The Worst Dickburning I've Ever Attended

What could make for a more refined evening amongst friends than the gratuitous wastage of lighter fluid ("Jizz" in Scroamer vernacular) that is the humble dickburning?  I speak, as those not in the know about such matters will be relieved to learn, not of the burning of real, flesh and blood wood, but rather of the conflagration, combustion, cremation, incineration, scorching, searing, toasting, torching and reduction to ashes of the humble phallic symbol, drawn in the aforementioned fluid (and not, incidentally, in the fluid from which it takes its name, however uncanny the resemblence may be.) This is, i hasten to add, a ritual the pleasures of which are entirely non-sexual, and one which is not at all childish, moronic nor depraved; "I deny that absolutely, that was right out" as Python so elegantly puts it.

Having now dealt with such preamble as I deem necessary, the time has come, (as time, such as it is, seems always, inevetably, to do), to tell the sad, sad, tale of the worst dickburning I have ever attended. The lighter fluid was aquired from the capacious garage of a gentleman who shall remain anonymous - (for the purposes of the journal we shall dub him Mr. D. Boy.) The evening's entertainment was to be held in a large crater at the local university, and after having aquired the necessary vittles, we set off on our merry way, atop, as we so often were, our respective trusty steeds. Once there we busied ourselves with the customary procedures of the average scroam; the setting up of the fire scaffold, the tuning of the instruments, the marvelling at the obtained alchohols (as awe-inspiring as they were various), the girding of the loins and so on.

This done, the evening seemed to feel itself freed, freed to sparkle, and to shiver, and in its time honoured way to wear on, until we found ourselves in an eerie hour of twilight, an hour of ever decreasing visibilty.

With the little light afforded to us by the glowing embers of our soup preparation fire, we fumbled for our various accessories and equipments in the failing evening. It was in these such unnatural and ghostly conditions that the birth of the sport of dickburning was to take place - we, modern day Prometheuses that we were, were to bring about the creation of our very own Frankenstein's monster; to bring the gift of fire to the metaphorical ancient greek mortals here analagous of a wonky phallus crudely scribbled on the dusty ground with the use of a bottle of jizz (firelighting fluid) held between one's legs and squirted with much mirthful glee and abandon. Unlike Prometheus, our punishment was not to be chained to a mountain and gored daily by a monstrous eagle, but rather to live - or attempt to scrape together some semblence of a life - in the wake of and with the full burden of the guilt and horror of what we had wrought.

How we dragged our woebegotten forms home that night i will never know.