So the Corrs went sashaying off to entertain some dude they’d said was way like me. But dude totally wrote poetry. That seemed most unlike me, even ignoring details like him liking his poems with fake blood on them, which is way more weird than fully. Also, apparently he’d stop with fake blood spatter and the Corrs getting naked, so he clearly has no dick.

Not tonight. You seem to have a headache.

But just then I could in no wise despise that fool, because my dick was likewise, like, totally floppy. This is something that is normally not appreciated, though it was approved of by elderly librarians when I was at school, but not so much liked by chicks. Present a chick with a dick that’s doing nothing and a “nothing doing, sister”, and much female understanding, support and sarcasm can flow and ensue. A friend of mine totally told me.

But there I was, as deflated as the Save Ferris balloon, fully deflated, dudes and manettes, but the Jaime-Bob dick seemed to be absolutely as popular as it ever has been. Ever. 

So I was, “Hey chicks, Warpaint and also Dixie alike, this is like a fully soft cock, which is not the most triumphant tribute to your beauty, yeah? Or not?”

And the Emilys were all, “Aw, don’t you see it? It’s adorable!”

So I was, “Chickettes, I fully don’t get why you’re baby-talking my dick like you thought flat and squishy was the new hard. It mean, stick a feather on the end and this dick’d totally look like a party tweeter.”

And Theresa Warpaint’s nipples went all, you know, bulletty. And she was fully, “But Jaime-Bob, party tweeters are hot. Also fandoozles. Party horns. Flid-whistles. Squeakers. Blow ticklers.” And she waved her hand in front of her guitarlicious tits, like to cool down.

And Natalie Dixie was, “And party tweeters, yeah. Hooo. Even the names are getting me way hot.”

And Jenny Lee Warpaint went, all sultry if that’s the word I think it is, “And wet.”

And Martie Dixie was, “And wild.”

And Stella Warpaint put her finger in her mouth and then pointed it at me. “And wide.”

Now there is fully nothing sweeter to these ears than praise from happy women. But this praise was fully fake, and hearing it was, like, like eating a photo of a jellyroll. And though I love some jellyroll I fully need the real thing: fuck similes.

But the glowing squirming excellence and extremities of my slippery seatful of the chicks Dixie and Warpaint totally notwithstanding, they were making me uncomfortable. If they’d praise anything I did then none of that praise meant anything.

So I stood up, which is not something that can at all actually be done in the front seat even of a Chevrolet that was fully the size of one of the Gilbert Islands, and I reached for my underpants. “There is nothing at all, chicks, that I could do wrong, is there?”

The dreamer can leave but the dream is never over

They all looked up at me, open-mouthed and shook their heads slowly, like beautiful laughing clowns. Theresa Warpaint was all, “No, you can’t be wrong, honey.”

And Natalie Dixie went, “Not in our eyes.”

So I stepped over onto the back seat and vaulted out of the car. And Stella Warpaint went, “Honey no, where you going? You can’t go. It can’t be the same without you.”

But I was fully, “Look, dudettes, you’re hot and all, hot on a solar hotness scale, and I know I’ll be waaaay sorry for this. But this must be my world, here, so I’m fully allowed to leave it, yeah?”

And I totally walked away. But the sight of their most woebegone faces stayed with me. So I turned back. The fish tank had disappeared but there was still a Chevy packed with naked Dixie Chicks and Warpaints, with fourteen nipples pointed at me and seven girl-faces looking fully big-eyed and sad.

And then the Corrs produce this singing fishtank, as big as a football field, and they drag it into place where Warpaint’s pool table used to be. And there’s mermaids in there, brushing their hair and singing songs that don’t have lyrics, except for “weia weia woglalala” and such. 

So I’m like, “Thanks for the fish tank and all, but, hey, I like totally never ordered a fish tank and I fully don’t want to see it on the bill, man. Or man-ettes.”

And the like senior Corr, she goes, “Noa, m’darlin, the fish tank is gratis.”

And I’m like what?

She’s all, “I mean it’s free, y’… handsome devil, and sure and you’ll be grateful to us later. Sometimes you just foind you need a fish tank. This one’s fully operational, and fires real fish.”*

So I go, “Yeah like totally whatever. Hey, you wanna get with the party in the front seat here? My body is like totally a theme park for rock chicks, Corr-ette, whichever one you are.”

And the Corr of Corrs is all, “Thanks sugar, but no. We got another appointment.”

 And I’m like, “Appointment?”

 And the middle Corr says, “yeah, it’s a guy like you. We just have to go and see him sometimes. And we do this thing.” 

PVC raincoats are a thing.

“Thing?”

“To be sure. We turn up in these little see-through raincoats, and he reads us a poem he’s written. A really angry, angry, angry poem. And then we splash blood everywhere, and we take off our raincoats and we tell him he’s the greatest poet who ever lived. Total genius, the poet’s poet’s poet.”

 I’m, “No way!”

“Absolutely way.”

So I’m all, “And then what happens?”

And the two older Corrs are all looking at each other, like they don’t remember what comes next, and they’re totally shaking their heads, and it’s the junior Corr who goes, “No, m’jo, that’s it.”

And I’m like, “It? Freakin fuckin deacon, that’s not much of a party, is it? Not like the fun the Chicks and Warpaint are having.” 

And the Corrs are like, “No, acushla, we find it an utterly satisfying encounter. In. Every. Way. We love it and it gives us complete physical satisfaction. As women.”

I’m like, “wow”, and then they’re all, like, bye, and they sing a unison see you later to the Dixies, and they skate off.

And I’m shaken by the whole thing, and while I’m thinking it over the Chicks and Warpaint suddenly chorus, “Awwwww! It’s gone soft! Isn’t that just the sweetest, most adorable thing?”

I’m like, “It’s totally never happened before, it’s not you, it’s, I’m under a lot of … Wait a second: sweetest? Adorable? Are you sure?”

* Friends of mine will note that I’ve stolen Michael Moorcock’s “fish tank” gag again, but it was bound to happen, soon. Least I’ve got it out of the way.

Emily Dixie

So I’m in this awesomely huge Chevrolet convertible, peoples, outside the Phully Phat Phizzeria, and there’s like me and my coq au pommes frîtes avec Moët and also Chandon in the front seat. Which seat is also most awesomely decorated by the Dixie Chicks, fully naked, I mean wearing nothing but a smile and roller skates totally out of American Graffiti. Also the pale gold radiance of their beauty, which’d make you wanna bang their booty.

And they were squirming around all sleek and smooth like, y’know, totally fit blonde dolphins, and it’s full-on party hour. Natalie and Emily and Martie somehow get my shirt and pants and Mr T boxers off without me even getting out of the seat, which is fully weird.

Then Natalie turns round on my lap, facing the front with her arms stretched out like a car ornament, and lowers her little asshole onto my gearstick, I mean mine, my most intimate gearstick, which is soon more than somewhat comfortable filling her lasshole.

Emily Warpaint

And while I’m grinding Natalie I’m kissing Emily and Martie, and then Theresa and Jenny Lee from Warpaint are, like, sliding most bodily and bodaciously into the car too. Then Warpaint Stella arrives with Warpaint Emily, who hi-fives Dixie Emily, and the Chevy is rockin’ and I’ve got my cock in. 

There’s champagne being supped from here and there, and here again, and everything is most entirely squeally and moany and foamy.

And then Natalie climbs off the gearstick and gives it a champagne scrub, and they all demonstrate the superior leg room of the Chevrolet by getting down and taking turns like totally swallowing my swizzle, which is my way of avoiding the word, y’know, cocktail. I am way impressed by the superior technique and breath control of chicks some of who or whom can like even, f’fuck’s sake, yodel. DING!

But this is when the Corrs rock up in their little PVC raincoats, except for the guy no-one remembers, who isn’t there, and they kick Warpaint’s pool table on down the road.

One of the Emilys looks up and is, like, “awww, what?” but I’m all, “Hey, Corrs.”

Because, like, could you ever really tell them apart? 

(To be concluded. There is, sort of, a point to all this.)

So I was drivin this huge red Chevrolet convertible car thing, size of a tennis court, and I pulled up at the intercom at the Phully Phat Phizzeria. (Yeah, “Phizzeria”. The ‘h’  is silent. Go figure.)

The like intercom chick has this way breathy voice, and she was like, “We’re here to give you whatever you want”, and I’m all, “So can I have the crépinettes de volaille au périgueux, with, like, french fries, and hey, some Moët for now and we’ll see about something sensible to drink later.”

And this chick was like, “Et Chandon! That’s so cool,honey! We’ll be right out.”

And, HOT DAMN! In about 0 seconds these three blonde chicks come zipping out on roller skates, each one holding up a tray, except for the plump one with the ice bucket and champagne, and they’re like fully naked, and they skate pink girlie circles round my car, and while I’m scoping them and thinking, like Fine muscles, and most bodacious breastworks you have, ma’ams, they’re singing this totally hot song that goes, “I’m gonna take you in my tunnel of lurve and rock you all night,/And when we said George Bush was a moron, were we right or were we right?”, and I realise, like hey, these are totally the Dixie Chicks.

And I’m all, “Hey, chicks, I appreciate that I’m a hot guy and that, on a good hair day with backlighting and stuff, but are you sure it’s me you want to entertain in your furry-thatched little love tunnels?”

And like Martie, the sensible one, goes, “Well, this is your order for chicken and chips and fizzy, or isn’t it?”

And I was all like, “Yeah, that was totally me, and I’m fully not complaining, I’m just saying all this seems unlikely.”

And she’s like, “Well, meh.” 

So I’m still all, “You sure you got the right guy, here?”

And then Natalie, with the champagne, says, “Look, Jaime do you usually own a big red Chevvy?”

And I’m like, “Hey, Natalie, my car is like totally a Honda Civic. I can’t explain the Chev. Whatsoever.”

She says, “Well, think about it. Or not.” And then Natalie’s all pouring herself into the car and pouring champagne over her breasts, and jamming my face where the foam rivulets, and then the other girls get in, cause it’s a front seat like as wide as that greengrocer with his finger on the scales in the Walthamstow market, and it’s gleaming streaming titties and pussies and close harmony singing of politically progressive songs everywhere, like, dudes and ‘ettes.

Warpaint are cool.

And I’m thinking about whether Natalie likes doggy style, or whether I should take her even doggier, up The Road Less Travelled, and if I could make a Natalie/Nates joke, and I hear rumbling, and I look out, and those are Warpaint, all naked except for the dab of shaving foam that Wendy O Williams used to wear, but they’re sharing it, and they’re pushing this ginormous pool table with, you know, huge pink pillows on it.

And I’m like –

To be continued. (Probably.)