not. I implored to know how I might assist in helping this unconventionally-beautiful wretch. She pointed southwards and, in a merry tone, said, “Get on it!” I wasted no time in sating the carnal inclinations raging through my frame.

Seconds later, I was sleeping the sleep of the just, and awoke after several hours to find rosy Rosalita gone, along with my money pouch.

Zounds!

It was during one of my peregrinations of the metropolis that I discovered a most ludickrous sight, a Man who had set up a temporary domicile on the pavement – what the foul Manhattanite denominates a “Sidewalk” – which seemed the height of absurdity given the baubles and Mammonalia I saw on my perambulations of the city each day.

This humble abode was a rather intricate construction built out of cardboard boxes whose former owner, of Scotch extraction, was still visible on the exterior: forsooth, McDonald.

After several knocks upon what I perceiv’d to be the orifice of ingress, accompanied by a bout of Hulloo-ing, the proprietor appeared, crawling out on hands and knees, and donning the same “jungle” hues as my beloved safari suit.  A portly chap, he struggled to arise to a standing position, but arise he eventually did.

“A most impressive erection, sir!” I roared, sticking out a mitt and introducing myself in full: “Dr. Y. U. Thropplenoggin at your service: ethnosexographer, raconteur, deipnosophist, bon vivant, and, dare I say, wit.”

He introduced himself as one Raymond Mears.

“Mears?  Is that a Welsh name?” I enquired, alarums ringing and brow furrowed to the maximus!

He nay-sayed this hypothesis. He was here to serve as an edifying lesson in what he termed “Urban Survival”.  He had decided to live a Henry David Thoreau-style existence subsisting on the gristle discarded by those living off the fat of this Land. I concurred that life in the City was not without its dissipations and wearying trials. He said that of all his few possessions, that which he most prized was a ‘machete’ – a gift, he said, from his time amongst the Aborigines, a tribe of Antipodeans among whom he had sojourned in order to acquire a rudimentary understanding of Bush Craft.

“Wanna see her?”

“A filly, eh?”

He seemed eager to show me his cutlass so I bade him expose his fearsome chopper in all its steely glory.

Schwwwiiiiiinnnng!

Once safely sheathed, he continued to expatiate on his métier.

“Bushman” has a very different meaning today,” he said, and I caught a melancholic note in his voice.

“Is that so?”

“Are you familiar with the terms Pubic Topiary and the Brazillian?” he asked. I confessed that, in sooth, I was not. “Well, that’s the only bush-craft trade I can ply these days,” he mumbled, with much weltschmerz in this mumble.

Indeed, his was a most direct and efficacious speech, comprised of stout lexemes like “great stuff!”; verily, a “no-bosh” approach to discourse, discarding extraneous words and lexical frippery.

“I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a ‘back, sack and crack’?”

“Alas, no.  We Thropplenoggins have a reputation for hirsutin’ it like a materfornicator. The machismo factor is so essential in the field of ethnosexography.”

And with that, I bade him good day with a firm shake of his mitt, and continued my peregrination of the city, in search of the well-upholstered hussy, Ghetto Booty.