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Every Monday, every bloody week the same. He stumbled into the bathroom, cursing the last four pints he'd had the night before - all Barry's fault - and tore up the toilet seat to relieve himself. He was willing, but nothing came. No tinkle, no waterfall, no manly display of pee-prowess. He looked, refused to believe what he saw, closed his eyes and tried again. Focus! No, this was definitely a change from last Monday morning. Carl stared, fingered the spot where his penis should have been, but was not. Gone. Vanished. No doodah, no balls. Nothing but a smooth pink patch in hairy wilderness.
So begins Carl's Monday morning...and it gets worse from then on...
According to the Good Book, God made the world in seven days. Writers create their own universe...playing at being god. So here are seven stories of humans and other critters not having a terribly good time of it in god's splendid universe.
So begins Carl's Monday morning...and it gets worse from then on...
According to the Good Book, God made the world in seven days. Writers create their own universe...playing at being god. So here are seven stories of humans and other critters not having a terribly good time of it in god's splendid universe.
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