My Body is a Gaylord

It’s New Year, and I have only one resolution: to restore my physique to its 1970s glory. While most of you wobbling grease-buckets and sofa-bound single mothers are content to slip quietly into lardful loathsomeness, turning your bodies into giant KFC-digesting stomachs while you sport bastard tracksuits that would induce wretching in any sane person, mine is a cathedral of flesh that once secured me some of the most lucrative film roles in Hollywood. It’s true, decades of rabid paranoia and countless bottles of Galliano left me a rotting and pock-marked carcass, but I am so utterly convinced that there is nothing irreparably wrong with me that I recently went to the doctor for a once over.

After sitting in the waiting room surrounded by the mentally ill, crippled and strikingly ugly, the doctor finally beckoned me into his room. Once inside his lair, the skinny medical deviant instructed me to remove my shirt and trousers, and in doing so I revealed the full horror of the situation. Following an almost imperceptible shudder at the sight of my nakedness (which I now realise was induced by his faggoty excitement), the young man licked his narrow lips and started caressing my long-neglected chest – as if I were a budding woman.

Panic rushed over me and I felt my bowels loosen as, after proclaiming a clean bill of health, he moved his clammy hands down my torso and discovered my most sacred of places. As he silently tightened his grip, and an ice-cold sweat formed on my brow, I was certain of only one thing: I was being molested. There was an inkling that the situation may violently escalate if I refused to play along, and by now I was ruing my decision to seek medical help. Promptly, and not tenderly at all, the man asked if he could examine my prostate, then instructed me to remove my sinful underwear and bend over. It was now that I remembered Wes Craven’s canny advice for such situations, and decided to deter my would-be attacker the only way that made sense: by soiling myself.

I’m not proud, but I shat like I have never shat before, passionately and with violent purpose, utterly voiding my entire colon. Torrents of loose, pale stool splashed onto the floor until my attacker, dismayed and defeated, quietly begged me to leave.

And it was on the way home, caked in effluent and with time to reflect, that I realised my body must be perfect. I still look good enough to catch the eye of an attractive, if desperately perverted, young doctor, so you can all fuck off and shove your Atkins Diet up your japs-eye. I’m going to drink more sloe gin than ever, start eating a whole goose for breakfast, and force myself on as many women as I can find.

Yours with pharmaceutical urgency,

Gaylord St. James