This is Fruity Chunks, the world’s best entertaining mag. It cost AUD$11.99 for its launch issue, but everyone who attended the second live show was given their very own photocopy for free.
If you weren’t in that hot sexy room in Soho, you can still read Fruity Chunks in its entirety here, now, below, hello.
Magazine lovers used to say that you couldn’t take the internet onto the toilet with you. It was the one negative aspect of the internet: that you couldn’t have it resting on your bare thighs, while you allowed a horrific brown version of a meal to slip through a temporarily loosened network of sphincters.
Since iPads, people like me – who enjoyed magazines as a child and don’t like changing their minds – have had to come up with new ways to justify our outdated preferences. Personally, I use Fruity Chunks. You simply couldn’t put Fruity Chunks on the internet, and I won’t tolerate any argument, no matter how persuasive or self-evident, to the contrary.
Here it is: the magazine that my friend Daniel made when he was, in his own words, “12 or 13”. It is nothing short of an artefact, and one of the best ten things in the world.
As you can see, Fruity Chunks has the dual privilege of being not only the world’s BEST entertaining mag, but also the world’s only XXX magazine. Any magazine that seeks to take on the sum total of human sexuality – alone! – bears an overwhelming responsibility to deliver the goods. It is a responsibility that Daniel meets, and effortlessly surpasses.
Note the titles that Daniel gives himself. He is not the writer, but the compiler. He is nothing so cheap and disposable as a scribe: he is the curator of a series of powerful sexual snapshots.
As such, and with all the power that being the Managing Director of the world’s only XXX magazine entails, he has no time for an advert on the prized inside cover. Instead, he takes the opportunity to subvert the notion of labels.
Magritte famously noted that an image of a pipe is not actually a pipe. Magritte was also famously unimpressed by the Mona Lisa, saying “if that were a real Mona Lisa, she would exceed the boundaries of the frame. Clearly this is just some kind of painting.”
But even that stickler Magritte would have to admit that this is the first page. Daniel 1 – Magritte 0.
Horny people enjoy puzzles just as much as their less frisky counterparts, but with one important difference – they don’t have time to fuck around doing puzzles when there are so many dicks and tits and fannies to put into their faces and mouths and bums. To that end, the crossword has dramatically fewer clues than a regular Crossword, and the sole clue is a massive picture of an engorged vagina surrounded by wiry black pubes. And if the “Word Sleuth” proves too baffling, there’s a subtle colour cipher that you can use to decode the hidden words.
In Cooking Corner, we discover the family secret recipe for Flap Purait, uncovering what it is that lends this perennial favourite its enduring allure. It’s a visceral yet pleasantly fruity mélange: “meaty flaps, dicks, spoof, fruit, cum and banana”.
Having assembled your ingredients, simply “mix it up and eat or drink it”. Is Flap Purait a solid, or a liquid, or a kind of chunky soup compromise? No-one knows.
The letters page of Fruity Chunks was hosted over its single-issue lifespan by ORGASMA. She deals with the concerns of her readers by printing their letters, and declining to reply.
In fact, her sole input to the page appears to be the headline “SAD”, which – to be fair – is a brilliant summary of the reader’s story.
“My boyfriend dropped me when we were having 69 last night just because my cunt looks like this.“
Sad indeed – and a tale that all too often goes untold.
Inflatable cunts cost $10,000,000,000. Adjusted for, erm, inflation, that would be over $19,000,000,000 today. Even factoring in the Australian nature of the dollars, that’s a lot of money.
If Daniel had received one single order for an Inflatable Cunt, he would be as rich as the Soros Fund Management Chairman, George Soros. Soros is described by the CommieBlasters website as the man operating the socialist puppet, Barack Obama.
How very different life could have been for Daniel, if Bill Gates had ordered three inflatable cunts.
It’s time for the personal ads, as much a staple of magazines in the 80s as staples were.
“4 fucking good fux, see moi”. It’s like a meth-fuelled Miss Piggy is soliciting for sex in the pages of a hand-made magazine.
Lost to the exposure of the scanner bulb is perhaps the best line in the magazine: “See a circumstized cunt – ROYAL SHOW!” You can imagine the Queen getting whiff of a circumstized cunt in the area, rubbing her eyes and chuckling “this I gotta see – get my Royal Crest on that shit, this show just got ROYAL”.
It’s time for arts and crafts! I. M. Lezzi’s lemon requires no explanation. Of course a lesbian would send in a picture of a lemon, the big lesbian.
Master B. Ation creates the region of ambiguity in which art lives. Is that a tongue licking the pubes, or a second dick sprouting into a mouth? Either way, that big dick is getting wanked.
Meanwhile, Horny Bitch has been so overcome by the urge to fuck that she’s drawn a man blowing out flies? Or black spunk coming out of a dick. Or something.
The Weekly Fiction is called “The Fat Bi”, and runs thus:
Presented with only one comment: Daniel grew up to be a gay man.
These pages are like coming up in an air pocket half-way through an underwater tunnel. It’s almost conceivable, for a moment, that what you’re reading has been written by a 12 year old. It’s a relief, sure. But you still need to tread water, and you’re only half-way along that corridor.
It’s entirely possible on Page 12 that Daniel predicted the invention of PlayStation Move.
Daniel had not considered the implications of using relative times like “tomorrow” in the print medium.
He has, in effect, created a perpetual state of tragic anticipation. Every morning, we run to our front doors to see if Fruity Chunks #2 has arrived. Every day we are disappointed, before our hearts offer us this shy glimmer of hope. “Maybe he means tomorrow“.
It has been thirty years. We must reconcile ourselves to the possibility that Issue 2 will never come out. (Unlike Daniel)
Sunraysia Prune Juice is 100% yum, with no additives. Unless you count heavy menstrual flow and a train of blood-red shit as “additives”. Which you shouldn’t.
Cut out and wear this mask, and you can see the world as it is experienced by a woman’s vagina. The hungry men licking their lips and baring their teeth. The ceaseless barrage of dicks bouncing unbidden across your face.
Once you have walked a mile with a woman’s vaj strapped on your face, you can truly call yourself an ally of women.
The lack of a numbering scheme in this dot-to-dot means it could be anything.
However, judging from the yellow hint lines, it appears to be a dick pissing out of a urethra positioned at the base of the phrenum, with a second smaller ball-bag resting on top of the larger primary ball-bag.
Thank God you came today! You got a free Monopoly! It won’t be there tomorrow – but that’s OK, because you’ll have Issue 2 of Fruity Chunks to read by then.
“Today we’ll learn how to draw vajs.“
The most important thing, when drawing a vaj, is the crucial fifth stage. This is when you add the oversized moles, and crusty black flakes of dry blood. If you see a picture of a vaj that doesn’t include these, then the picture isn’t finished.
And that’s it for Fruity Chunks, the one-shot phenomenon that took one house in Perth by storm, in the early 90s. It seems impossible to imagine, but “The Fat Bi” was written in a world without Suede.
Thank you, Daniel. Thank you for bringing Fruity Chunks to the UK. You can listen to us talk about it here: