Mr Bison's Journal

By Edward Bison

Take an acerbic, irreverent British man, add a small family and a job with lots of travel, and transport the whole lot to the United States. Mix liberally with the kind of humor you're not supposed to share at mealtimes, and spoon out into a book full of observations and bite-sized wit. This is Mr. Bison's Journal, the long-awaited, laugh-out-loud first book from one of the most interesting and rudest new comic writers to emerge in recent years. Mr Bison's Journal is a celebration of toilet humor, bad words and subjects unfit for the dinner table. Refreshingly unconstrained by good taste, and ideal for reading on planes, at bedtime, or even on the toilet. If great literature were like great cuisine this book would be a hamburger, which is to say that it has relatively little intellectual merit, and it won't be good for you, but you'll definitely enjoy it. Buy it now; just don't admit it to anyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Bison
• Release date: Oct 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301451531

Edward Bison

I was born and grew up in England but managed to escape a long time ago to the United States, which should help explain my bipolar approach to cultural references and, occasionally, spelling. I work for a living, because you haven't bought enough copies of my book yet, but one day I hope to have the option. I have been forced to try unemployment in the past and it has little to recommend it, other than the hours, but I'm guessing that money would ease the pain a bit. I'm not holding my breath though. My first book "Mr Bison's Journal" is a collection of funny stories and observations and is destined to become one of the top humor books of 2012/13...well that is what I am telling myself.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to Mrs. Bison, partly for putting up with me all these years, a feat which will impress you more, should you actually read this book in its entirety, but mostly just for being the kind of person who laughs when I tell funny stories about toilets. Apologies to Bison Daughter, who will one day read this book and be appalled by it. And thanks to Jaggy, for providing reassurance that I didn’t just happen to get lucky and marry the only person in the world who shared my sense of humor.

INTRODUCTION

I can’t remember why I started writing this but I suspect someone suggested it based on my ability to make them laugh. Unfortunately, while making people laugh at work is a joy, writing a book to make people laugh is, frankly, a pain in the arse. I have not thus far made my living by writing, which may become more apparent on reading this, my first book. Since I write in my spare time, and allocate what little spare time I have to a number of pursuits besides observational toilet humor, it has taken me a while to finally pull this together. I started writing these pieces some years ago, and as a result they span a period of time in which I have had a number of different jobs, as well as a spell of unemployment, and lived in at least four different locations. This explains why I seem to have multiple different houses and apartments, and why my daughter seems to be various different ages throughout. Bear in mind also that things I noticed yesterday may in fact have been noticed a long time ago. Other than that it pretty much speaks for itself, which is to say it speaks rudely, with much use of bad words and dwelling largely on subjects unsuitable for dinner table conversation. Unless your household is anything like mine I would instead suggest reading in on the toilet, a location for which it is wholly appropriate.

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The Wooden Chair

Back in the good old days, when I had my first job but no money, my girlfriend and I would go camping for a holiday. This was England, where camping meant a real tent, not a half scale replica of your house, on wheels, with electricity and air conditioning. We'd pitch the tent in a field and pay for the privilege of sharing fly-infested toilets with the kind of people who think a week in a tent, in a field, in the rain, is a really nice idea.

I could regale you with stories from the campsite, like how our tent was so shit it used to fall over in the wind, or how little sleep you get when you put your tent up a whole load of big rocks, but the principle feature of our camping trips was the elegant cuisine. We discovered that if you buy a can of chili and a can of potatoes (yes, you can get them ready-cooked in cans) you have a nutritionally insufficient but filling meal for two, requiring the minimum of preparation when you return from the beach, sunburned and too tired to cook much on your tiny little gas stove. This, combined with burger and chips for lunch, not only provided sustenance - it also locked up your bowels in a such a way as to make trips to the foul, pestilent camp toilet unnecessary.

After a few days of this we decided that a break was in order and we repaired to a local restaurant for a luxurious meal for two. Now this was a small town by the sea, and although the restaurant clearly had delusions of grandeur its menu was pretty basic. Instead of fish and chips they had fried fish with chopped fried potatoes and a side serving of garden peas or some shite like that, but when it came it was still fish and chips, only without the paper.

The restaurant was full of freshly scrubbed couples and small families, none of them looking, as we did, as though they'd just been trying to milk an unwilling warthog in a wet field. This was obviously a serious dining event for them, which made the whole charade even more ridiculous to us, as we sat down to our plastic menus and paper napkins. We sat at a table for two, me with my back to the rest of the diners, on plain wooden chairs. Now with a few days of camping already behind us the chili had started to take hold, and as we ate I developed a persistent urge to fart. I considered holding it in, but that would hardly have been conducive to a relaxed dining experience. I therefore decided that I would shift a little on my seat and let it slide out gently so no-one would hear. Unfortunately I completely misjudged the angle of my sphincter to the chair seat and managed to emit a rasping sound that left no conceivable doubt as to its nature or origin.

The gentle murmur and clink of family dining ceased abruptly. I continued to eat my leathery fish as my girlfriend was forced to endure the accusing glances of fellow diners. All it needed was a large neon sign reading it was him and the scene would have been complete. We eventually paid up and left, and as we walked back to the tent I endured a lecture on how she couldn't believe what I had done, and how embarrassing it had been. And no, she wasn't going to see the funny side of it in a few days.

(Many years later the girlfriend became Mrs. Bison, and ended up absolutely seeing the funny side of the event, but that was all in the future.)

Back at the campsite, in the confines of our tiny tent, I decided it might be helpful to my relationship if I made the pilgrimage to the camp toilet and attempted to deal with the recalcitrant chili. As I sat in the concrete cubicle of the camp toilet at two in the morning, trying desperately to coax my colon into life, watching warily as spiders fell about my head, I pondered the clear life lesson learned from this experience:

Don't go to cheap restaurants with wooden chairs. In a pricey joint you can fart into the seat cushion and no-one will hear.

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Little Red Riding Hood

Once upon a time eighteen year-old Little Red Riding Hood was at home in her mother's cottage on the edge of the big wood. She was bored because it was the school holidays, so she was passing the time by pleasuring herself with a rolling pin. Suddenly her mother burst into her room.

Where the fuck is my rolling pin. These gingerbread men aren't going to roll themselves out you know.

Reluctantly Little Red Riding Hood handed it over.

For Christ's sake! said her mother, taking the greased rolling pin between thumb and forefinger, you've got to get out of the fucking house.

Little Red Riding Hood stared moodily at the floor.

Why don't you wait until I've finished these gingerbread men and then take some to your grandmother?

Aw, Mum! said Little Red Riding Hood petulantly, that's miles away. Can I take the car?

No you fucking can't! said her mother gas is over four dollars and you know I can't afford it since your father ran off with that cleaner we hired, that Cinderella bitch. You can walk. There's a perfectly good path through the wood and it will do you good. It'll keep your mind off dirty thoughts and self-pleasure too, you filthy girl.

So Little Red Riding Hood got dressed up in her best clothes and took a basket of gingerbread, fresh from the oven. As she walked out of the cottage her mother shouted And I don't want to catch you wanking off the wooden boy from next door again. Do you understand?

Little Red Riding Hood casually flipped off her mother and started down the path to her grandmother's cottage in the middle of the big wood. As she walked, the trees seemed to close in around her. The cheerful chirp of birds died down slowly and the sun began to shine less brightly. Fucking weather she thought to herself, if it starts to rain I'm going home, and granny can stuff her bastard gingerbread right up her wrinkly arse.

However, unbeknownst to Little Red Riding Hood, a large wolf was watching her progress down the path. He licked his lips as he peeked out at her from behind a tree. Fucking tits on that! he muttered to himself What I wouldn't give to bang the arse off her! And he reached down to give his hairy wolf-cock a squeeze. As Little Red Riding Hood walked on, the wolf followed carefully behind, hiding in the trees. He couldn't afford to be seen, not since that nasty business with the little pig girl. God, the fuss that had caused in the village!

Eventually Little Red Riding Hood stopped and sat down. The wolf sidled out from the trees and strolled casually up. Hello little girl. What a fine day it is! And where would you be going on such a beautiful day?

I'm taking this gingerbread to my grandmother's cottage in the middle of the wood. replied Little Red Riding Hood, not failing to notice the impressive vulpine dick hanging between the wolf's back legs.

That's a wonderful thing. So kind. I do like to see young people taking an interest in looking after their elders he fawned, gazing unsubtlely at Little Red Riding Hood's pert nipples, clearly visible through her shirt. He felt himself begin to harden. Well, I'd better be getting on he added quickly, turning back towards the trees before the lipstick began to show. Maybe see you around he called back over his shoulder.

Eventually Little Red Riding Hood resumed her walk and, not thirty minutes later, arrived at her grandmother's cottage. She knocked on the door.

Come in came a shrill voice from inside, and she opened the door and walked in.

It's so dark in here grandmother said Little Red Riding Hood"

I know came the reply but I've had the electric cut off again, and I haven't been able to get to the bank, what with my piles and all.

Little Red Riding Hood approached the bed. My, what a big nose you have grandmother! she exclaimed.

All the better to smell you with her grandmother replied and you smell pretty damn good to me.

And what big eyes you have! said Little Red Riding Hood.

All the better to see those tits of yours came the reply.

Oh shit thought Little Red Riding Hood, granny's off her meds again. She stepped closer to the bed. And what big teeth you have! she cried.

All the better to eat you with! called her grandmother. And she jumped out of the bed, revealing herself to be the wolf dressed in her grandmother's nightdress.

Fucking hell! said Little Red Riding Hood what did you do with granny?

She's at the bingo said the wolf it's pension day - the bitch won't be back for hours.

Really? said Little Red Riding Hood, licking her lips I think you said something about eating me. Well let's see what you can do. And she lay back on the bed and slipped off her panties, inviting the wolf to bury his snout in her moist snatch. Well, the wolf was up to the task and very soon he had Little Red Riding Hood at the point of no return. She screamed out at the top of her voice, gripping the wolf by his ears as she came. Then, as she lay back on the pillow, contemplating his massive erect hairy wolf-pole, the door to the cottage burst open and a woodcutter leapt in with a large axe and decapitated the wolf with a single stroke.

What the fuck! she exclaimed, jumping up and smoothing down her dress what did you do that for?

I heard your screams he replied and came to help.

Are you shitting me? Do I look like I need help?

Well I'm sorry said the woodcutter but it's only a wolf - what's the big deal?

What's the big deal? said Little Red Riding Hood, picking up the wolf's severed head from the floor Do you see this tongue? All the better to lick me with. Now fuck off and play with your chopper somewhere else. Dumb motherfucker.

And Little Red Riding Hood picked up her basket of gingerbread and stomped out of the cottage.

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Ready When You Are

There was this commercial on TV a while back for one of the erectile dysfunction medicines (Cialis, I think) where this bloke is about to get it on with his woman when he leans on the tap in the kitchen and it breaks, spraying water in the air. The subliminal message of the commercial seems to be that, with this drug, if something unforeseen comes up after you pop the pill, you can hold off until it's convenient and still get the use of your boner.

It's a charming image and all that, but it's not very realistic, is it? Just imagine you're all up for it; Junior is standing to attention and you're ready to ride the tuna express all the way to mayo-town, but you lean on the faucet and it breaks off. First thing that happens is not that you jump into your lover's arms and laugh at the situation. Are you kidding? My reaction would be For fuck's sake! I was all ready for a shag and now I have a thousand gallons of water in my kitchen. Where's the fucking shut-off valve?

The commercial seems to suggest that you can quickly fix the problem and still have sex, which assumes a level of plumbing ability absent in the average homeowner. Let's assume that you're up for the challenge though - what are the chances that you will happen to have the right parts and tools lying around the house. Last time I replaced a tap I had to buy a propane torch, flux, solder and a heatproof barrier so I didn't set fire to the house. And a new fucking tap. Just this morning I had to fix a leaky faucet, which in the old days involved a wrench and a washer, but now requires a pilgrimage to a specialist store an hour away that has the weird part I need.

So now imagine you're jumping in the car for a quick trip to the hardware store. With a massive erection. Always assuming you can turn the steering wheel without getting it caught on your helmet, how would you want to be strolling down the aisles looking for plumbing accessories with a hard-on? You just know that some spotty teenager is going to come up to you and ask if you're finding everything OK, as you hobble awkwardly towards the plumbing section.

The alternative isn't much better is it? You could call a plumber, but is Cialis really good enough to sustain an erection through the two weeks that it will probably take for them to show up? And if it does, how would you like to be staring at the four inches of buttock cleft that is exposed as he leans over your sink, with an erection? Please God, no.

It isn't really likely to be a broken tap that disrupts your well-planned burying of the newly reinforced pork sword though. How often does that happen? No, it will be a phone call that your wife just can't resist answering in case it's important - you never know. Now you're sitting with a fleshy obelisk while she hears all the latest about her friend's mother's hysterectomy. Or maybe you get a knock at the front door and suddenly you're engaged in a transaction to purchase eight boxes of Girl Scout cookies while desperately trying not to point to the ones you want without using your hands. You might be all hardened up when your in-laws drop in for that unexpected visit and now you're looking through their holiday snaps from last year, finding yourself unaccountably aroused by pictures of the shoreline at Bognor.

No, stiffy-pill manufacturers clearly have a hard time confronting the kind of problems that face people in the real world. How about a commercial showing us the guy who pops the pill at work, expecting to head straight home to surprise his wife, but who ends up getting in an accident on the highway. He steps from his car at the request of the police and as he stands up he, well, stands up. The music plays as the shot fades to an image of the bloke smoking a cigarette in bed, then panning over to the female police officer beside him, naked apart from her hat. A deep voice intones Cialis - when the moment is right, you'll do anything that moves.

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Airline Announcement

"Welcome aboard American Airlines flight 89 from Brussels to Chicago. In a moment we will be closing the cabin door so we would like you to stuff all your belongings in the inadequate overhead bins as quickly as possible so that we can depart on time. You will notice that the bins are all a funny shape and completely incapable of accommodating a typical carry-on bag; this is just one of the many interesting features of this Boeing 767. I would also like to draw your attention to the fact that the plane itself was built some time in the middle ages and is apparently held together with tape. This will be comforting to you as we take off and climb to our cruising altitude of 32,000 feet.

Please take your seats and fasten your seat belts. You may experience some difficulty cramming your arse into the coach class seats as we designed them to be comfortable only for someone born with one buttock. We will now show you videos in three languages that provide detailed instructions for fastening your seat-belt, even though a fucking monkey could figure it out; this is the first of many ways in which we will treat you like a complete retard during the course of the flight. We will also repeatedly run videos on federal regulations prohibiting smoking in the lavatories and requiring that you obey all crew member instructions, this in spite of the fact that half our crew members have an IQ somewhat less than that of an aspidistra.

Once we are airborne we will serve a mystery lunch. It will be chicken or beef, but all the chicken meals will run out quickly because you doubt that you will be able to cut the leathery excuse for beef with the pathetic plastic knife with which we provide you. The tiny plastic tray will also include a pink dessert of uncertain composition or origin, a piece of bread and a frozen piece of butter which will break the end off your plastic knife should you attempt to spread it. This will require you to chase your food round the tray with your fork, until it flies off and lands on the floor. Once you are finished amusing yourself with the food you may relax and enjoy the in-flight entertainment. Today's offering includes an episode of Cheers that's so old you will hardly believe we dare show it, but at least it's not I Love Lucy, which was what we showed last time, and that was in black and white, for fuck's sake. The tiny earphones that we provide always have one side that doesn't work and they cut out if you so much as twitch in your seat so good luck watching anything.

Our captain has made a special request that you not congregate in the aisles and galleys, for your safety. This is, of course, complete bollocks and the only reason we care is that our flight attendants don't want you in their way. Fortunately we can inflict just about any indignity on you now and attribute it to new security requirements in the wake of 9-11. (This is why you stand around with no shoes on and all your tiny bottles of liquids in a plastic baggy, waiting for some fat welfare case in a TSA shirt to irradiate you and feel you up.) Of course you will be unable to comply with our request as there are insufficient toilets on the plane and we had them installed right next to the galley so you have no choice but to congregate there while you wait to take a piss. Please resist the temptation to slap the flight attendants when they roll their eyes at you, run over your foot with the cart and instruct you to return to your seat. Remember you are self-loading freight and are here to please us, not the other way around.

For the nine and a half hour duration of the journey today we have arranged for you to be seated next to a fat wanker with halitosis who will attempt to tell you their life story while invading your personal space. Should you be seated in an aisle seat we will of course attempt to fracture your knee and elbow with our heavy drinks cart. Our septuagenarian flight attendants are also equipped with extra wide arses so that they will bump you every time they walk up and down the aisle, ensuring that even should you be capable of sleeping in your tiny seat you will be awoken every ten minutes. Please feel free to lean back and relax in your seat; you will notice that it will recline a full two degrees from the vertical. However, there will be a moron in the seat behind you who will pull on your seat back every time he gets up and sits down again, so please restrain yourself from confronting him outside the lavatory and beating the piss out of him as federal regulations forbid it.

Forty minutes prior to landing we will make you turn off your electronic devices and sit bored out of your mind for no good reason. You may use this time to complete your immigration forms and customs card, although owing to a small oversight on our part we only have enough for half the plane, and those are in Spanish. Buena suerte. Please feel free to leaf through the in-flight magazine, even though you read it from cover to cover