All Thumbs

Under a toenail moon, Hollywood elite gathers. A nest of pearl handled teeth, surgically carved buttocks and corn shapes cocks. They buzz like WASPs. It was thumb night and thumb night was delicious. Served on stainless steel tables, obsidian jewels would orbit cooked thumbs, brownish grey. An alminac of world flavours is represented. Fat American ones with loose, flavour saturated skin to tiny Cambodians plucked from the finest child soldiers. Retired, naturally. Adam West greedily tears the flesh off a meaty Samoan. His comments alternate from the piquant aftertaste to how Tim Burton fucked him over of a cameo apperence in Batman. Porn starlet and subpar hotel, Paris Hilton, a neophyte to the scene, comments on how much freshly cooked skin smells like pork. Robin Williams, informs her in the high pitched voice of a New York Jewish matriarch that the food is kosher. Really. Meanwhile, Matt Damon tries to win the favour of his best friend's wife, Jennifer Garner. She'd be rosy with the happy bloat of pregnancy if Matt didn't bore her his vacation with Walter Murch after filming the Talented Mister Ripley) Sensing that he'll never be the Godfather of her unborn child or have another threesome with Ben (who quiped that she was lactating ambrosia, and it was turning him off of normal milk), he brings out the big guns. He removes his tuxedo and removes his machette expertly hidden in his back fat. He explains to her that machettes are a fine example of fine German engineering and won it in a game of poker with Franka Potente. He steadies his left hand on the floor with a ten thousand dollar shoe and carfully saws through his thumb. He finds it hard to continue his conversation with her on the benefits of using machettes versus swords, especially as he cuts through the bone. He switches to quick chops instead. It seems to work better. He offers her the thumb. She chews on it thoughtfully. If Richard Gere was there, he would have remarked that her mastication reminded him of the peace he saw in the dull eyes of a Buddist cow. While cradling his bloody hand and waiting for Jen's vallidation, he watches her pumpkin shaped belly. A baby grows in there. He decides to use his X-Ray eyes. The first bits of Mattflesh slowly tumbles their way into the baby. It kicks in approval. At least the evening wasn't a total loss.


Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews