To investigate sploshing, a fetish based upon the enjoyment derived from throwing and/or being covered with viscous material such as paint, mud or, in this instance, foodstuffs.
State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.
Sploshing, like golf and shooting heroin, is a pastime that you actually have to try in order to ascertain whether it's "your bag." I'll try anything once in the hope that I'll add more strings to my carnal bow. The danger is that I will enjoy the fetish so much that I'll have to take a second job to pay my inflated grocery bill.
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).
In this portion of your report, you must describe step-by-step what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and re-create the same lab.
Up until now, my only experience with food being applied to the exterior of my body was when my mother, ever the creative disciplinarian, upturned a bowl of porridge onto my head in response to some minor infraction that I can't possibly recall. I was left humiliated, wearing the cereal bowl like a helmet, steaming oat-goo dripping down my face as my younger sister looked on, aghast. Now, fifteen years later, I was being given the opportunity to play with my food on a more voluntary basis.
With splosh czar Bill Shipton's words of advice still fresh in my mind, I set about obtaining materials for the experiment. One of Bill's principle rules is only to use foods that you would typically combine in a meal (for many sploshers, part of the experience includes consuming the grub from each others' bodies). Although I dreaded thinking about what manner of dish could be assembled from my list of materials, I made sure that my selections wouldn't be too gag-inducing when slopped together over my
girlfriend's bodacious ta-tas.
My obliging assistant (whom I'll be referring to from this point forward as "the mongoose") and I took our ammo from the fridge to the bathroom, got undressed and stood facing each other in the bathtub. As I fiddled with my camera, my giggling co-splosher ambushed me with a squirt of chocolate syrup (chilled to a refreshing 36 degrees Fahrenheit) to the torso. Before I could put the camera down, she followed up by slopping a handful of ice-cold plain yogurt onto my rig. My genitalia responded by retracting to its preteen orientation. Genuinely P.O.'ed, I grabbed the chocolate syrup and fired a high arc at my attacker's goose-pimpled shirt-potatoes. The mongoose squealed with excitement, rubbed it on her skin and braced herself for my next assault.
Quantify the effects of the experiment.
Most people will get through life without having to suffer getting a large glob of chocolate pudding in their eye. Not only does it really sting, but people are too busy laughing at you to offer any help. In retrospect, I'll admit that it must have seemed funny; I was doubled over, covered in crap, screaming "My eyes! It burns!"
When the mongoose wasn't laughing at my plight, she was scolding me for not relaxing enough to enjoy the experience. In an attempt to resuscitate the vibe, I squirted some cream on her nips and lapped it off. Unfortunately, the moment had passed. "You know that you're going to be cleaning all of this stuff up, right?" she asked. As we threw the last of the eggs, I remembered that somehow there was supposed to be an element of carnal excitement about the experience. I just wasn't making the connection. Instead of a crescendo of sexual abandonment, I found myself sporting a baby penis and beginning to notice the vile whiff of synthetic dairy products on skin. In addition, one mystery ingredient had given me a nasty rash on my shoulders.
Summarize your findings. Don't forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to re-create your test results.
I'll be the first to admit that I'm a little too tightly wound to tolerate my bathroom looking like a ram-raid at Dairy Queen. Sploshing works for some people because it represents a total breakdown of social etiquette and behavioral norms. It's a sort of primal-scream therapy for Brits. Perhaps I didn't get admonished enough as a child, but I don't remember ever wanting to get messy in the first place. Any potential for sexual activity was compromised further by the severe shrinking effect that cold slime has on my junk. If I were to conduct this experiment again I certainly have a good idea about how I'd do it differently: I'd get drunk first, microwave the products to at least room temperature and do it at Brian's place.
Up until now, my only experience with food being applied to the exterior of my body was when my mother, ever the creative disciplinarian, upturned a bowl of porridge onto my head in response to some minor infraction that I can't possibly recall. I was left humiliated, wearing the cereal bowl like a helmet, steaming oat-goo dripping down my face as my younger sister looked on, aghast. Now, fifteen years later, I was being given the opportunity to play with my food on a more voluntary basis.
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