19th Century Satire

Pardon Me: Do I Have Spinach in My Asshole?

What the Dickens?

I now invite your imagination to wander to the streets of Dickensian London. Only, in this particular London, it is perfectly acceptable to expose one’s nether regions in public, so long as one’s intentions are pure.

Lady — Pardon me? I’m terribly sorry to trouble you sir, but do I have spinach stuck in my asshole?

Gentleman — No trouble at all Madame. Bend over, let’s have a look.

Lady — [as she begins to remove her seventeen layers of undergarments] Very gracious of you sir. Most gracious indeed.

Gentleman — Think nothing of it my good lady. Terrible thing to have spinach wedged in one’s apple bottom. Worse still, to suspect spinach in your brown eye and be left with nary a soul to give a hearty inspection.

Lady — [as she hinges at the waist, dress hiked, sixteen knickers at her knees] Right you are. I’ve been feeling a terrible tickle about my backside all morning. I’m off to call on my sisters, and it would be a dreadful embarrassment to come along with a spinachy bunghole.

Gentleman — [as he bends down to inspect the lady’s asshole] Verily, I can think of no greater indiscretion. In my more robust youth I once interviewed to buttle at Buckingham Palace, only to have the opportunity spoiled by stray spinach bit.

Lady —Goodness gracious! Her Majesty spotted spinach up your bum then?

Gentleman — Alas, it was lodged in my armpit. But mortifying all the same.

Lady — Oh how splendidly disastrous! Might I inquire as to your progress sir? Have your eyes espied any troubling verdure betwixt my cheeks?

Gentleman — Certainly! You were correct to be concerned Madame! So far I have counted twin leaves in tandem, a pair of stems, and a parsnip!

Lady — Appalling!

Gentleman — Shall I extract them?

Lady — You would find me exceptionally grateful if you do, sir.

[as the gentleman delicately removes the ruffage from the lady’s rectum, humming a ditty his father would sing when he removed spinach, arugula, and all manner of leafy greens from the fart boxes of his children.]

Lady — Miserable weather beleaguering London of late.

Gentleman — Unquestionably miserable. That’s winter for you though: every year a new misery to foster an appreciation for the privileges of summer.

Lady — I wish my outlook were half so rosy, sir. Verily, the winter will compel me to nuthouse one day, just as it seems to have befuddled old Mr. Scrooge.

Gentleman — Ebeneezer Scrooge? That tight-fisted hand at the grindstone? The squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner?

Lady — The very same. Only a fortnight past — Christmas morning it was — I saw the aged coot galloping through the streets in his dressing gown, a mad smile as his countenance, slinging six-pence to scoundrels and patting the heads of the less fortunate. He looked a perfect loon!

[as the lady shivers, her exposed buttocks catching a chill in the wintry streets of London]

Gentleman — And you attribute these uncharacteristic displays of generosity and good cheer to inclement weather?

Lady — What else could account for such queer circumstances?

Gentleman — Perhaps he’d got spinach stuck in his asshole these last twenty years, and woke on Christmas morning to find it dislodged?

Lady — A hypothesis, to be sure. I’ve heard some say he was visited by ghosts, who broadened his perspective through visions of his past, present, and future.

Gentleman — Nonsense.

Lady — Naturally, it’s pure tomfoolery. It’s this cold, most certainly.

Gentleman — Ah! Calloh callay! I’m pleased to announce your poop chute has been decontaminated — and an adorable apple bottom if I may be so bold as to say so Madame.

Lady — Tremendously?

Gentleman — Smooth as cream and supple as Swiss cheese. Might I inquire as to your situation? Are you married? Have you any children?

Lady — Espoused to an elliman sir, but we haven’t any children. Try as we might, something is always in the way.

Gentleman — Spinach?

Lady — Precisely. Spinach, beet greens, kale, corn. Puts me husband right out of his mood the second he distinguishes a cabbage leaf across my quim.

Gentleman — Well young lady, I run a medical office abutting this very square here in Blackheath.

Lady — Dentistry? You look a dentist, I should say.

Gentleman — Rectal hygienist, actually. The dentist of the derriere.

Lady — It’s important work, to be sure. Only the most esteemed can be entrusted to primp and powder the rosebuds of London.

Gentleman — Just so Madame. Wars have begun owing to nothing more than a King’s itchy bum.

Lady — Assholes are an issue of global significance, to be sure.

Gentleman — The great malady of these modern times, which is precisely why I must take the utmost care in selecting my assistants, and you — young lady — are the penultimate candidate, if I do say so myself.

Lady — But you haven’t perused my curriculum vitae sir! You know nothing of my past.

Gentleman — Madame, I can tell more about the history and good character of any man — or any lady for that matter — with one glance at his chocolate pocket than I may glean from a resume of a thousand pages. And your balloon knot is exquisite! Simply the best I’ve ever seen! A delight to gaze upon! I’ll start you at eight schillings a fortnight, and of course you may avail yourself of our anal flosses, backside perfumes, and rump mints.

Lady — This is all very sudden sir! I’m not sure what to say.

Gentleman — Say yes, my dear! For you have but to utter that one glorious exclamation, and a world of sparkling, healthy assholes will be at your fingertips this time tomorrow.

And I happen to know that the lady did say yes to the gentleman’s offer, working many happy months as a rectal hygienist’s assistant before she took ill with the next winter, was struck mad just as she prophesied, and was found expired in a snowbank at that very faithful intersection, where she first propositioned the kindly gentleman to inspect her asshole for spinach. She froze inverted, with her rear end in the air, so that throughout the winter of 1844, Londoners from far and wide made pilgrimage to Blackheath, keen to marvel at the poor frozen woman and her exquisite stinkwrinkle.

The end.

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