The Parable of the Memory Stick and the Busty Lesbian

Towards the end of last term I studied as a part of a small group that met for two hours a week for a tutorial/contemplating suicide session. I won’t say it was dull but I now know that two hours has exactly 7,200 seconds, my lecturer has 10426 nose hairs and that if you stare at the same screen for long enough you gradually lose all remnants of sanity. At least waterboarding is engaging. It was like being roughly sodomised by Ed Miliband. Wearing grey.

It was in one of these tutorials/contemplating suicides sessions that we had to watch a film as a part of my degree, because I DON’T do a soft subject. As we trudged out of the room I noticed that one of the girls in my group had forgotten her memory stick, we used to occasionally do powerpoints in a futile attempt to break the class’ monotomy, and so I picked it up.

I would like, at this point, to make it clear that I had originally intended to give back the girl her memory stick the next day. But a couple of Frosty Jack’s, a working internet and a sick imagination combined to give me a better idea. One that some of my flatmates and the little Frosty Jack’s devil tramp on my shoulder confirmed was DEFINITELY A GOOD IDEA.

Warning: some files may have been corrupted

The plan was simple, but effective. I would still return the girl her memory stick, I’m not fully evil, but first I would load it up with the foulest, most disgusting fetish porn there is.

And we’re talking the worst stuff there is. I didn’t just Google Image search fetish porn and take some pictures off the first page. Oh no. I spent ages trawling through the most horrific parts of my internet history.

That’s not true. Even I don’t watch some of this stuff. There were horses, golden showers, meat hooks. This is the sort of thing you’d only ever watch if you’re drunk, and it’s your forth wank of the day and you’re there whacking it but it’s like an Ethiopian at a water pump. And you just need something, anything to tip you ever the edge.

I fill the memory stick, after draining my stick, and bring it to lectures the next day. As soon as I see the girl I give her the device, while it still seems like a good idea. She looks at the memory stick, a look of doubt on her face. Of course I immediately start to panic, certain she’s realise I’ve done something. And I start generating excuses and escapes in my head. I’m half way through working out the best place in Selly for dumping bodies when she looks at me and says, simply “That’s not my memory stick”.

Naturally I’m confused but glad to have avoided the awkwardness. I explain what I’ve done and she laughs. I take the memory stick to my accommodation again because I have nowhere else to put it and frankly, my internet connection takes ages to buffer. And because I don’t need my internet I open My Bham email. I’ve a new message.

I open it and it tells me that the sender lost his memory stick and that he would appreciate any help finding it. The worst part is that I know this person.

Well, I suppose I should know him really. He is my personal tutor.