"Down The Belly Button Hole"
A Paul Castronovo Show Fan Fiction By Mike Anderson:
It was a Wednesday evening on a slow week in late summer. I lay in bed staring at the strange shadows my 6 night lights cast upon my popcorn ceiling. I couldn’t sleep. My anxiety was getting the best of me. We basically had nothing on the show tomorrow and my rigorous raking of the internet that afternoon had turned up nothing. It was one of those weeks where no one returned an email, nothing materialized, and no one got good video of a late night Burger King brawl with decent audio. We had nothing going on, and I was quietly freaking out.
Then from across my cavernous apartment my familiar email alert rang out. Normally at this time of night I would have ignored it. But right now it was music to my ears and I eagerly shuffled across my fur covered floors to see what had landed in my email bucket.
It was from Toast. He had sent his daily round of thoughts and ideas.
The email title read like any other; “Toast Notes.” But what lay within… would change my life forever.
It read:
“Here’s an odd one, perhaps too disgusting, but I have a very deep belly button. In fact, I would say I am amongst the world’s 1st percentile for depth of belly button, I’m a full knuckle. Anyways, as a result, I always have stuff in my bellybutton, generally lint. What’s the best way to cleanse your belly button? I ask because if I’m not careful, I can get an ingrown hair in my bellybutton and that, is not pleasant. Is this manscaping or just weird and gross?”
I began laughing like a hyena, high on nitrous and being tickled by a feather-fingered giggle monster. Finally we had something! This was gold!
First thing in the morning I brought it up with the squad.
“We have got to test his belly button depth on the air,” I giddily exclaimed. The rest nodded and laughed in agreement.
Everyone… except Paul.
Paul was vehemently against the idea. We knew he wasn’t much for gross stuff but the passion with which he protested the idea struck us all as a bit odd.
Later, after some digging, I’d learn why…
Unbeknownst to us, Paul has a deep seated belly-button fetish that he’s long since buried within himself. He knew such heated belly button titillation in the same room as him could easily awaken the
belly-button beast within and send him spiraling down a sweaty hole of self-destruction. But that friends… is a story for another day.
After a lengthy debate he reluctantly acquiesced. He knew if he protested too much he might invoke some suspicion of his strange fetish… Plus he knew the image of me 2 knuckles deep in Toast’s bountiful belly button was pretty freakin’ funny. As Larry the Cable Guy would poetically say, “That’s funny right there.”
Fast forward 3 hours…
There I am standing before Toast’s nude upper body—my nervous index finger outstretched. It’s show time. How deep can I delve into Toast’s mammoth belly button? We’re about to find out. His soft white belly skin smattered with coarse hair and moles glimmered in the studio lights… It was notably humid in the studio that morning. Sweaty sexual tension hung in the air.
Slowly I moved my finger toward Toast’s heaving belly. I could feel the heat radiating off his trembling torso as I moved closer and closer. I looked up into Toast’s nervous eyes. They both beckoned and apologized all at once.
Here we go.
The tip of my finger plunged into his hot belly hole. Toast quietly gasped like a young woman losing her virginity in a Home Depot parking lot. His body tensed and his jaw clenched. Slowly I slid my finger further and further into his navel tube. With each passing millimeter things got hotter and hotter. (Thermally, not metaphorically). I tried not to think or feel, and stared straight into the ceiling. This was science. We were pioneers. Push forward Mike, push through this hot skunky skin… Push through the thick erotic aura hanging in this electric air… My troubled psyche roared as my finger slid forward…
And then... it was cold. The tip of my trailblazing finger hit what felt like a cool breeze. What the? Before I could think much further things got real freakin’ weird.
At that moment, (and I know this is very much unbelievable, trust me), things got very fantastic, very fast. With a cosmic whoosh I was thrust through Toast’s belly button. Yes. My body, pulled by my index finger, was sucked through Toast’s navel like a genie into a bottle. My existential vapor exited this reality, and exploded into a big Toast shaped container.
And then… everything calmed.
I let out an existential sigh. It was cold. It was quiet. And the brisk wind of reality whipped across my confused face.
And there… before me… was a man. He looked like Toast. But if Toast were a God. A magnificent example of masculine perfection. He had flowing blonde hair and an exquisitely chiseled physique peeking through a half unzipped windbreaker. His skin was so moisturized that the air around him appeared hazy. He was… beautiful.
As I stood there horrified and perplexed a gleaming smile spread across his perfect face.
And then… he spoke.
In a shrill voice that sounded like a cross between Jar Jar Binks and Julia Child he calmly said…
“Welcome to Hell.”