About the Cataloonies from the Cataloony-bin
[Here, also rejected, is the abbreviated version: “Bins and Tins, or The Cataloonies - The shiny greasy vastness of the Cataloony Sea is the Mediterranean swamp where the uglies defecate as any diarrheic colossus into his cracked chamber pot persistently would. The exemplary Shitholes to their East have to put up with the awful wafting smell; the hale, airy Cockcitanians to their South are also people with the forbearance of hermits; the cold lunar poles of the wastes to their North: even there the cleverer beasts give the tainted proximities a wide berth... The Cataloonies live in the Cataloony-bin…, from the North, where the tribe of the lewd lip-smacking Allah-cunt-tins goes interminably at it, down to the where the Tar-a-goner creeps stage non-stop their collaborationist farce, and farther down where the drunkards of Barf-a-loony dwell perennially in vomit, and yet down to where the filthy Per-pig-penial, or -penned rule the animalistic roost with their stinky grunts the very tip of their South…, and from the West, at the Ball-her-arse Isles, where the Men-o’merkins go sniffing around after dirty businesses the whole day long, to the East, inhabited by that other persnickety tinning tribe of the Frog-a-tins..., the Cataloonies are a slumberous, lazy bunch anybody would do better than to fucking mess about with. Better leave them be, just allow them to rot in their own noxious juices. Not for nothing their tin or bin is obsolete, its date of expiration long, long elapsed, you bet.”]
Hi, the name’s Corc, Kirk Corc, and this essay, this truthful documentary about those universally hated Cataloonies, was rejected, as not “reliable” enough, by that Viking pedophile abortion called the Wikipedia. As if…! Also, as if inside the grotesque gryllus that is the Wikipedia is there ever really anything that is so fuckingly reliable indeed!
No matter. Somebody had to investigate that despicable, despised, and warmongering and barbarian nation called the Cataloony-bin - and somebody had to report on the concomitant noisome terrors suffered by their martyred neighbors, the rightfully hallowed Shitholers particularly.
The Shitholers of the Shithole... - no nation pluckier on this earth’s pate. Insistently, through the ages, all her cowardly confederated neighbors pined and fought for her annihilation. What would be the odds for any besieged nation, so massively and cruelly attacked during millennia...? You tell me. And yet... the Shithole beat them all. For it is still standing, and proudlier than ever!
Here, much a propos, debonairly quoting a few undoctored Shithole classics:
“-Monsters always prophesy backwards. They see in the immensity of their crime reason to hang dangling upon those things already gone - not in need of divination, mind you, but certainly of tainted conjecture. Thusly the Cataloonies from the Cataloony-bin falsified history. The Shithole was smashed and thrown to the garbage. Only that the Cataloonies were dealing for the nonce with the wrong bin, for the bin was a tin - and the tin recyclable.”
“-Cursed be ye, ye damned Cataloony bullies, for ye have attacked en masse, with the nazis and the mussolinis, and with such injustice that ye cannot find reason for yer dastardly deed. If ye had been alone ye would have for sure rued this attack.”
“-Cursed be thou, indeed, polack Cataloony; every fucking pox on thee, since against our will thou hast chosen freely what thou now so justly rue. Ah, miserable! Whichever way thou creepest to, in infinite wrath and infinite despair, this place shalt be but hell, for thou thyself art hell.”
“-From its fatuous dream the nation was awakened by the noise of arms, the shrieks of women and the red glare of burning cities… Ignes fatui at the silly zeniths where the contemptible Cataloonies raise their dire eyes. With which empty swagger, the chiefs, with their gruel-filled gullets, the gullible starveling citizens of their warrior nation manage to bamboozle and hornswoggle into the fray! Every bastion falls under their histrionic scything. Waves upon waves of bodies wave with their limbs asleep, shouting the name of their leader: -Generalissimo, Generalissimo! The beastly grunts flow and ebb in the morass. Everybody gets lost in the labyrinth of things done without reason nor rhyme. -Look each of you into your neighbor’s crotch - (the sundry, several, generalissimos command.) -If you should find the crotch unilocular, then go ahead! Have with your teeth, lamprey-wise, the hole in his curple accloyed. For we warriors must not shit but on our own.”
(This last quotation, of course, stressing the proverbial stinginess the Cataloonies are always resoundly guilty of, filthy leeches all.)
But let’s to the matter at hand.
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The Cataloony-bin and its Cataloonies
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After the worthy twins Burton and Brian Matriu guided my steps respectively across the shitty countries of the sick Analstoolies from Analstoolia, and of the Babyloonies of the Babyloony-bin (now, thanked be the divinities, so balsamically massaged by the angelical Amerdican forces of unterror,) their hapless cousin, En Bastià Matriu, served as my guide also for the worst still of those accursed locales.
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A native actually, En Bastià Matriu, from the Apostrophous Party, served me as a perfect guide, making me know the bin country and its tin people to a degree never attained as yet. (And if that’s not “reliable,” you pricks, what is!)
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I howl in pain at the aimless remembrances of the travails and the trips. Heinous quasars above threw their futile frowns at us laggards upon that land of depravity. If it would have to be done again from scratch, I’d squirm as any disgruntled glutton would in front of another execrable paella of frightful giblets from the local gibbet - mincemeats of saintly clergy (constantly and haphazardly swinging, hanged at any dismal crossroads or ratty pinnacle, and then unhooked, and unhinged, and cut about pell-mell) that now bask among rotting larvae and blowflies in bundles of dirty oily rags - for thus the Cataloonies sup. Alas, somewhat tipsy; drowsy and adrift along that nightmare-scape, disastrously unkept and unlicked, where their champagne is the sulfurous arsenical waters that infernally pour forth at the stuttering fountains from the cave where the bloody muddy excrementitious katabothron (where their catamites bathe, catachthonian analoonies of shit,) much accidentally runs, we found a few places where we were ushered into the gist of things.
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Like glowworms sorting amongst the garbage we winked at a hussy once. She responded. Freighted with inane burlesque bromidic repartee their cacophonous converse went. At last En Bastià Matriu told me with a sign that I could approach without fear. Fuck with the flea-ridden Cataloony beauty: the staying power of her disgusting farts, the effervescence of her pustules!
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I told her that I was coming from a contagious, I mean, a contiguous country where we sedulously wove our oaths of fealty to the Cataloony-bin from the cradle already.
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Dimly, the hoax seemed to work. Instead of denouncing me to the thuggish catchpolls as a foreign agent, or as a priest, or as a secret witch disguised as a portly gentleman, she just told my oracle (for which I had to pay a sturdy mulct.) She also made me pay for a pet of hers, an amulet, a sacred taboo of a tottery totem or other, or a what-have-you, a good luck charm to hinder the bad eye and the worse will of the more parvanimous denizens of the surrounding wastes - tatterdemalion minions who at first whine and wheedle for a sou, but that soon stunt you with their giddying transformations: their pointed chins get wedged into the crack of your nether cheeks. They burrow and rummage therein. They bite off your cullions. In triumph they emerge, looming larger than giants, their laughter roaring along the deadly valleys, flaunting on their mouths the bloody product of their bite. You are mighty sore and raw in between your legs, and yet, gently, equable, unruffled, you don’t begrudge the little cherished devils the sum of your possessions. “-Not so cocky now, are thou, thou fucker, thou...!” -they snap. And you, yawning: “-Dear sirs, indeed, be lenient, for the aim of our journey is most innocuous. We tourists throng to the most accessible flop-houses, we bustle like dead ballast around sepulchers of old and scrutinize the incongruous graffiti on their tipped tops, where the choicest whores lean and heartily woo the concurrence; and with which resiliency we jump when even the defunct fellow, a mummy, inside the sepulcher has an impromptu of sorts and hiccups into the ominous zenith like a balloon...” Until too bored with your boring yarn of boring tourism lore the murderous minions are gone. “-Saved again by your lucky charm - drones the swindling crone. -Stretch it often lest it snaps on your nose when you most need have of it.” She meant the scrawny leech, reared secretly to ward off the maleficent spirits the baby Cataloonies are already imbued with and incontinently let off as soon as a patsy is encountered in their predatory perambulations through those landscapes of doom.
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The foregone episode happened, if I’m not too greatly mistaken, in the village of the Allah-cunt-tins. See the map adjoining and follow our hazardous periplus, if you dare, ok?
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Starting there, upon the extreme North, nomina-numina, mutatis-mutandis, the names tell it how it is. Allah-cunt-tins; then, going down, Or-pissants, Tar-a-goners, Barf-a-loonies; Frog-a-tins; Ball-her-arse, Men-o’merkins...
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Fact is I didn’t know mister Allah had a cunt - that, if you ask me, is probably some sort of progress vis-à-vis the highly repulsive bearded monster aloft among the clouds the fucked-up Cataloonies have as a goofy god, who spies from up on high on everybody, and can with the flip of a finger crush whoever he pleases at any moment the crabs on his crotch or the fleas in his itching, flea-ridden yellow beard sting him.
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Next village I remember stopping (for my notes, wouldn’t you know, were stolen, the Cataloonies being the kleptomaniac race par excellence) was the one where the Or-pissants were. Little dwarfish monsters are sent there - and they are this or that..., rather, or just pissants. All of them no-account malformed lilliputians. Nasty imps with a fascist’s moustache.
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Talk about strange funerary ceremonies. The Tar-a-goners are particularly odious: they run rampant all over the village looking for the dead. Actually all the dead are sent over there, to them, hellish inveterate executioners whose creed makes them the barefaced insulters of death. The Tar-a-goners heinously tar and feather the abused corpse. They disguise it as a clown of the worst features. They shit on it, they skid all over it with skating knives underpinning their clogs.
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The Barf-a-loonies are all stupefied drunks. Right. All the inebriated creeps are sent over there, to finish, thus penned up, in filth. The village itself floats and seesaws in vomit. First thing we did upon visiting the malodorous slough was to vomit, what else.
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We zipped through the countryside under a spate of tempests. At the village of the Per-pig-penial, or the Per-pig-penned, on the extreme South already, we chose, too exhausted, to rest. To accomplish such exploit we went as pigs, rooting and groaning as rutting hogs, and with skins akin to those of our beloved swinish fellow earthlings, for as it happened there only the pigs are counted - and to hell with people, which are nonchalantly slaughtered right and left.
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We had been in the village of the Frog-a-tins, on the extreme East, where the frogs are tinned, and then the tins are let go, freely downhill, hurtling, unfettered, steamrolling into the humble abodes of the too tolerant Shitholes, who understandably hate the sinking stinking cans. We had encountered a winnowing party, searching after batrachians. They would take lakes and marshes and they’d flip them upside-down, passing the juice unto massive funnels and through gigantic sieves. They sold us, for a ruinous amount, some ample, preposterously sewn together frog skins that then we donned and painted an awful, grimy pink.
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We took a nut of a cork toward the Ball-her-arse Isles and visited the village of the Men-o’merkins - colonized in better times by the Brits, they remembered some of the perverse habits of their sly colonizers. Every balding woman was sent there. The destination wasn’t so bad, so that even some women with cunts hairy enough would rather pluck their tender cunts and be exiled than bear the tinning, and the tarring, and the barfing, and the pigging, and so on, for in the Ball-her-arsic isle at least the men would come sniff their merkins, which was always quite flattering, not at all that negligible in such an otherwise brutish company.
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