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Iron the Exec

New Kids on the Block had a buncha hits, and Chinese food makes me sick. I also think it’s fly when girls stop by for the summer… for the summer.

I also think it’s fly when new kids drop by the exec for the summer. Unfortunately, they haven’t arrived yet, so I’m left with no recourse but to lie to you the same way LFO lie to slack-jawed prostitutes outside their dive bomb gigs in return for awkward handjobs and a year’s worth of tears. Free ride’s over, Greg Rus-exec-ski. Match point Olivero.

The meeting began unravelling with the usual formalities. Sam Oldman has given up submitting anything remotely resembling a work report, distributing single-paged ASCII pictures of hands giving the finger instead.

“Now hold these up to your face,” Oldman smirked. “Good, good…yeah, fuck you! Blow me, the fucking lot of you, blow me,” he said, flinging the remaining copies into the air and storming out.

President Tasman Dismantle, after repeating the word “inappropriate” three-and-a-half dozen times, noted that Oldman would be required to submit his work report in addition to an anatomically correct diagram of the human hand.

Bobby Latimir—named, incidentally, after the Russian space station that came careening back to Earth in a gigantic ball of fire—took time to remind the exec that there was nothing in the constitution that forbade ASCII images from being included in work reports.

It was at this point Timbo Zang spoke for the first time in recorded history.

“Listen,” he said in a sensual baritone similar to that of Michael Crawford’s ‘Music of the Night’, “Remember when being an elected politician was something to be proud of? I do.”

Zang then stood to the docile tones of the Star Spangled Banner.

“This is absolutely repugnant waste of time,” he continued. “We have been elected to fulfil a very simple task: to fulfil the length and breadth of our duties with furious aplomb. The shear fact that we are discussing ASCII images of disgusting hand gestures is embarrassing. We owe it to constituents, and to ourselves, to do this job properly.”

“Hey Tim?” said Freyba Zing, “Hey remember ‘fuck up’? Yeah, yeah you do.”

For no apparent reason, in walked Alexandra Peilson, former VUWASS VP, and resident guitar soloist extraordinaire.

“Oh shit, it’s fucking Alexandra Peilson!” screamed Shameless Brady.

Peilson saddled up to a spare seat, apparently unaware that since resigning and moving to Auckland to continue studies at some kind of polytech masquerading as a university he had no right to attend VUWASS exec meetings.

“Eskews me, hows youse guys doings?” he asked.

President Dismantle, whose capacity to register human emotion had been obliterated some time between her first breath and the cutting of her umbilical cord, flinched, or at least appeared to. It was… awkward.

At this point of the proceedings Jacksonian Meataxe III strode into the room and slew Michel Juan Olivero with one mighty sway of his monster donkey cock.

The meeting then became a rather aquatic affair which only just rivalled Kevin Costner’s Waterworld for sly references to semen and box office sales.

Sunni Thomas burst into the exec meeting and laid a complaint against the exec for failing to lay a wreath on Ramadan, at which point Dismantle rolled her eyes and claimed “VUWASS has no clear policy on this issue.” She promptly shot Sunni in the crotch with the shotgun she had been slinging over the shoulder of her VUWASS-emblazed, Rhinestone acid wash denim jacket, which up until this point surprisingly no one had noticed.

Latimir then produced a small grind organ—seemingly out of his pants—and proceeded to grind the shit out of that musical instrument. Zing dropped a count down and the exec members jumped onto the meeting table. They partially disrobed down to fluro green leotards replete with Nike sweat bands and started madly gyrating. And pissing. Don’t forget the pissing. They were just pissing everywhere.

With the surface becoming less inclined for the crump dancing the VUWASS exec were engaged in, they slippered and sloppered about. Dismantle and Zing fashioned a rudimentary jump rope out of Sunni’s corpse.

“Fuck this shit is fun!” were Zang’s last words as he skidded over a big pile of faeces some Weir House residents had left in the meeting room earlier.

This tom-foolery continued on for another 45 minutes amid heated debate about whether VUW should raise fees and if VUWASS should send them some Bavarian crème pudding.

At the end of the meeting Dismantle, Shameless and Peilson doffed their straw hats and took a deep bow facing Jacksonian Meataxe.

Salient was lost for words. For once we just didn’t know what the fuck to say after seeing such a remarkable performance by our exec. “What, umm. What do you guys, errr, call yourselves?” Jacksonian stammered.

All three smiled broadly and Shameless took Zang’s dismembered head and prodded the rigour-ridden frown upside down. With the same impeccable timing maintained throughout the show they all said: “The Aristocrats!”

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  1. Gibbon says:

    I question the truthfulness of this account.

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