THAT WAS a bad old vibe in the United States recently, when that babe cut off her husband’s pecker with a kitchen knife after he had allegedly raped her. A bad vibe . . .

Having sliced off his mickey, she fled the scene, and drove for a few miles, tossing his dingdurum into a car-park.

Someone eventually found Hissing Sid, packed it in ice, and brought it to the hospital, where it was re-united with its worried owner, after many hours of micro-surgery. Now if Samuel J. Snort was ever involved in a similar life-threatening scenario, it’d take macro-fucking-surgery to get his humongous schloooong back in situ, but that’s another story for another day.

The current state of play is that my friend’s misfortunate plonker is now operational in the sense that he can piddle through it. He can not get it up, however, and they will only know for sure after three or four years, whether he will ever ride again.

As it happens, he was acquitted of the charge of rape, though his aggrieved missus told the court that he was a selfish bastard who never kept the flag flying for long enough to provide her with an orgasm. He always managed to get his rocks off, mind you.

Princely pecker

Clearly, on this sad level, Sam Snort finds it almost impossible to empathise with the willy-less wonder, since my own staying power in the saddle has been the subject of awe-struck articles in excellent journals such as The Lancet, and, of course, Hustler.

But naturally, I am somewhat alarmed at the favourable reaction from wary babes to the concept of cutting a person’s dick off.

How can this possibly be? All of my experience has led me to believe that the Snortian love-truncheon is an object of much veneration on the part of all who have had the privilege of being on the slippery end of it. Yes indeed . . .

A babe would no more contemplate cutting off the biggest baldy fella on earth – and I don’t mean Duncan Goodhew, or Kojak for that matter – than she would contemplate going without food and water for a year. Why the fuck would she, when it has provided her, and dozens like her, with hours upon hours of unbridled pleasure and it will again if she can get another appointment with Samuel J.

It is true, babes have made plaster casts of my mighty sword, and placed them in a prominent position in their living-rooms, or even carried them around in their handbags to give them an occasional squeeze in memory of nights in the magnificent Snortian embrace. But the genuine article remains firmly attached to its rightful owner, and will continue to do so. Anyway, I suspect that so deeply is the Snortian crawling king snake rooted in the anatomy, that the propellers of a helicopter would make little impact on it, let alone a mere kitchen knife.

Eventually, when I shuffle off this mortal coil and re-join my many deceased buddies in rock ’n’ roll heaven, I have given permission for the medics to place my princely pecker on public display in the Natural History Museum, where people can gaze on its majestic dimensions with astonishment – a bit like the head of Tutankhamun, only much more wondrous.

Those Pharaohs were obviously ill-equipped in the bollocks department if they would only agree to be exhibited from the neck up.

Serious fornication

All of these sombre reflections on matters phallic has naturally led me to consider the ongoing search for a settlement to the Northern question.

All of those cock-suckers seem to be going about it the wrong way, in the sense that there is a time when the talking must cease, and the action commence.

They blather on and on about John Hume getting into bed with Gerry Adams, or John Major getting into bed with Jim Molyneux, or Martin McGuinness getting into bed with Sir Patrick Mayhew, or, as I prefer to call him, Paddy Mayhem.

If Sam Snort spent as much time talking about getting into bed with people, he would have chronic laryngitis. As it is, I prefer the verbals to be as brief as possible. “Hi, I’m Sam. But enough of this idle banter. Let’s get butt naked and fuck. Yes?”

So the time has come for the protagonists in the North to abandon this absurd and wasteful business of sitting around the table, banging on about strand two and strand three and other such melancholic bolloxology, and to move their operations in the direction of the four-poster and start banging in earnest.

Personally, I don’t believe I would relish butt-fucking Jim Molyneux, but then John Major ought to be grateful for anything in the line of a shag, even with a desiccated old goat like Sunny Jim.

Likewise, John Hume and Gerry Adams have done enough hand-holding and fondling at this stage. It is now time for them to put up or shut up, and to fuck their way to a new Ulster.

The thought of Albert Reynolds and Paddy Mayhem writhing together in a heaving mess of leurve is not for the faint-hearted, I admit – but then, they’ve both been getting it up the ass from Paisley for years, so they know the joys of Hershey Highway at this stage.

If they wish, I can lay on a string of babes to provide a bit of variety, smuggling them into the Stormont love palace in laundry baskets.

Chances are that the protagonists will be smiling their asses off when they emerge after several hours of serious fornication, to announce that they’re all the best of friends now, thanks to this new approach to the “peace process” – which will henceforth become known as The Snort Initiative.

Just to be on the safe side, I will ensure that all the kitchen knives are kept under lock and key, to remove the temptation to commit the unkindest cut of all. And of course I will have the video cameras ready to get the nuances of this historic summit on the record, for the delectation of one and all.

Ulster says “wang dang, sweet poontang.” I can dig it.