Ever since the double Pulitzer winning scribe and wife stabber Norman Mailer shuffled off this mortal coil to ascend to the heavens to punch out angels the literary world has been without a true maverick. For many his last few works were sub-par and without concrete substance, lacking the fire and grit which made his earlier works the classics they are today, from the bloody awful poetry in Cannibals and Christians to the rather dull love affair in Harlot’s Ghost. But hark! Here at Sortitaht Towers we have been on a long and groovy search for Mailer’s lost works, and found them down an old tramp’s pants. So, without further ado (apart from this bit, which is completely pointless and a bit overblown and needless, a lot like some of Mailer’s work, come to think of it, yapping on and on and saying things like ‘The city was a woman laid out for the pleasure of mankind’ which is bollocks when you think about it – anyway, I digress) we bring you Norman Mailer’s unpublished works.
Of A Fire In My Balls – The Apollo 12 Mission
The sky was a whore, waiting to be plundered from the mighty steel bellend which was the Apollo 12 rocket. It rose, like a great big phallus with loads of rocket like jizz coming out of the wrong end, to part the sexy clouds like the whores they were. But the rocket was not merely a rocket. It symbolised all that was right with mankind – the height of literary, scientific, emotional and sensual achievement, flicking the V’s of life at God and saying, “Yes, we are men, and we can do bloody pointless things as well, you big fanny.” For man was a big whorey whore made of whore-cloth, and needed a big whisky of destiny before he could bash out any more of this crap.
The Rats of Destiny: Unofficial Sequel to ‘The Rats’ by James Herbert
The rat was a whore. A big, bloated whore of life, eating away at the heavy, cumbersome testicles of society. The rat whore was everywhere in society, worming its way into the very psyche of the nation, turning politician into brethren, order into infested corruption, life into the struggle for sanity which had been denied the rat race for so long. We were all the rats of the world, crammed nose to nose into the sewer of life, fighting for the survival and prosperity which was always denied to those who lived in the gutter of man’s accomplishments. Given the basics, we – the rats of life – survived on our instincts, clawing for the light beyond our reach and then hiding in the shadows once the full beam was turned on us. We were beyond redemption in the eyes of the Gods, and our lives would be wasted to the machine we call civilization.
And then the rats ate the tramps bollocks.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
The leaf was a whore. It sat there, lush and whoreish, shaking its wares into the caterpillar’s face like the big green photosynthetic bastard it was. It taunted him with its lushness, whispering ‘come hither and taste my wares’ but when the Hungry Caterpillar approached it the wind would catch and send it dancing away from the Caterpillar’s big green whorish face. It laughed at him, despised him, hated him, loved him, was amused and repelled by him, and yet the Very Hungry Caterpillar knew to attain the leaf was his only salvation. So he punched it and ate it.
The Man Who Punched Stuff
The old woman was a whore. Jimmy Punchfist knew this as he knew eve r contour of the big dangly testicles that clanged in his pants when he walked. The woman was a big whore and she was laughing at him. Laughing at him as she laughed at the world and all it’s ridiculous tropes; laughed at him the way that life laughed at the fact that he was a short arse who wrote shit poetry – not that it was shit or anything and in fact it was great and skill and groovy and didn’t smell of wee at all; laughed at him the way God laughed at his pants when he got undressed and saw his massive at two inch knob; laughed at him the way all humanity laughed at the world as it ground down the fact that he should have won a fucking Nobel Prize by now, the cunts! The old whorish woman laughed at him with the knowledge that he was last in the queue and she was at least four people ahead and would get served at the Post Office counter before him, and this would not stand. His life was worth more, his legacy was worth more, and his trousers were worth more. So he punched the old woman. But alas, she had an umbrella of steel, wielded like a broadsword, with which she twatted him on the bonce with. Life was yet again unfair.
The Lovely Bag of Fluffy Kittens
Once upon a time there was a big bag of lovely fluffy kittens who went to play in Cotton Candy Land where they met a big basket of puppies. Together the fluffy animals played with ducklings and piggy wiggies and cut ickle bunnies and everyone lived happily ever after in Snugglefluff Land. The Endy Wendy.