Exhausted...

Pissmidgets in the employ of Kwik Fit shitters!

Unfair!

Now I have no travelage due to the sawing off of me tailpipe.

Hiring Gimliesque characters to lie in wait beneath vehicular carriages and apply their mithril axes as you
drive off is somewhat unfair to the motorist!

Life. Don't talk to me about life...
  

It’s murder Sam, I know it...

Cork yer bum folks, for now there is truly a reason why the rozzers are called The Filth.

Forensics have come a long way. Once, it used to be misread as foreskin, and now it's the scourge of the Chav, with munter obsessed chavboys being presented with them all-important DNA results!

Of course, with instant identification though a sample of the wind you just passed, it was only a matter of time before some Parkie jobsworth has a brainwave.

Dogs befouling the paths and parks, leaving their eggs all over the place to be stepped in or slipped on because the chavvy scum ain't gonna pick up some doctor in the park, are they!

And so, The Bottom Inspectors have arisen from the pages of Viz like Martin Whorekit talking away when he don't know what to say (but says it anyway).

Yes, 'they' have decided there should be a DNA doggie database, so that when senior citizens stamp on shit, they take their shoe to the Constabulary, who will run the fecal forensics and match the DNA it to the offending canine!

And you thought Jeremy Vyle could sink no lower!

This week: I believe your dog shit in my paddling pool and is the father of our baby, and I don't trust her.

Coming up in part 2 - those all-important lie detector tests that are highly inaccurate which we claim is 90% accurate and that means they's NEVER wrong!).

• Have you stood in some dogshit?
• Perhaps a neighbor has thrown some at your windows?
• Or maybe they're letting their pets into your garden rather than foul their own?
• Do you suspect a ex of shitting on your lawn?

Maybe we can help.

DNA diagnosis on doggie doo-doo indeed! It's The War Against Terror* gone mad!!

* ISN'T IT ODD THAT THEY NEVER ABBRIEVIATE IT ON THE NEWS? IT'S ALWAYS THE LONG WINDED, DRAWN OUT VERSION. "COMING UP ON GMTV, FIONA PHILLIPS WILL BE TALKING ABOUT GEORGE BUSH AND THE WAR AGAINST TERROR WITH KATE GARRAWAY". WHAT'S WRONG WITH SIMPLY SAYING "FIONA PHILLIPS WILL BE TALKING ABOUT BUSH AND TWAT WITH KATE GARRAWAY"?

I CAN'T SEE WHAT THE PROBLEM IS...

ROTFPMSL...

Hmmmm.

OK, so you're rolling about on the floor, picking up all manner of mucky pawprints, stale beer and sticky floor deposits. Ruining your bestest outfit and griming yerself up like some tramp.

And if that wasn't enough, you're flooding your pantaloons with bodily fluids, and making further rollings about so it seeps into your outer garments, and onto the already filthy floor, attracting more litter and, chewing gum and Doctors to ahere to your clothes and hair.

Now, a humourescent comment may indeed be pant wettingly hilarious, but to ensure that you get your own urine all over your clothes and rolling about in dust and debris to express how comical you find such a witty jape, is surely a step to far!

A hearty laugh, a guffaw or a chortle should suffice, not soiling yourself and writhing about amongst the detrius to coat yourself in a film of filth!

Let alone texting me to boast of your pervy response to jestorial banter!

Simian Saucery...

After Dubious Eyesight Visual went experimental with multiple Bollos, they've come back as Colobus (NOT the crab), and a new album about the Fantastic Herb's journey from Statuesque Simian to Bhudda.

Trouble is, it ain't complete and it's all in the language of the most favoured segmented topping of la gateaux de fromage.

Which is a tip off, as it's all creamy sweetness, and not Medusa-olla!

But it is, cry the Ramseys (not the one's covering cakes in shells, the potty mouthed brown one), it's Cream Cheese!

Ha! Why pay a fortune to Sarah Lee? Get a digestive, smear some Philly over it, and plonk a strawberry on top! Hey Preston! Instant pudding!

I'm taking that on Britains Best Fish, and wafting it under The Goolden's nose.

Get that bouquet up yer bucket, missus!
 

Cut ’n’ paste...

When you go to A&E, you'd expect they'd have the finest of fish with their needles out, a-threading you up (with special black cotton for the tinkle-on-me EMO's).

But no more! The any chess not longer darns your belly to keep yer innards in from falling out after post keboob knife culture menacement - apparently, they simply glue you up now!

I dunno about you, but if some hoody has pierced my portly podgetum, I don't want Dr Death slopping Copydex all over my wounds!

And as everyone knows, all Copydex is, is a mass of spunk jizzed into a bottle by some paedophiladelic Art Department faculty, with a dash of piss for that ammonia smell (have YOU ever encountered Copydex outside a school art lesson? I'll betcha haven't! It's all Bostick and LokTight out 'on da street'. That, and strange foreign glues from Pikeyland, for the discerning sniffer. Outrageous! Charging a pound for a stretcher in a Hospical!).

If they've got nurses rubbing pissysplodge to hold you together, it's no wonder the wards are rife with eCauliflowers and Emma's Essay!

If they're going to have all this pervosity on the NHS (a-haha, a-ha, ha ha, NHS is gonna rock ya), then they should at least kit out the nurses in them short PVC nursey outfits with the accented kle'varj and the big black boots....

In fact, why not make a clubnight out of it. Hospicals are so depressing,student nurses are always off on the piss, and the Dogturds and Sturgeons are all alchoholics, and the flahing ambulance lights are already there - just pump in some sub-woofter's bass and away you go!

Atmosfear? Open up a few cryogenic containers, get the dry ice flowing!

And you could CHARGE people to boogie amongst the bedridden! The Elf Service could run at a profit within weeks!

OK, so people die in hospicals - people die in pub bogs, so I can't see the difference! Or, as the French say, C'Difficile!

Superbugs, my arse! Have you seen caped carapaced arachnids with superstrength or titanium endoskeletons rampaging, through the wards, performing cesareans with their horrible mandibles and cowering away from the Crypt Tonight storage units?

Yay! Fetish night at the N&N!
 

Keep the noise down...

shhhhhhh!

No Willow here, but mountains of melt in the minge blue wrapped delight!

But applicate it not into your p.pipe, for it's recommended that you use Cocoa Pat. Personally, I recommend it not, for you could mix the softly spoken chinese volcalising in with recycled Rolf Harris In Disguise* poultry poducts.

Totally finger lickin' good in conjuntion with Barb IQ and proffered berries.

Ah, if only She offered up her chapstick instead!

Could've been worse - she could have presented her cheery chaps dick, and although he may like cock, it's not my glass of coke.

Still, at least we weren't out, teasing the teats of sows for musical merriment and kicking the piglets. Not to mention torturing the pussy and choking the chicken!

Em? I see Kay!

Eeeee, Why?

Em... oh, you I see!

Burning your fags into Pluto's fur and tossing off seven dwarfs before getting Minnie to depend on Crack and pimping her out to Goofy and Donald whilst sending The Heavies round to the three little pigs to give them a good kicking for being behind on their 250% interest rate loan.

Steamboat Willie? Reservoir Rodents, more like!

* DYEING YOUR BEARD WHITE WILL NOT HIDE THAT DISTINCTIVE VISAGE. SECRET HERBS AND SPICES... CAN YOU TELL WHAT IT IS YET?
 

In space, no-one can eat Ice Cream...

P.T. Barnum said it so long ago

"Theres one born every minute" -  don't you know?

Some make us laugh, Some make us cry

These Klowns honey gonna make you die

Everybody's running when the circus comes into their town

Everybodys gunning for the likes of the Killer Klowns

From outer space!

The ringmaster shouts "let the show begin"

Send in the Klowns , Let them do you in

See a rubber nose on a painted face

Bringing genecide to the human race

It's time to take a ride on the nightmare merry-go-round

You'll be dead on arrival from the likes of the Killer Klowns

From outer space...

There's cotton candy in their hands

Says the polka dotted man with a stalk of jacaranda

They're all diabolical bozos

All look around, what do you see?

Tell me what's become of humanity?

From California shores to New York Times Square

Barnum and Bailey everywhere

If you've ever wondered why the population's going down

Blame it on the plunder of the likes of the Killer Klowns

From outer space!

Hiscox? Hisbollox, more like...

Ooooh, they don't half want to get their greasy mitts on your cash, them Insurance Giants!

It's well known that Americans are quite, quite mad, and frequently take out Space Monster Abduction insurance. Of course, the insurance industry is not the most morally heathy of businesses, having no qualms about allieviating these witless wonders of their wonga.

But it comes to something when you can insure against fictional lakebound beasties of an oily hue, all black slimy acidic tendrils dissolving your flesh and pulling you through the logs!

Either that, or Pennywise type shapeshifting Atlach-Nachaesque Space Spiders, enticing you out upon the waters with balloonery.

Strange that they dont insure what happens in the next ad - the possibility of playing Bingo and your bonce turning into a giant pool ball!

Oh yes, Tom Sawyery river based floating devices hounded by carnivoral tarry slicks is certainly worth the FSAs blessing, but transmogrification into pub based spheroids and the resultant attack upon the cranium by pure white cueballs is not worth the paper it's written on!

They sure know how to 'pocket' the cash!

And the irony is, I work in Insurance, and the coffee tray is, in fact, a triangle so you can rack yer balls up!

Talk about rubbing it in!

But not rubbing it into your balls.  Going on a coffee run and massaging Latte into Lovespuds is not a healthy activity.

The coffee's far to hot from that vending machine!

Scalded scrotum - Yeow.

Wonder if I can claim for THAT on me insurance!
       

Fol-de-rol-de-rol...

Coincidence? The shitty sphincter of synchronicity? The felching faggot of fate? Who knows!

I was driving onto Grapes Hill, when I saw one of my Hades Ladies crossing the bridge as I drived under.

Now, babes on bridges trip-trapping along is all very well, but me being under the bridge at the same time... surely the cosmic inference here is that I'm some kind of hairyarse troll!

"Phwoar! Lookit you! I'd sure like to eat you!"
"Nah - eat me mate out instead. She's well up for a bit of the old oral"

or something.

Sure, I meet most trollish requirements - short, squat, ugly etc, but you don't find me lurking under flyovers gawking up strumpets skirts with a befanged lower gob, waiting for some woman to come along for a gobbling.

Ooooh, and me nails did turn into talons recently, till I trimmed 'em back.

Yikes! Metamorphosis! I'm slowly morphing into some lumbering denizen of the deep! Looks like I'd better up sticks and move to Great Y'ha-nthlei with the other web-fingered followers of Dagon. Or just move under the wooden bridge down Riverside Walk and be watched over by Shubb-Niggurath.

A thousand young indeed - bet he rakes it in on council benefits!

Black goat? Black gold, more like!
  

I would go out tonight...

...but I haven't got a stitch* to wear.

Coz I'm far to fat to fit into anything, and all the clothes in the city are geared to long legged tall types, and not portly stumpylegged shortfatarses.

Or something.

Not that it matters, coz there's feck all to do on weekends these days.

Oh well, at least it's Run With Us at Hades next week.

In the meantime... Cold Pizza Consolation!

* NOR HAVE I GOT A LILO EITHER, ALTHOUGH SUCH ACQUAINTANCES BY THE NAME OF LIL WOULDN'T GO AMISS. BUT NOT THAT HAGGARD OLD CRONE FROM LAST OF THE SUMMER WHINEYARSE OLD FOGEYS CLUB.
  

Wings on yer pussy...

Them secret government agencies are at it again.

OK, so genetic manipulation isn't the end of the world, but they will keep on breeding these monstrous Chimeras and allowing them to escape by not locking the cage latch properly and allowing the security guard to fall asleep in the midst of perusing a porno publication in the corridor.

Claire Rayner would be proud, for their hybrid splicing has cause a rise in winged pussies.

Barely a month goes by when there isn't talk of another capture of these arial felines, taking the lead from their owl brethren and hunting rodents from the skies.

And what do the public do? Hold out the furry wings and take a photo for the 'awwwwwww' factor for the final segment on John Craven's Newsround, the Sunday Spurt, the Fortean Times and the like.

Of course, you'd think people would panic. After all, Alfred Hithcock's "The Birds" was scary - people must be panicking at pussies plummeting from the clouds, letting out a kamikazi scream of" MEEEEEOOOOOWWWW" as they divebomb into the streets.

Of course, I hear you cry, there are bigger threats. You don't want to be ringing up The Bill for an invasion of flying felines... it's the lack of floppy ears on Bunnies that The Pigs are more concerned with!

Personally, I'd be more concerned about The Bill in Playbloke Bunnygirl outfits. Or rather, the lack of. There should be a special episode where they have to go under(wear)cover in some seedy joint. Especially DI Nixon, DC Dasari and PCs Weston, Green & Armstrong. Maybe even Millie's fiery biscuits... not sure about Diane Noble, as that's too close to Donna Noble, and who's wanna nob(ble) that?

But not inspector Gao'uld though...

Evil pharonic tropllop, running off with Walford toyboy lodgers. And she wasn't even called Helen!

Still, beggars can't be choosers...

They can be bloody picky though!
    

That’s not my name...

...or is it?

I just don't know anymore! For all I know, this morning I could've had a hot wifey and a brood of kids, but those pesky Government Agencies are slipping Na'Kaleen feeders into me bedroom.

And without replica encounter suits either, the crafty devils!

It would appear that certain Gary Glitter types are not welcome anywhere, and due to all the fuss about deportation and refusing entry (although it was welcoming entry I believe the sparkly one was after), these kiddie fiddlers are being put into the chewing gum stratocastrati!

Evil paedos from the planet Pluto, abducting kids and brainwashing everyone into thinking they never had kids. And also nicking the odd ladycop here and there.

And they have the audacity to get the NSA involved though their illuminati connections!

As if I wasn't paranoid enough, I gets a visit from these sicko space monsters coverer uppers! A giant beetle, all mandibles and carapace, crashing through the air vent and refusing to succumb to the Giant Slipper Of Doom.

Somewhat akin to the Right Hand Of Doom, but for a different appendage.

But not an appendix.

Although a heavy tome containing said appendix may have crushed the Edgar suited one, but not a belly appendix (although the size of me gutbucket could surely have quashed his irridescent armour before taking to The Long Flush).

Maybe they can Reset Memories, and fix me up with some über trollop and make my sad miserable existence a thing that never was! If they can do it for Tully* and replace her dozy husband so she can get nobbin the hunky bloke down the park, they can bloody well alter other wimmins memories to make them more amenable to vast, troll-like porksters with a lecherous look in their eye.

It's a better option than the Anal Probe! 

* NOT TULLY WHO ENDED UP IN A COFFIN IN THE ADDAMS'S FAMILY PLOT, OR LOUIS TULLY AND HIS NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENTS AND VINZ CLORTHO POSSESSION. OR EVEN SCULLY, DESPITE THE FACT THAT IT'S CLEARLY MODELLED ON THE ANDERSON. (THE GILLIAN, NOT THE NEO.)
   

Tony Starkin’ the linen...

Apparently, there are some people who still adhere to this outdate mode of crease removal, rather than go about all scruffy lookin'.

There are those that iron their shirts, there are those that even iron their pants, but a triplicity of strange smoothifications is going on.

Ironing SOCKS? Surely this is one item that doesn't need stiff creases in, digging into your calves and denting your slippers. Mayhap the ironee in question misheard his missus when she said "Do some ironing and get sex". Who knows?

Ironing BEDSHEETS? Surely the second you get into bed and start tossing about they just get all creased instantly... as opposed to tossing off in bed and staining them instantly, requiring further washes and slaving over a hot iron.

Ironing TOWELS? In the first place, they're all fluffy and would surely melt into a pool of wooly goo with the application of a steam heated slab of silverplate! It's as bad as ironing your mohair big fat wooly jumper!

And jumpers, I'm led to believe, are modelled by Daves in the basement of Debenhams, where collegues are confused about the protuberance of manteats. Seems that a certain savory fellow is most perplexed by in-store male models moob nipple definition upon a jumper, leaping out at him and poking out his eyes.

Clearly the fool just needs to wear one of them padded bras to absorb any potential nipdef shining through. 

Bras for men! It's getting beyond a joke now! First panties becomes manties, and now brassieres are bras-he-wears!

And next, these 'empowered, independent wimmin' are throwing their hands up at me, and commanding Man to iron their baphangers!

Ironmonger?

Ironminger, if you ask me!
   

Alice, what’s the matter...

Rhianna can stand under her Umberella all she wants...

...won't stop zombified hybrids with 10ft tongues lickin' her out and rending her flesh in some T-Virus frenzy!
   

Like a bat out of Hell...

It's amazing the lengths some people will go to to remain in power.

Take Zanzibar. There's an evil beastie terrorizing the local populace. Known as the Popo Bawa, it's a giant bat like humanoid with one glowing eye.

Now, there's no end to the eyewitnesses who see this aeronautical devilry, and are often willing to go On Camera to recount their experiences.

Apparently, the Popo Bawa flies through open windows, duffs up the men and rapes the... well, men!

After a thorough investigation (of one night) the investigative team concluded that each wave of sightings coincided with an election, and therefore was down to The Government playing on their superstitions to make them vote for them.

Seems a bit extreme to tart yerself up in some PVC batmonster suit and violate young men in their bedrooms just to ensure you get their vote for another term in office!

An excuse for getting into an orifice, if you ask me!

Can you imagine if The Civillised West adopted such practices? Heaven forbid the London Mayoral campaign has a policy of Boris Johnson in a latex batsuit clambering through your B&B window and proceeding to bumsex you into voting for him over Red Ken.

In Bi-Elections, there will be these "swings both ways" politicians, shagging you (and your partner) senseless in your sleep to secure your vote, all whilst wearing a rubber Batman/Batgirl outfit (like the one in Batman & Robin with the nipples and the shapely ass of Alicia Silverstone).

And do They warn us of this at Election Time? No, they just get Jon Snow out with his Swing-o-meter, going on about how many politicians are swingers, or something. Meanwhile pervy politicians are donning gimpmasks and bumraping us for our votes...

Oh, it's ever so bad for Mugabe to refuse to give up power, but it's OK for Gordon Brown to hump the ass of slumbering voters in a plot to stay in power!

It's political correctness gone mad!

Or something...
   

Well, I’m back... what do you cry for...

So much for his last gig!

A waggling of the sock and an Elvis toupee once again befouls Gentlemen's Wank.

And the Puppet Master is back again as well!
  

I’m living my life like a good homosapien...

We all know how the 8th wonder of the world toppled off the Umpire's State Building, but I gave little thought to any possible consequences.

The dense jungles of Korea, being rife with Gorilla warfare, is where Skull Island was, and where visiting white women are shagged by monkeymen. In this case, before Ann Darrow was rescued by Jack Driscoll, she had a torrid affair with the oversized (and oversexed) ape.

The result of this union was half-man/half-simian, and named after it's daddy.

King Kong II, who rose to power to rule over North Korea!

Now, it seems King Kong II died recently. Well, 5 years ago, apparently. Seems that his public appearances have all been staged by Andy Serkis in a bright blue leotard with balls all over it, whilst WETA project CGI apefolk into conference rooms to allay suspicion.

We would never have known if 'he' hadn't failed to turn up at Korea's 60th anniversary parade. It would appear that one of them Technical Glitches caused the hologram to not appear as scheduled, and everyone saw through the scam. They should really have been able to see through the hologram, but CGI is just too convincing these days.

Makes you wonder how many of these world leaders have died and been replaced with CGI and automatons. If fact, how many really exist, apart from as a string of binary code controlled from deep within Mornington Crescent?

And those that do exist are reptillian overlords in Edgar suits...
   

Fists of fun... not if you’re Norman LaMont...

This bodes welll, a totally insane pretty on a train. Still, we arrive.

Enter within...

Ah, the smell of food... well, manky curry, mystery meat rice and cheese toasties. Hmmm, maybe later!

Bar!! HOW MUCH FOR A CAN OF STRONGBOW?!?!? Jeez...

Burlesque. Hmmmm. Put some life into it love! We're off to the trad goth room for some proper rockin'!

Must be here... nope. A fat nudie old castrati shuffling about. Maybe through here... nah, looks like a lot of 'specialist gym equipment'. No Trad Goth here...

Circulate again - have we missed the one room we came for... nope. But there's Rammstein playing, so I'll settle there for a bit and admire the pretties...

...which is somewhat flawed by the obscuration of the lovely ladies by detrousered chappies, and you don't want to sit there whist a parade of penises passes by...

Where's everyone gone? Circulate! Ah, there's some companions. And (according to the Stage Listing) the band came on 10 mins ago! Whooo! Let's go!

Ah, no band yet...

Back to the other room and Marilyn Manson and NiN then! I didn't really see what I thought I saw in the chill out area did I?... just keep walking.

Bar!! HOW MUCH FOR A CAN OF STRONGBOW?!?!? Jeez...

Ok, not Trad Goth, but some good music going on. Yay! Dance with the pretty Alice escapologist! Ah, here come the others! The band finally came on... and they're shit! I'll check 'em out... yep, they're shit. Back to growly EMO music then.

Food!!! HOW MUCH FOR... Oh, no food. Bugger.

Ah, time for the Main Show.

Note: Never invite a dwarf to hoover your house or change your strip lights.

Let's get back to the music room. Shuffle, sidle squeeze through the throng... ah, a space! Ewwww - never look around to get your bearings in a clear space!

Bar!! HOW MUCH FOR A CAN OF STRONGBOW?!?!? Jeez...

And we're back in the music. Dance dance dance.... Ohhh, Siobahn Fahey lookylikey in her Steven's Sibling period bedecked in PVC nunnery... ooooh, she keeps looking at me! Oooo, she's come over and started dancing alongside...  ah, she's gone.

Oooh, she's back, and sat nearby... and she's gone again.

Sit down. Maybe she'll come back... Shame we weren't in Hades, as I'd've had a go at chatting her up!*

And hold up the Can Of Coke for photographication, to store forever what a £2 can of fizzy looks like!

Time to go home...

Oh, the tube is dead on weekends - get a bus to the the tube, says the placard!

Wait wait wait go the disgruntled would be tubesters. There be no bus for ages! Ah, but we can get a different bus to the train! Change stops!

And the other bus turns up, but you'd never know it until it passes by with a tiny card in the window.

So it's left to Xym to metaphysically determine that the coming bus turns into ours by sheer force of the will and the word. And lo, Xym spoke, and thus the bus became as per Xym's command.

And being the only one booked on the early train, the others go to gorge themselves on fried breakfasts and jacket spuds, whilst Xym is accosted by a somewhat less mad Michelle, worn out from Fabric conditioning.

Whatcha mean, I haven't got a train ticket? What's that then! Oh, these are only reservation tickets and not me train tickets. Last nights inspectorate said nowt. Oh, you'll let me off in case I put a spell on you?

Clearly the wearing of a purple velvet shirt makes people think I'm some sort of Evil Sorcerer!


Ah, back in the city and a fry-up off the market!

And home.

Need sleep now, but been awake too long and just not tired.

* HA HA HA HA LAUGH THE MYRIAD THRONG OF XYMON'S ACCQUANTANCES, AS IF XYM WOULD DARE SPEAK TO ANYONE HE HAD AN INTEREST IN!
    

And nothing but a void, forever night...

There are Jews in the world,

There are Bhuddists

There are Hindus and Mormons and then

There are those that will follow Mohammed

But

I've never been one of them...

But once again The Christian God Squad are up in arms and foisting their lunacy upon The Kids.

Seems that they're quite smug about the Big Bang Experiment being a Big Damp Squib (despite the fact that the BBE hasn't even started yet, so won't they be surprised when a betentacled beastie hoiks em out of this universe to a grisly death!), and therefore the Bible was right all along.

As such, they now want Creationism pulled out of the RE brainwashing lessons, and placed firmly where it belongs. In Science class.

For those unfamilliar with the concept of Creationism, it goes like this: The Bible is 100% accurate in it's depiction of physics, and the Universe was created in 7 days by the the greyest of all Greybeards, God.

As regards dinosaurs - well, they never existed. There were just gigantic bones created by God for his metaphysical canine companion to bury.

Now, I'm not one to point out any inaccuracies with scientific theorems of a theosophical basis, but if they're gonna teach this mystical mymbo-jumbo in schools, they should at the least get their facts straight, for according to the ever factual and historically accurate scientific tome, The Bible, God did not create the universe in 7 'days' at all. And there were dinosaurs as well.

In the beginning
According to the Genesis (the proper one with Angel Gabriel in it, not Angel Collins, although Andrew Collins writes about Angels. As does Robin Williams' songwriter), there's no earth. it's dark, and there's a load of water sloshing about. And if there's water, then God's already been creating stuff before 'Day 1'. These waters were probably contained in a bath where he was having a bit of a soak, and suddenly had a eureka moment to create heaven and a planet.

Day 1
God created light, and decides that Light is day, Dark is night, and that evening and morning will constitute one day. Well, at least this proves God was a builder, for he clearly has no intention of doing any work in the afternoon!

Day 2
The selfish arse builds himself a paradise. Well, guess he needed somewhere for his opulent bathing, despite the fact he could have created the Earth first and lounged about in a Golgafrinchan B-Ark with telephone sanitizers, hairdressers and the like.

Day 3
So, in the same time it took to invent lightbulbs, or create a white marbled palace strewn with clouds, harps and flaming swords, God manages not only to create a whole planet, but every sort of plant, vegetable, fruit and seed! Not only that - he got them all to grow as well. He really must've been slacking on the first couple of days!

Day 4
God creates the Sun, Moon and starts to introduce Day and Night... Hold on - didn't he do this on 'Day' 1? Typical builder - double charging for the same work!

Actually, on 'day' 1, he invented the concept, not it's application. Which means that day 4 is really day 1, and days 1-3 were not actually days at all, but indeterminate periods of time!

Day 2 or 5 
(depending if you're using God's obscure definition of a 'day' or a newly created Earth day of 24 hours... well, an earth 'day' of about 5 hours, as God defines a day of evening and morning, probably 6pm to 8pm then 7am to 10am)
God invents the beasts of the Sea - note this passage carefully: It clearly states (at 1.21) "God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves" - so, before the Dawn Of Man* dinosaurs did exist! The bible sez so!

Day 3/6
God invents beasties of the Earth - non-specific, but Beasts of the Earth in general - and if that doesn't include Jurassic Park, I don't know what does!

He then goes on to create men & women - Now, there are those who will blah on about Eve being made from a rib of Adam later on, but it's quite clear in Genesis 1.27 that God creates Male and Female humans on this day, and tells them to start nobbing each other and rule the planet.

Day 4/7
Clearly, the man & woman created the previous day were Robert Llewellyn and Lisa Rogers, for God was clearly into 'tinker time', for Genesis 2.2 states that he didn't just rest on the 7th day - he actually finished the work beforehand. Which means all those lazy Christians who want to 'keep Sunday special' should advocate opening shops all day long before resting in the evening.

Let there be light indeed...

....she blinded me with fish based Open Univerity professors...

* DAWN BEING ANOTHER PERIOD OF TIME MISSED BY GOD. ALONG WITH BREAKFAST, ELEVENSIES, DINNERTIME, TEATIME, DUSK, TWILIGHT, SUPPERTIME, ETC)
  

Sod the world - shag the Cheerleader...

It's painful seeing these greybeards buggering up the planet, when if they'd just listen to me we'd be in a world of plenty.

There's all this whining about runnung out of fuel & manufacturing materials, not enough grub, no space to build and a rapidly reducing Green Belt.

Now, to me, the answer is simple.

Miniaturization!

Now, if it's OK for Rick Moronic to diminish the height of his offspring, or to dwarfify people in subs to travel through the bloodstream, why is it unacceptable to descale the vertical axis of the dominant intellectual species?

This would literally solve all of the worlds crisis in one stroke!

Being the size of an amoeba means that a front lawn becomes a tropical rainforest, a puddle becomes a lake, and we can do away with the Chunnel, as we'd domesticate worms, and get them to burrow our tunnels!

And then there's the abundance of food - at such a short height, an apple goes a long, long way! And imagine how many loaves you could get out of a single kernel of wheat!

And materials - how many bricks does a house need? You could build entire megacities out of one brick! 

Metals - imaging how many nanocars you could build out of one car - and being so small, one tank of current size petrol could fuel a nanocar for several lifetimes!

Of course, you'd have to fend off Giant Spiders and Giant Ants and the like, but no-one one would starve or lack for shelter.

Although we could be a bit shafted if it rains too much. Or snows. Or the sun shines through the remainder of a carelessly dropped coke bottle and burns us all to cinders. Which could happen anyways, if the sun shines through an overly large spaceship windscreen and refracts a burny point of light onto us.

Of course, someone has to operate the shrinking machine, and would obviously be the last big person left alive, holding everyone to ransom under the threat of big boot treadment if the miniature minions do not accede to my every whim.

Bow down and worship me! For I am Ozzyosbourne, King of Rock, look upon my works ye unheighty and despair!

Mwah ha ha ha ha ha!

Gaaaah! London Bridge if falling down, and I am besieged by tiny Ash's! Not to mention Lilliputlian bondage sessions as I doze!

No - they greybeards are right! Take the Hunny Monster Shrunk The Skids Machine and cast it into the proton wielding black hole transdimensional portal time travelling wormhole generator!

Transperambulation of pseudo cosmic antimatter indeed!
   

One chance out between two worlds...

No Maximillian....

No V.I.N.CENT...

No B.O.B...

No Descent Into Hell...

No Big Bang creation of a new universe to play God in...

No transdimensional portal opening and flooding our parallel universe with a rage of vicious monstrosities...

Not even a TimeShift to make us live alongside Dinosaurs or find the identity of Jack The Ripper..

Just 2 streams of photos circling a 27km tunnel.

No sense of adventure these modern day greybeards!

Hold on a mo - although it's been switched on, they haven't even done the End Of The Universe and Suck Everyone Off (Into A Black Hole) experiments yet! That's not for a few days!

So, still time to be sucked into some Stargate wormhole then! And then where will we be?

All baldy headed with gold tatoos on our foreheads and bunging apostrophies into everything to make it sound cool (I notice it's called the Cern project. Cerne Abbas Giant anyone? Reminiscent of T'ealc and his electro-staff? Although it really should be Samantha Carter all nudie on a hillside, but that's just me... ).

Not to mention being thrust into abject slavery by the Goa'uld and have betentacled symbiots shoved up out bots and have to speak in echoey growly voices a lot.

Better by some shares in Strepsils and Lockets then!

Forget all this shedding light on temporal physics, it's purely a ploy by Tixylix to boost profit margins in the credit crunch!

In my eyes, Indisposed

In disguise as no one knows

Hides the face, Lies the snake

In the Sun in my disgrace

Boiling heat, Summer stench

'neath the black the sky looks dead

Call my name through the cream

And Ill hear you scream again

Black hole sun
Wont you come and wash away the rain

Black hole sun

Wont you come, Wont you come?

Stuttering, cold and damp
Steal the warm wind tired friend

Times are gone for honest men

And sometimes far too long for snakes

In my shoes, a walking sleep 

and my youth I pray to keep

Heaven send Hell away

No one sings Like you Anymore

Black hole sun
Wont you come and wash away the rain

Black hole sun

Wont you come, Wont you come?

Hang my head
Drown my fear

Till you all just disappear

Black hole sun*
Wont you come and wash away the rain

Black hole sun

Wont you come, Wont you come?

* AH - THERE'S B.O.B.! SUSPECT HE BELONGS IN THE PINK LODGE!!
   

BONUS BLOG: Two flies...

For all those who STILL don't know what I'm on about...

And yes, it is him! Two kit kats? It's egg, in soup...

Teddy heckles the snake...

And not a missing one either!

YETI!!!!!
    

Don’t leave me hanging due to the telephone...

I was watching a documentary about who killed Jesus, and it was so riveting I fell asleep. However, it did blab on about the Samaritans at one point.

Now, as I understand it, if you feel like topping yerself, you give these Samaritans a ring, and they tell you not to.

Or something,

However, I would query the validity of ringing up these Samaritans. In the first instance, they probably speak Hebrew*, so getting your point across may be a tad difficult.

Second, why should we trust 'em? According to that ever accurate historical record known as the bible, some dozy berk off to get the horn lay in the dust bewailling the loss of his judaic mobile by some hooded Herod, when he was ignored by a bunch of people - a priest, a Levite and a Samaritan, but only the Samaritan helped him.

Note - A Samaritan. And now the whole race is responsible for stopping people jumping off Richards! As if you'd to to all the trouble of blocking up the garage, running a hose through, turn on the car, as as the noxious fumes rise suddenly think "Hmmm. I'd better ring some god-botherers to talk me out of this"!

However, put it into modern terms, and the whiff of conspiracy bottom burps from within it's cakky undercrackers.

Imagine the victim is a poor old Rabbi, and the good 'samaritan' is Oskar Schindler who has this Rabbi on his list... Aha! The Samaritans were clearly the Nazi's of the day, and this whole phone call thing is a front to lure the unwary in!

"Velkomm to zee SS. Das Samaritan Service und not ze Schutzstaffel at all."

Remember - it's not The Good Samaritans you ring - just Samaritans in general.

And if they're up to their plums in Generals, then it's no wonder they get hauled up on these war uniform orgies that Formula 1 afficionadoes are most affectionate about!

Then again, I thought the Samaritans were spud-faced enemies of lighthouse terrorising lumiescent green jellyfishies checkin' out Leela's 'gravel pit'...

Shows what I know, don't it...

* TEA FOR MEN...
   

Baa, Ram, Ewe...

Outrageous!

I gets summonsed from a Party to attend a darkened office in the dead of night, half expecting to be stalked by a maniacal masked killer throughout the floors & corridors in a kill-or-be-killed game of cat 'n' mouse. No sustenance provided, apart from my candyfloss flavoured liquor.

All the other people who came in on Sunday, in the daylight, got unlimited pizza and a bucket full of sweeties!

Unfair!

Luckily, our manager went off and snaffled a couple of handfuls for our team today, as we were somewhat left out. I got a mini pack of lovehearts.

Now, lovehearts are supposed to make you feel somewhat loved, by giving yourself sweeties with massages to feel less like a lonely single tub o' lard. So, I opened the packet and began to lavish praise upon myself.

It said 'Babe' on it.

Now, I've been out of the loop somewhat, and being a shy, porkery freakfaced munter, out of practice with complements, but this was uncalled for.

I mean, Babe was a Pig! Typical. Not even a packet of sweeties loves me!*

Maybe it is modern parlance, and comparing a Pretty to a Pig is the best introduction to one of these sexy sirens? Sex in the City? Babe II: Pig in the City, seems to be the order of the day!

Maybe I'll try that line out on some of the Hotties in Hades next time!

"Hey Pigface! My mate fancies you"...

* UNLESS... IT WAS THE BASSETS BAYOU RANGE OF LOVEHEARTS, IN WHICH BEING NOMINATED AS A PIG WOULD HAVE DIRE CONSEQUENCES! AH, THAT HUSSYS SONG NOW MAKES SENSE! 
"BROTHER, SISTER, GIVE ME, GIVE ME DELIVERANCE"
"AH SURELY WILL CLEATUS! SAY, YOU GOT A PURTY MOUTH THERE BROTHER. nOW SQUEAL, PIGGY!"
   

Thecurity, thecurity, thecurity...

don't'cha just hate being called out from a fantastic party at 10pm to sort out 60+ major issues, only to find on your arrival the gates are locked and barred.

And after 20 mins waiting for Security to remove the blockade, you get's into the foyer and he drives off...

...and then you find you're actually locked out of your office, and have to wait another 45 mins for him to come back and let you in.

And by the time you've logged on, there's only 14 'issues', and it's all been dealt with, and never was your problem to begin with.

And you crawl back home, only to get a call at 11:30 to say everythings going well, and you probably won't be needed. In fact, you didn't even need to be called out last night.

This shit sucks, Dude. Get OFF my DICK. This is so much fucked up bullshit, I can't believe it man. Oh God, what am I doing? Honestly? Work is one ugly bitch.

And a slut.

Where's me sweater...

Still, 2 hours of overtime!!

And I didn't even have to play the guitar on the MTV...

But, alas, no chips for tea...
   

Here cum the Men in Black...

Now, there's nowt different about me, nor what I carry around in me manbag, but for some strange reason, every shop I entered and left set ther alarums a-ringing.

So I popped into HMV in the hope that one of the HMV hotties would take me into the back room and search me, and having found no thievery, subject me to a strip search resulting in the nobification of said suspicious lovely lady.

No such luck - so I amusingly updated my BaseFuck status to announce that it were probably due to Alien Implants...

...not so funny now! For as soon as I posted it, I left HMV with no alarms! No other store pealed their bells in my presence for the remainder of the day!

Clearly, having been rumbled, the Space Monsters de-activated their tracker bar! Proof indeed that They Wank Amongst Us!

I'm a tad concerned that these interplanetary denizens can stick some USB memory stick up me bum, and yet I have no knowledge of it!

It's now widely recognised that that is how the Dinosaurs died out. Space Travel may have been well developed on planet Omega III, but rectal probe machinery was still in it's infancy, and caused infections, plagues and pandemics.

Not many people are aware that the first dinosaurs were named after the Brontë Sisters. These three were notorious for getting up to the wuthering heights of orgasmic pleasure through bum sex, and, being of the time, were fairly plump of figure. So, when the first bones were discovered, with an MP3 player in the rectal area, it was named the Brontë-Sore-Arse.

There was a fourth sister, Dinah, and she was into really rough rectal rogering, and the abrasive chaffing turned the surrounding area all rough and scaly. The skin of the beasties were believed to be rough and scaly, and were therefore named Dinah's Sores due to the match in skin texture.

Unsurprisingly, this was all supressed by The Greybeards of the day, who quickly decided that 'sore arse' sounded like 'saw us'. However, they didn't like the idea that Charlotte Brontë saw them having bumsex, so they decided to spell it Saurus, and claimed it meant 'A bit Lizardy'.

Of course, this manipulation of history by The Greybeards is nothing new... in fact, back then, they weren't as old or long of beard, and were vain enough to douse themselves in Just For Men to give themselves luscious black flowing locks. At that time, they called themselves Men In Black.

Because they were always men, up to their plums in persons of ethnic origin, keeping the plantation workers in their place. Mainly because before they were grey, they were black, and before that white. Supremicists.

And once you've had black, you never look back. Which is bollocks, because you'd keep checking over your shoulder in case the hoodie blinged up gansta blood bops you over the head, looks you up and down a bit, turn to each other, then nick the present from your mother.

It's no surprise that Zoom-Zoom's chum don't like cricket...
    

Iraqnophobia...

Invasion!

Of course, because the Ghost Slug is a threat to our very existence, it was only a matter of time before other aminals decided to take a shot at Taking Over The World.

Seems one of our Brave Lads returned from Afghanistan with a Giant Spider in his luggage, which promptly escaped and digested the dog.

Now, I'm not one for alarmist reporting, but Giant Spiders on the prown consuming out canines? Mans best friend munched down on by mandibles of massive size? Homeowners being caught in acidic flesh eating webs and stored in the larder for a evening treat whilst watching the final of Pig Botherer?

Not only are The Press reporting it as a Giant Spider, it's a Camel Spider as well! Double humpty arachnids that can store water and survive the scorching desert sands of Colchester and bite you to death as you lounge in the sun!!!

But what of the size of this beastie? This oh-so-terrifying cyclopean spider?

Grows up to 6in!!!!!

Clearly my teenage years of living on a diet of 1950s B-Movie mutoids the size of buildings seems to have somewhat colored my perception of 'Giant'. Exactly how The Press can put out a Pandemic warning of Giant Spiders slaughtering the canines of Colchester when said spider is a wee 6in!

For my money, when I'm warned of Giant Spider invasions, I want 8-Legged freaks and Tarantuals the size of my house to be rampaging the countryside. I expect to go to the Farmer's Sea and it be populated with big, bug eyed beasties that bowl you over.

I suppose it's all perspective. If I were shrunk to a measly 4mm in height, I may indeed be worried out 'Giant Spiders', but 6in Giants? No way!

Although, I did pass through Colchester one, and I did see a pair of big spindly legs, all hairy and spiny.

But it was some Chav in a mini-skirt.

And mini it certainly was, with a plethora of additional 'spiders legs' on view.

Some people really need to go to Brazil if they gonna wear THAT!

Camel spider? Camel toe more like...
    

Dunkin’ Good, You...

Contraire to popular perception, I'm not very big on water sports.

Who wants to be doused the scent of haggard old crone Roys & Lidl shoppers?

Not me!

Hitler may have had Eva up on the glass ceiling delivering a brown baby boy, but I, for one, am far to portly to crouch under coffee tables. Even if I was svelte enough to sidle under the patio, a besplattering of the gravy rain holds no appeal.

Put you right off your choccie, it would!

You'd think that melted sand based scatalogical fascinations and the separation of his love spud from it's twin would have made some people think before making such a pervy uninut a Leader of the People.

Shit on my face, and tell me that you love me...

Oh, Adolf! You zing to me zo beautiful. Am I zee fallen madonna wiz zee big boobies? You vont me to empty my Stalag Luft III escape tunnel on zee smart Nazi uniform?

Ya! Ya! Get out zee Coldtitz! Schnell! Schnell!!
   

Necktie of the Gods...

Some people just deserve bloodsuckery fates.

Imagine you're in a village, in the remote Romanian countryside where everyone speaks perfect English. You discover to your horror that the Laird of the hamlet is concubining your wife and getting his teeth into your underage daughter

So, you march upon the Castle with an angry mob fully equipped with flaming torches and an array of farmery utensils - rakes and brooms and the like. Stake the Vampire as he curses the town and promises to arise again, burn the castle, and let the years pass.

Now, into town comes a circus. A myriad of attractions... well, Darth Vader, Romana I and her 'twin', a gypsy driver and 3 mirrors. All the fun of the fair PLUS a maniacal dwarf (is there any other kind, I hear you cry)!

Ah, but there be something about this Circus of Night...

Watch how the Panther laying in the cage suddenly becomes a man - than a panther - then a man, in rapid succession. Ho-hum... nothing untoward there!

Here comes the Trapeze twins - as they fly through the air, they turn into bats! Yeah, just an everyday occurrence.

Let out the panther, he pads across the ring, and jumps up to become a man! Still, the villagers (being under the threat of Vampiric plague) don't notice any undeaderry antics going on.

Hold on... Pantherman is mesmerising a young virgin of the village! Why, it's almost as if she was under a hypnotic spell, and has a compulsion to nob him in the cage!

Nah - nothing supernatural going on.

Good Grief - kids are being kidnapped! Turning up dead! Bitten on the neck!

Sod it - let's keep going to the circus each night... nothing untoward there, and it takes the mind off the possible wamphyri threat.

Hold up - someone's figured out that Pantherman is the Lairds long lost cousin, who's taken 15 years to get his arse moving to resurrect his brother! Christ Almighty - He's a VAMPIRE! And there wasn't a single clue at all!

And just who builds a staircase that leads up to a beam for no other reason that at some point in the future the Last Remaining Daughter would have to get up there to stand on the beam so she can hide behand a giant crucifix that the dozy vampire managed to miss until she stood behind it.

Deserve to get et, the lot of 'em!

Hammertime!
   

Jammyrag Dodgers...

What will they think of next?!?!?

If it's 'that time of the month', or you're a pissyknickered incontinent, you can get these special absorbent pads - and the best thing is, you get about 12 mini bumper cars parading around your privates!

How cool is that! Forget them vibro-balls or clit-tickling attachements - it's fanny dodgems you'red after, driving through your forested minge, and repeatedly colliding with yer clit!

Of course, being vehicular, they may leave behind the tell-tale signs of them burning rubber - and you don't want skid marks all over your fairground feminine freshness.

I suppose they could start to branch out the brand, as dodgems are not exactly the most sensible of vehicles to promote road safety. How ace would it be to say, rather than catching crabs, you caught cabs! Tiny twat taxi's tearing about yer bush is more akin to these cabbies - picking up wasted wimmin and demanding payment in blowjobs!

Then again, I don't see why cars are the most appropriate vaginal vehicle - surely a pantyliner invokes images of huge, opulent cruiseboats. And you can equate the sea to heavy tides and urinary leakage.

The Love Boat in yer Tenner Lady, if you will!

Or something...
   

Bashing one out in the back row...

Cinemas are a mine of annoyances when trying to watch a movie.

We're all familiar with the rustle of sweeties, the slurp of straws, the phone on vibrate so no-one gets annoyed if it goes off but pisses everyone off when you open it and a bright lite shines as the gormster sits there texting...

But even worse is the rhythmic pounding just somewhere off to the right. Is it someone a-tapping their feet? Tapping their fingers on the chair arm? Hmmmm.. it's only when Arwen is on screen...

So you can't concentrate on the movie, as you get more and more convinced that the appearance of the Tyler matching the resumption of beating is trousererial fiddlement going on! You daren't look to even give a scowl at the masturbatory fiend in case he's got his nob out!!

But even worse than the paranoia of a tosser tossing his todger alongside you, is so called 'tough' guys squealing like pigs in terror!

The Strangers is one of them films where nothing much happens, but does do a good build up of tension and suspense - somewhat ruined by unoriginal setups you can see coming a mile off.

However, the sight of Sackhead walking through a doorway and standing there had the burly beefcakes shitting their knickers! "ofuckofuckofuckofuckshitshitshit" they were going. For fucks sake - NOTHING'S HAPPENING! A bloke has walked into a room and just stood there.

Which is another let down of the movie. Imagine, you're being terrorised all night long by bemasked (possibly ghostly) maurauders. They keep getting into the house! Your life is in peril! Oh, what to do?

Might be an idea to lock any doors and windows, you would think!

Nah - keep popping outside, leaving doors & windows either wide open or unlocked, and keep taking unnecessary detours through the woods for no reason! And making as much noise as possible to announce where you are. Jesus. Door - car straight ahead. Why go off through the foresty bit where you just know someone might be hiding, crashing and a-whimpering all the way?

Thick as pigshit, these 'victims'. Honestly, give them a 'hidden' gun (oh, and I'm sure no-one saw that coming!) and what do they do? Upstairs room and pick off their assailants one by one from the window? Get into the loftspace and fend off their pursuers from there?

Nah, charge about willy nilly with it. And then go off into the forest for no reason.

As you do.

Meanwhile, the aroma of pants seeping with faeces arises from the behinds of those behind, as they soil themselves once more as the asthmatic stalker gives away his location with his wheezy breathing.

And when the movie ends, Mr Butch and his chums pronounce a verdict on the movie: 

"I fort I wud be, like, not bovvered, coz I'm, like, ded hard, me, but it, like, really shit me up"
"Nyah Nyah Nyah - you sed u wur ded hard!"

Still, I wouldn't have minded being terrorised by a dark haired dollface pretty...

I'm a-leaving me doors unlocked from now on!