Chicken Tikka

‘Christ almighty, Coltrane!’ I shouted at Robbie Coltrane’s buttocks. ‘I’ve been sucking fizzy jism out o’ these pipes for two hours! I can’t ‘ave emptied that much up there, can I? CAN I?’
 
He farted black spunk all over my face. This was unacceptable.
 
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to do this if I’d been forewarned about the diarrhoea. And you can stop emptying it down my gullet while you’re about it. I didn’t give you permission to shit in my face, you fat Scotch baboon.’
 
He grunted, then smeared his sweating, fetid anus across my nose. A fleck found it’s way up my left nostril.
 
‘That’s right! Shift the blame on me, you filthy elephant! How would you like to guzzle down two and a half gallons of man-butter mixed with bowel-batter, eh? You could wave goodbye to that acting career of yours for a start … I’ve probably got typhus now …’
 
He gave me the thumbs up. I shuddered. The big bugger was ready for another load.
 
‘Will you hold still sir!’ I roared. I’d bloated up my unwilling member using a contraption I’d cobbled together from an old bicycle pump and a wide-bore cannula. This was the only way I could keep it hard enough to get past those massive buttocks.
 
Heaving to, I gave him both barrels up the man-chute. He made a sighing noise as I pulled out for the thirtieth time that day. I sank to my knees, furious.
 
‘Right. This time I want none of last night’s Chicken Tikka Masala. Agreed?’
 
Coltrane rumbled, then shit sixty five litres straight down my throat.