Intimate souvenirs

Are you fond of a mystery? I’m puzzling over the identity of the pervert who paid $5,300 for Scarlett Johannson’s used tissue. After blowing her nose on the Jay Leno show, she put the item in a sealed bag which was auctioned on e-Bay. In this commercial age, the snot of a beautiful actress is a highly marketable commodity in the deviant ghoul community. My prime suspect is that filthy devil El Barbudo, who once confessed to having erotic fantasies about women with runny noses. I should imagine the bearded degenerate would immerse the tissue in a slimy gel to create a poultice for his private parts. It might go some way to abating the savagery of his sexual urge.

Another possibility is that that a mad scientist has acquired the tissue to extract Miss Johannson’s DNA and create an unspecified number of Scarlett clones. He would indoctrinate them from birth to conform to his evil plans, no doubt involving wanton promiscuity and the exposure of copious milky-white flesh (unlike the real Miss Johannson). Horse-whipping is too good for these modern-day Frankensteins.

Not everyone is obsessed with mucus, of course. I know from experience that the intimate possessions of a performing artist are like gold dust to his (or her) fans. In my circus days, a young woman once offered me a tidy sum for the pantaloons I wore during my act. As I had several spares, I could have borne the loss with equanimity. However my suspicions were aroused by her large breasts, which she seemed to be flaunting at me.

“What do you want them for?” I asked, referring to the pantaloons.

“They’re for my boyfriend,” she answered.

“Are you sure his bottom is big enough?”

“Oh yes, he’s got a huge arse. And he’s really big and hairy, like a…um…bear.”

“Won’t he be worried that people will laugh at him? They’re not really the latest thing in men’s fashion.”

“He’ll only put them on when we’re alone. I’ll cut a slit in the crotch so he can shag me while he’s wearing them.”

As you can imagine, I wasn’t too impressed by her readiness to rip apart the groin of one of my nattiest garments.

“Is that so?” I said sternly. “And what will you be thinking of when he ravishes you in the trouser-wear you have so casually desecrated?”

Her only response to this question was to giggle hysterically and punch me repeatedly in the arm. This caused me little pain, but I felt it lacked the reverence due from a true devotee. When she had calmed down, I asked an errand boy to fetch me a notebook and pencil.

“Here is the name of a theatrical supplier who sells the pantaloons,” I said, handing her a chit. “I trust this will be adequate for your purpose. I cannot involve myself in human mating practices, however indirectly.”

“But they won’t smell the same!” she protested.

“Smells are for flowers, baby!” I declared in the voice of a Harlem gangster, waving my hand to dismiss her from my presence.

Smells are very important, of course, but one shouldn’t hand them out to fans like autographs. It will be a cold day in the Congo before anyone bottles my essences.

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