Showing posts with label Conspiracy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Conspiracy. Show all posts

Friday, 23 May 2014

Solway First...

So, today is the 50th anniversary of the Solway Spacebloke!

Now, way back in The Sixties, tree hugging hippies were all the rage, and were often found high off their nut drawing down the moon all nudified on mountaintops.

And on 23rd May 1964, the smoking of certain substances and the strumming of sitars invoked ye muʃik of ye ʃphereʃ, opening up a gateway by invoking the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter (precipitating a flexi-tagenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters) and allowing interdimensional picnickers to photobomb human picnickers having a picnic!

And here we see the Visitor From Beyond, all hot and sweaty after translocating into a new realm.

And caught on camera scratching his bollocks.

What an embarassing moment - you travel all the way to an alternate dimension, and your wang sits uncomfortably within your spacesuit, and as soon as you adjust your hose to a more relieving position, someone takes a photo of you!

On the other hand, of course, it could be some interplanetary pædophile. Cruising the celestial highway for the youth of the species like a grooming galaxian Gary Glitter alighting on the nearest habitable humanoid planet and getting their jollies by pleasuring themselves behind underage indigenous lifeforms, their excitement heightened by the risk of photographic fathers capturing their onanistic orgasm on camera.

And what recompense does the child get for being forced into having to cockblock cock from camera?

An ice-cream!

Well, a naff bunch of flowers masquerading as an ice-cream! That look says it all, really. "Yeah, thanks for that dad. Dumped in a field with some craptastic flowers in the heat instead of a Funny Feet lolly whilst a perverted pædo from Pluto pleasures his penis and jizzes all over the back of my head. Can we go home now. Please?"

Of course, the Greybeards of today will poo-pah the teleporting terror from Titan, and claim that there are no invisible spacepervs clad in spacesuits lurking being underage kids picknicking in the park.

"Of course, your average person will see a black muslim immigrant trying to invade our towns and cities with their halal invisibility cloaks that only white British cameras can see. However, after subjecting the image to rigorous scientific testing, taking into account apertures, focal distance, 1960s cameras and film, it is quite clear that the pop-up terrorist is clearly her mother standing up, and facing away from the camera. You can see details that match her dress and hair. Due to the exposure and soft blur, her hair appears to look like a visor, and the light blue dress washed out to near white. We believe the first shot, with no 'spaceman' was taken with the mother sat behind at a short distance. In the second shot, she stood, and because the father was focused on the child, he didn't notice her in the background...

...in essence, what we have here, is basically a parental picknicker picking the knickers out of Uranus her anus hungry arse after being sat on the grass."

Bollocks! What about the Men In Black? Men in Black? Mysteriously materializing Men in Black burkhas bukkake bombing bambinos with their halal ejaculate out on a picnic more like! 

Solway Firth! Only pronounced like that coz the bloke who named it had a lithp. It's actually Solway First - standing up for Solways fight against the rising tide of Muslim Ray Guns.

When will Britain First, The BNP and UKIP put a stop to these foreigners from outer space? Coming over here in their spaceships and gang-raping underage abductees whist claiming asylum because of mistreatment on Mars and claiming a second colony whilst they get free treatment on NHS for their syphillic hentai raping tentacles and getting over £50k Neptunian Nuggets A DAY in benefits because they can't work because they're on disability because they're allergic to the common cold, whilst raking in hundreds of Venusion dollars by illegally working three jobs taking up several BRITISH jobs with their multiple multitasking tentacles and we can't celebrate Christmas now in case it offends the Saturnalians and you're not allowed to deport them back to Jupiter just in case it breaches their 'Human' rights. This country is a JOKE, and I can't wait until I retire so I can leave and move to a sensible place like Altair IV #Proud2BHuman

Right, that's it - I'm off to complain to The Daily Fail - at least THEY take this problem SERIOUSLY!

And I bet that this so-called Solway Firth Spaceman Sniper shot Diana, and this was a practice run to see if he could jump through points in time before dealing the death blow and making a clean getaway to Unga Bunga land, or wherever these teleporting terrorists train these days. 

Of course - I jest. The girl in the photo is clearly sporting a "fascinator" in the shape of the top, six-packed torso of Buzz All-In. Or Louis Armstrong. Or the other bloke. One of them was doing something with her moon before they buggered off back to the lunar surface 4 years later, because it was The Sixties and things were different then. You were allowed to jingle-jangle your jewellery. 

or something.

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

At midnight, on the 12th of August...

..., I mean, 6th of April, a huge mass of luminous gas erupted from Mars and sped towards Earth.

So quoth Liam Burton in Jeff Wayne's Musical Version Of H.G. Well's Novel Of Pearson's Gazette's Serialization of H.G. Well's Tale "The War Of The Worlds: The Nude Generation" UllaDubUlla Special Anniversary Extended Deluxe Collectors Edition (live on stage) Remix.

or something.

Remember t'other week, when I was debating making a mocking video of tin-foil hatted wearing loons spotting sports cars on Mars via the Curiosity Killed The Cat Rover?

Well, now they've found evidence of the space monsters attack fleet launch!

Here's a photo from the navcam:

Alien campfire as tentacled terrors in tents terrorize abducted Hillbillies? The fire from the thrust of a launched tripod filled cylinder? Martians raising their arses out of Clanger holes and farting to keep the stench out of their subterrainean warrens, but one witty space monster has lighted his mates flatulent emission? The ghosts of Martians wandering the empty wastes of their long-dead planet? The projectile snot from the sneezing Face On Mars in Cydonia?

Who knows?

NASA knows!

And they're only releasing the image in Black & White, rather than the usual colour images, so they've tampered with it to obfuscate evidence of alien civillization!

...hold on...

...let me zoom in on that white flare...
Gahh - call out Bernard Quatermass before the tripedal insectoids return for The Great Hunt, and kill off all the fucktards...

...NOOOO! TOO LATE!!!!

Thursday, 20 March 2014

I ain't got time to read...

So, yesterday I met one of my top, top, hotter than hot Pretties in Starbucks for coffee and a muffin, and ended up discussing Conspiracy Theories.

As you do.

Much as I like Destination Truth, Finding Bigfeets, Fact Or Faked, JFK shot by Roswell Space Monsters, I now have a new favourite.

For I've been introduced to Conspiracy Theory With Right Old Jessie "The Arsechin" sorry, "The Body", no -scrap that; "The Governor" Ventura (not to be confused with Arnie "The Governator" Schwartzanegger or other actors of a similar moniker nom-de-plums).

"Still ahead: HAARP invades Jesse Ventura's brain"...

Well, if HAARP can do that, can they invade my brain and remove the image of Captain Freedom's aerobics and replace it with a nice Pretty Lady please...



Friday, 14 March 2014

De plane, boss, de plane...

Flight MH370 this, Flight MH370 that, everywhere bloody Flight MH370.

Where's it gone?

Blown up by the pilots? Landed on a desert Isle? A troupe of thesbian tourists hijacking the plane to recreate the TV series Lost? Shot down by Malaysian snipers with rocket launchers?

Yet no-one suggests abduction by Space Monsters in the Malaysian Triangle, sucking up planes in waterspout tempests before sucking them down into their USOs1 where the passengers are forced to wear fishbowls on their bonce and commanded to construct cyclopean cities as slave labour for their evil interstellar overlords.

Well no way am I ever flying again! I have no desire to be captured by Dagonistic cultists and have to get all prune fingered putting up IKEA shelving just because some priests praying to a pantheon of piscine idols want to do some spring cleaning about the temples!

1UNIDENTIFIED(underwater?) SUBMERGED OBJECTS

Thursday, 13 March 2014

Mars attacks...

Now, one thinks one shall have to invest in Video Bloggage, as one cannot convey the subtle nuances of martian moving media by paragraph based textual descriptives.

For I has been getting addicted to gormsters on t'internet, who are uncovering the Hidden Truths NASA are hiding from us.

To whit; The pictures being beamed back from the Mars Curiosity Rover, and the lengths NASA go to, so that alien presence is obfuscated by digital manipulations!

For it is quite clear, that although these photos are evidently photoshopped to hide evidence of Space Monsters, Bigfeets, Martian Cities, Planes, Buses and Motor Cars, they are so hit by ObamaCare stealing all the cash, they forget to cover up all of it.

And you can easily pick out the fallen statues, hidden bases, killer lizard monsters and Electrical Components For Mechanical Appliances by simply...

...zooming in to 400%
...blurring the image, because pristine pics are so crap
...sharpening the image
...reblurring the image
...blur it a little more so you can now see some detail

...sharpen it
...Recolor it
...Invert it...

...and...

BANG! Obviously what you're looking at is a modern car buried under sand! Compare it to a parked car after a night of snow... they're identical! You can even see the wheels, windscreen, and passenger window!

Yeah, so, the space monsters all died zillions of years ago, but they did have an uncanny knack of building stuffs that look suspiciously like modern day stuff here on Earth!

But then, I'm not wearing my tin foil helmet, so they could be beaming skeptism directly into me brain tank with the Air Loom, further hiding their hidden agendas!

Sunday, 2 March 2014

God waits for Norman...

Right, Virgin Media gave me some new channels recently, including...

H2!

Which means I now get lots of new Space Monster Conspiracy bobbins!

Yay!

So, this morning, they were talking about the Ark Of The Government, which holds a wormhole though which Space Monsters travelled to do the nightshift when cutting out the temples at Lalibela (ancient Sumerian for Labia) before Stephen King put it Under The Dome Of Castle Rock on Temple Mount. Apparently the dayshift was performed by humanoids, whilst the Space Monsters put their feet up at Mecca Bingo.

Which naturally reminded me of Frank Hornby, the Christian Zealot who wanted schoolboys to build Weapons Of Mass Destruction in their own home and fight the Muslim menace and drive it from our shores.

Unfortunately, his first attempt of suicide bombing using the rail network failed, and his Hornby Trains ended up as Weapons Of Mass Distraction as boys became obsessed as expected. But instead of driving trains into Mosques, young boys stayed in their bedrooms constructing convoluted networks, before growing up into nerdy Trainspotters or Pop Moguls who (unlike Simon Cowhell) fail to bed their workmates.

(OK, YOU CAN FORGIVE SONYA, BUT PETE WATERMAN DIDN'T EVEN NOB KYLIE OR MICHAELA STRACHAN. EVEN COWELL MANAGED TO BED THE OTHER MINOGUE... AND EVERONE ELSE ON THE X-FACTOR PANEL. EVEN MY CLEAN ARSE, AND SHE COME FROM GALL STONE!) 

Anyhoo, getting back on (or rather off) track, Hornby quickly learned from his mistake. So, the trains were discarded, and the track modified into a form of supportive strut... and lo and behold, a few tools, nuts, bolts, gears and different lengths of perforated metal struts and you have a DIY construction kit!

Perfect for builing WMD in your own home?

But what to call this home defense against Islam?

A rallying cry for all good Christian Boy Scouts...

Mecca? No!

But that sounded a bit racist, but if you run it together...

Meccano!

Racist Meccano! Hidden in plain sight!

Monday, 13 January 2014

Fuck you, Shima...

So, that Fukushima blowed up, filling the Japanese seas with radioactive monster mutation essence, so it was only a matter of time before Gojira arose once more!

And slowly, but surely, unspeakable things are emerging from the deep to expire on the Fukushima shores.

First, we got Fukuppy,  some kind of mutant Pokémon adopted as a mascot.

Then, recently, a great big fuck-off Whorefish washed up. Nothing new about that - Whorefish are fucking massive anyway, and believed by many to be the origin of the sea serpent "myth". But these are GIANT oarfishies! 

And just a month ago, a kraken washed up. 160lb of giant chthonic colossal killer cephalopod, all suckery tentacles snatching up Japanese sunbathers and gobbling them up with it's terrible gnashing beak.
And today, the Fukushima folk are trying to convince us it's all a hoax, and their genetic behemoths that would trample us all under-tentacle are just made up scaremongering.

As if! The power plant leaked nuclear abnormality accelerant into the oceans, and we're all going to be overrun by supersized psychotic sushi!

Did they never learn from the Tagruato incident? Mining for milfshake sludge, they awoke a monstrosity that swam over to New York, ripped the bonce off the Statue Of Liberty, and then buggered up Central Park.

And unless they stop this cover-up and tell us the truth, we'll be woefully underprepared when a killer clam and pissed off puffer fish of ginormous size invade Castle Mall Gardens and rip the bonce off the Lion Statue outside City Hall!

Friday, 20 September 2013

I'm 'avin a faaaaaag...

Now, some of  you has seen The Xym in the smoking area down at The Whatacunt. Normally, just hangin' wit' mah crew - maybe with an empty pipe, or candy stick to blend in.

But recently, The Xym was seen puffing smoke out of his chops!

Well...

The Xym still does not smoke... but...

...when I was having me hair chopped t'other week, my scissor siren mentioned them things called e-Cigarettes.

Now, her man is giving up The Cancer Sticks, and to wean him off, he's on the eFags.

But wait...

These eFags are sweetie flavoured! And now she wants some!

So I went and bought one, with Cherry, Vanilla, Watermelon and Bubblegum flavouring! Yum!

So, now I has a stealth eCig! Looks like a fag, but all lighty up with a fruity flavoured smoke! Yay! Now the Xym can sit amongst the ash dropping coughers, and not look like a right lemon!

BUT, I reckon it's one of them there Government ploys.

See, eFags come in 4 strengths. Strong, Medium, Low and Fuck All Nicotine. 

So, the ConDemn coalition tempt people to look all cool with sweetie scented ciggies at no risk. Then, they wean you on to low-strength. Then medium, and before you know it - you're hooked on full strength coffer filling coffin fillers with their Fag Tax!

Oh, I may look all cool and suave and sophisticated with perfumed plumes arising from puffing on puffing sticks... but next I'll be on 200-a-day. And then what. Rollies and smoking wee, or Can O' Piss, as Da Kidz say. And then it's the heroine and her crack coke cane. 

And I'll end up a fag hag, all withered like Dot Cotton in a pile of sick in the Whatacunt garden area. 

probably.

But who cares - I'll still look cool, smell cool, and my smokey exhalations will smell cool too!

Tuesday, 17 September 2013

Moon pig - nay, Frog...

Holy Ranidae Batman!

Them there American Greybeards have taken a step too far now!

They're sending up the LADEE spaceship to examine the moon structures built by the space monsters, I mean... "measure lunar dust, honest guv'nor" when...

DISASTER!

Ermagherd! What's that off to the left in that big plume of smoke...

Oh noes! One of the pilots has fallen out of the shuttle, and is vainly spreading his arms to create some uplift to slow his inevitable descent unto his doom, for they don't have parachutes in space as it's too floaty.

But fear not - NASA have confirmed that the falling man is not a falling man at all. 

It's a froggie.

Admittedly, a human sized, human shaped froggie, but a froggie looking like a frog-man due to forced perspective. or something.

Do these Greybeards never learn? They send monkeys to the moon, and they either enter a time rift and end up as our evil simian overlords, or they grow to King Kongian size and go on the rampage. How irresponsible to rely on amphibious reptilians to pilot planes to planets.

I guess they must've been watching Jurassic Pork, which tells us if you bung some frog DNA into blokes, their cock drops off and they turn into women who get raped by the blokes who still have cocks and end up spawning. Who needs couples to journey to Mars and populate the planet, when you can send up some self replicating rana rugosa!

However, I'm staying well clear of Wallops, where the launch was held. Even the name - Wallops, smacks of impending destruction. CRASH! BANG! BOOM! WALLOP!!!

Born in the radioactive fire of the ignition launch, Frogzilla will arise!

That's all we need - giant mutant frogs flicking their 100ft tongues at our womens and generally being a noisy nuisance. A giant Kribbett, and a sonic boom blasts across the Virginia plains, blowing the holzer mane of a post-Timotei lorelei about as she sexily showers in streams under a waterfall... before a giant tadpole leaps up and eats her face off.

UNLESS... we get the other effect...

Born in the radioactive fire of the ignition launch, endowed with amazing powers arises... SUPERFROG!

Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
No - it's a fucking frog in red knickers and a cape...

...wait a cotton picking minute... if I remember my Sesame Street correctly, wasn't a certain green amphibian a roving reporter? 
Clark Kent? Kermit Kent more like! Why, take off that hat.... uncanny resemblance. Hold on, lookit him race into that handy revolving door while ripping his trenchcoat open... what the... ERMAGHERD!!
Oh wait... the Kermityte is present... oh noes... he's mutating! Ermagherd, I was right the first time! The kermityte has reversed his capacity for good, and he's swelled to monstrous size in all his evilness! Kermit the phoenix has truly been forged in the fires of LADEE and been reborn as....

FROGZILLA!!!

NASA - you maniacs! YOU blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!.

Tuesday, 23 July 2013

When a jackal spawns, it always fouls the weather for you...

So what the feck happened to the weather?

It was all, like, glorious sunshiney heatwave, and then...

Ermagherd!

Princess Kate goes into Labour...

...suddenly, the skies darken, thunderstoms roll and crash, lightning strikes and flash!

Now, I'm not one to cry conspiracy as you know, but coincidence? I don't think so. This definately has the end times sulphurous stench of And lo, unto ye Middleton, the ickle pwince of darkness hath been delivered all over it!

Crowded house?

Hounded spouse, more like! Hounded as in being humped by a hound - a hound in the form of a jackal!

I remember watching The Omen. Apart from Dr Who Number 21 getting impaled on a spire, there was that bit with the spawning of the Jackal's pup, and Damien being delivered in not too disimilar a stormy climate - all windy grey doom & gloom with accompanying choral singing by saintly monk-type pædo priests:
♪ Sanguis Middleton
Corpus Will Windsor
Sanguis Middleton
Corpus Will Windsor
Sanguis Middleton
Corpus Will Windsor
Royal Offspring Satani! ♫
Summat like that. probably.

Rosemary's Baby? Kate's Baby more like! Some incubus type Tokoloshe denuding Middletons of their knickers and impregnating them with satanic spunk from their demonic dongs!

Well. I, for one, refuse to kneel before the progeny of our satanic, reptillian, illuminati overlords!

I say we shave it's bonce in St Paul's Cathedral to look for a 666 birthmark, then apply the daggers of Meggido to He Who Would Bring Hell Unto Earth. And if there isn't one, tattoo it in felt tip, and apply the daggers of Meggido from orbit (it's the only way to be sure).

We don't want the Royal Son Of Simon Cowell, I mean Jeremy Kyle, I mean Satan bringing out the apolcalypse. If anyone should have a cloven hoof, it should be Kate in extremely tight fitting jodhpurs.

The Antichrist is here, despoiling our weather patterns with his unholy rebirth!

Hold on... Antichrist... Is that, like, Antifreeze, or something?
1 AND NOT DR POO'S NUMBER TWOS. IN THE T.U.R.D.I.S (TRAVEL USING RECTAL DEFACATIONS IN SHITHOUSES).

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

Dreamboats and Petticoats? Bustle and Busts...

Now, yesterday I was discussing the poise of parasitic Pretties of the HemoGoblin persuasion.

To whit; Vampire ladies in flimsy dresses hanging all oops-ups-eiderdown, and encouraged this method of hanging about in clubs.

And to get the craze off the ground (and a-dangling from the ceiling), I proffered this picture of a Pretty performing the pose on a club bog doorframe.

After discussion with the Vampire Pretty1 in a Hundersbyesque proud and prejudicial fashion, and some mild mis-interpretation of ankles2 for pantaloon pythons, It suddenly hit me.

That Pretty is upside down in a dress... and yet the dress has not obeyed the laws of gravity and descended over her lithe body, hiding her visage and prominently portraying her pants to the public.

Or pubic. or something.

So that kind of put the mockers on my Get To See Almost Nudie Babes In Clubs By Getting Them To Wear light, Airy Dresses And Dangle Upside Down With Their Flange In Xym's Face plan, as the photogratification opportunity has the Pretty clad in a Stealth Dress!

Anti-Gravity raiment!

Perhaps that picture is not of some drunken lush larking about in the loos, but a necessary position to retain a lady's modesty!

Mayhap she needs to stay upsidey-down so that the anti-gravity reactors in her hem keep the skirt at a respectable, less labia-revealing level. If she were to turn through 180° and stand upright, perhaps her hem would shoot straight up to the ceiling, leaving her all a-dangle and neck-down nudie!

I don't know - them young womens and their fashions. Out and about in the city, a short breeze, and it's a-clutching of the short, flimsy skirt to stop it billowing up in the wind and flashing yer arsefloss that passes for pants. And then they put on these anti-Gravity dresses and have to hang from toilet doors, or walk upon their hands!

Ooooh wait - perhaps them Giant Flying Jellyfishies and UFO's are, in fact, just Anti-Grav skirts! Giant hooped skirts, powered by astronautical womens in Victorian bloomers to preserve their dignity. Directional traversement powered by farting forwards, queefing to reverse, and a cheeky lifting of a buttcheek to move left or right!

♪ Twinkle Twinkle, little star
how I wonder what you are
up above the world so high...
...Wait a minute, that's hair pie! ♫

It IS a twinkle! Oi, missus! Yer petticoats have parted resulting in anti-gravity gusset revelation!

1 ONE WHO FAVOURS THE WHALEBONE ENTIGHTENED ENCASEMENT OF THAT WOMANLY BOWER THAT INCARCERATES HER ADMIRABLE ASSETS, AND THE VOLUMINOUS KNICKERBOCKERS OF DRAUGHT PREVENTION (WHICH ACCOUNTS FOR HER HOT, FLAMING CHEEKS THAT NEED COOLING FROM THE RED HOT FLAME OF SHAME... OR WAS THAT FROM THE SPANKING?)

2 AND NOT, ONE HASTENS TO ADD, CANKLES. THOSE POP-SOX'D TROTTERS DANCING PIGS DISPLAY WHEN "AT THE HOP" DOWN THE WHATACUNT OF A METAL NIGHT...

Monday, 13 May 2013

A-wah.. oh no! He's a Morris Dancer...

One of my Pretties today said they wanted some Morris Men.

Betcha don't find them on Uniform Dating Dot Cum!

Anyhoo - it got me thinking.

This time of year, Norwich tends to get infested with cider drinking dancing loons with scarves and bells...

...no, wait... that's just me going out on a Saturday night!

But there does tend to have an overabundance of men & women blighting various points in the City with their tomfoolery. And then it hit me.

Not clobbered by a bladder onna stick - exactly why we have so many Maurice Dancers. And it's all down to that agéd legend outside Primark: The Puppet Man.

Old and wizend beyong time and measure and sadly reduced to pawing at the air with a sock whilst singing along to Return my flashermac  by Our Kelly, in his younger days he lived in Foreign Parts.

Namely Hamélin!

And prior to pop and puppets, it was piccolo's and puppets! Yes - The Puppet man once was Ye Olde Piéd Piper! And Morris Men are the long lost children he led away to be groomed for a life of imprisonment and cellar sex slave seduction dancing in the street and masochismically bopping each other on the bonce with a stout stick to satisy the satyr's sadistical lust fulfill his street entertainment legacy.

Apparently, some got away from him. One rebel rebelled, and instead of More Reece-Pieces Dancing, turned his oral ordeal into something even more horrendous.

Took up the bagpipes and took up residence by M&S to inflict his screechy bladdersack upon ye City.

Other More Rice Dancers formed Tribes outside the City, and split into The Manics and The Men Of Kent.

Apparently, The Manics design for life was to black out their faces, whilst The Men Of Kent went for white shirts and Bowler Hats. It would therefore appear that The Piéd Puppeteer Outside Primark has been brainwashing them on a diet of The Black And White Minstrel Show and A Clockwork Orange.

Still, I'm told that Morris Dancers are so wonderfully British when they jingle. 

Although I believe Operation YouTree take a different view to mandems of drunken British blokes with their jingle jangle..

"Now then now then, what have we here? I have, on my hand, a young lady, who says "Dear Jimmeh, could you fix it for me, to become a Morris dancer?". Well, goodness gracious, would you believe it, I just so happen to have a bell right here about my person. Now then, grab hold of the bell end, and give that stick a damn good bashing about the head. That's it - sing it bitch! ♪ You're my Morris Dancer / a dancer for money / I'll what you want me to do ♫! Oh yes! Jingle Jangle Jewellery!  Me bladder-onna-stick's about to burst and bukkake your face. Uh-huhr-uh-huhr-uh-huhr!"

or something...

Friday, 26 April 2013

I thought I saw a Farcebook post...

I thinks I be a-goin' mad!

"Wotcha mean 'thinks', Xym! You're a certifiable loon!"

Oi! Shurrup you! I resemble that remark!

Anyhow, just before we set off for a Team Lunch down The Queen Of Iceni, thought I'd quickly check Farcebook.

Now, you know as t'other week we wuz checking out The Marquee as a potential venue for a new Alternative clubnight coz The WhatACunt only caters for Modern Alternative.

Well, one of the EMO metal DJs threw a right old girly hissy fit over the whole damn thing, coz it clashed with his club night (being a totally different kind of music). Eventually, everyone was happy, as it's 2 different audiences.

So what was on Farcebook?

One of the Waterfont "alternative" guys:
We are looking at the 2nd of 3 possible venues, to host an new alternative night. Punk, trad-goth, etc. To be on the same night as ShitPloppin' so it doesn't clash with any of OUR alternative nights"

Whoa - everyone agreed there was no competition as the music was totally different! And the 1st Sat was picked as it only clashed with Rawkus - every other Sat clashed with bigger, better alternative events - Wraith, Slimelight, etc. And out of the blue, The WhatACunt just happens to be looking to host a near identical event in direct competition?

As all know, The Xym is the last to cry conspiracy, but this has the stench of baby's thrown his toys out the pram and ran to his mam, and mum, all upset at her wailing offspring, has promised to put on a bigger performance to teach them bad bully boys a lesson!

So The Xym replied with query - is this in response to the DJ bawling his eyes out? Have they not spoke to Asylum about sharing the new night and working together?

Almost immediately it got a like!

Now, here's the maddening bit. Gets to the boozer, and Plink! off goes the mowbli. Ooooh, a Farcebook notification! "Hi Xymon! I'm confussed...". So I click on the link. Farcebook opens, and...

...The page you are trying to visit is not available. It may have been deleted or removed

But I almost instantly replied! It can't have gone that fast, surely! They again... And again...

Scroll thought Farcebook feed... Can't find the post... Heck... Can't find the Friend Page... Wait a minute... It's not in me link list anymore! Heck, mebbe it's this lastest crappification of the Farcebook app on me phone. I'll have a quick check when I get back...

And now the notification has gone too! All trace vanished! Has The Xym been blocked? Did he imagine it all? Is The WhatACunt still making their nefarious plans to challenge Asylum, but doing it all secret like? What's goings on!

Any nayone else has seen it! Not even notifications to those people/groups tagged!

I must've slipped into a parallel universe on me way to the pub, one where the post was never made, but I retained all details of the previous reality where is was made.

Or something.

A wise person once said:
Remember, somewhere in an alternative reality, you are Batman. If you can be anyone - be Batman!.

Bugger that! Batman only got Catwoman occasionally, as she kept running off being a bad girl. If you can be anyone, be The Joker, coz you not only get Harley Quimm, but she'll let you boff Catwoman during Ms Kyle's off times during her on-off relationship with Bats!

Monday, 12 November 2012

There's a she-Worf in the closet...

Well, glue a cornish pasty to my head and call me wo'rIv!

Them greybeards have only gone and created a perfect cloaking device THAT ACTUALLY WORKS!

Although it has one flaw.

It only works in One Direction.

Which is an added bonus if you ask me!

Apparently, it all works on Microwaves. So, of you look at someone from the front, you can't see them. However, if you walk round the side, you can.

So, might as well just hang a telly in front of you, displaying the output from a camcorder strapped to yer back!

Oh, and the microwaves need to be projected onto a pyramidal cone to create the invisibility cloak of Deadly Hallowness.

So, that's tonight sorted! I'm off to scrape the exploded Iceland Meal-For-One two-for-£1 BOGOFF Admiral's Pie off the inside of the microwave oven, and get me down the ladies showerblocks down the gym!

It'll work as they just look at the front of the microwave, and not try to find the plug...

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

Yer a lizard, 'arry...

Now, I've been keeping me head down recently, and it seems them there New World Order Tunnelling Tibetean Illuminati are off my backs!

Not a single assassination attempt in months.

However, last night I was watching Have I Got A Bit More Nudes For You with Jeremy Clarkson (Beat.Box), and Font Of Truth David Icke was mentioned.

It seems that the O(Para)lympics were constructed at the behest of our Reptilian Overlords in Royal Human Suits, and it was a Satanic ceremony so they could unleash the Ogdru Jahad, and other betentacled behemoths to keep them in Power.

And watch loads of real life Hentai demon tentacle porn on the lawn at Fuckingham Palace.

I thought it was odd that Prince Harry was introduced as Prince Henry - they obviously forgot to use his "Human" name, and used his Lepidosaurian title!

Harry in public, but it's Henry the Iguana shitting guano all over the Windsor's DFS sofa with his human suit off!

Now, I was at the Paralympic Athletics, and the Closing Ceremony, and I don't recall any Satanic Mass nor sacrificial virgins going on - let alone the arising of gargantuan Gods of general unpleasantness from under the 100m starting line. But then, with all them starter pistols all going off, I'm not surprised I missed the shootout with the imps, goblins, djinns and diverse other menacing pixiefolk invading the orifices of olympians with their rapey tentacles (or should that be tentasaviles?).

Although I do recall the screaming of billions of lost and tortured souls howling in eternal agony and torment - but that was probably just Coldplay caterwauling through their cacophony of compositions.

Hold on - I do remember lots of fire. And big black demonic birdy folk. And some diabolical Brazilian bits1.

On the other hand, I don't recall Jess Ennis in a red latex catsuit ramming a dildo pitchfork right up Rhianna's arse.

But I might have missed that bit.
Xym's proposal for Team Russia
Paralympic Longjump Outfit
~ Brazil 2016 ~
1 BUT NO BITS THAT WERE DIABIOLICALLY BRAZILLIAN'D FOR AERODYNAMIC PERFORMANCE. THAT'S WHERE YOU SHAVE YOUR MINGE TO COUNTER THE FRICTION FROM BUBBLY CHOCOLATE BARS. SOME OLYMPIC SPORT INVOLVING MARIANNE FAITHFUL. WORLD RECORD IN THE COCOA BEAN FLICKING FAPPAGE EVENT. OR SOME SUCH. PROBABLY.

Wednesday, 17 October 2012

The Blue Eye of the Ginormous Scaly God...

What do you call a fish with no eye?

Apart from One Eyed Willy1.

The answer is, of course, a swordfish.

A swordfish?

That great huge feck off giant Floridian eye (which is actually west, not North of Kathmandu2.)? That big blue ocularity of mysterious origin of such mammoth dimensions it could only have come from an aquatic mammoth, Architeuthis Dux, Cthulhu himself, or a sub-aquatic pod3 person from the planet Mars?
They're trying to pass it off as a swordfish?

Now, I only watched it once, but as far as I can remember, John Trevolting, Vinnie Jones and Huge Actionman had regular eyes, and Halliberri just flopped out her mammarial flotation devices. Apparently.

It buggers belief, that no matter what the evidence is for Space Monsters, Loch Nested Monsters, 51 Arials and reptilian royalty, some greybeard will try and blag it through with some unlikely mundane explanation.

Never mind the direct path that the Cloverfieldesque behemoth took to get into the the Florida beach. A straight line goes from the discovery point through Louisiana (Swamp Things!), Dallas (Poison Dwarfs!), New Mexico (Roswell!) dips a toe in Phœnix (Fawkes!), the toe of the other foot tests the waters of Utah (Saints!), before arriving at the origin point: Nevada (Area S1!).

So, quite clearly, some back engineered mutation escaped from Simon Groom Lake, rampaged through Utah & mistaken for angelic beings of alien origin, ducked through Arizona & confused with birds of flame, tried to find it's ancestors crashed disk and identified as a big bug-eyed grey in Nude Mexico, through Texas (where everything is bigger, especially the eyes. But not Poison Dwarves), tromped through the bogs of New Orleans and taken for Alec Holland (And while we're deep in banjo & bayou country, didn't John "Hellblazer" Constantine witness a bloke being speared to death by a swordish on a car when looking up Alec & Abby? Probably noticing Abby had a purty mouth...), before swimming up to Tampa and being speared by Japanese whalers (who's musical career went South when Jacob marley died. Deep South. With the Southern Fried KKKFC chicken. or something.)

Hence its monstrous eyeball washing up and putting the wind up the locals.

As if all the world's experts would misidentify the Gaze Of Dagon as some poxy fishie.

Swordfish, my arse!

Literally, a cyclopean cephalopod of the colossal calamari persuasion!

It be ye all-ƒeeing eye of one ye minionƒ of ye greate olde ancientte onneƒ, and ye ƒtarreƒ are almoƒt right, and comme 21 Decemberre, they will aryƒe from ye tombƒ in yon depthƒ and throw a bit of a tantrum.

As you do, if you're a deity from the Dawn of Time and Space Beyond the Spheres.

1 [SIGH] FISH. OUT OF MARILLION? DEREK W. DICK. DICK = WILLY. ONE EYED WILLY = COCK. OR THE PIRATE IN GOONIES. HEY YOU GUYS! TRUFFLE KNUCKLE SHUFFLE! OR SOMETHING...

2 ACTUALLY, IT'S QUICKER TO GO EAST. YOU KNOW, MANY PEOPLE IN THE UK ARE WORRIED ABOUT BEING IN THE MIDDLE OF A NUCLEAR WAR BETWEEN AMERICA AND RUSSIA. THAT'S COZ THEY'RE STUPID. IF YOU MOVE THE MAP ALONG. SO THAT BRITAIN IS ON THE FAR LEFT (OR RIGHT), YOU'LL NOTICE THAT AMERICA AND RUSSIA ARE REALLY CLOSE TOGETHER, SO INSTEAD OF US BEING NUKED, THEY COULD ALL MEET UP IN THE CHUKCHI SEA FOR A PUNCH UP. PREFERABLY ALL THE FEMALE SOLDIERS. IN BIKINIS.
Standard map - look! There's the UK, slap bang in the middle!
What cunt put us there, right in the Fallout Zone?
But shunt the map over...
Russia:West, USA: East, UK: Well out of it!
and any nuclear winter falls in the North Pacific Ocean!
WIN!
 3 AS IN A POD OF DOLPHINS. OR IS IT A SCHOOL? NO, PRETTY SURE IT'S A POD OF DOLPHINS. YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY - AS LIKE AS TWO BOTTLE NOSED DOLPHINIUMS IN A POD. PROBABLY.

Monday, 27 August 2012

What's new pussycat, ROARRR-A-ROAR-OARRR...

Ah, the Essex Serengeti Safari of Clacton-On-Sea!

Now, many an ABC (Alien Big Cat) has been seen about the English Countryside. Pumas, Tigers, Panthers - not to mention the Beast of Bowthorpe, the Costessey Cheetah or the Sabre Teethed Tigers of Catton Mango Grove.

For now the residents of Essex are High on something.

High on
A Lion
In Claton.

Which is better than being high on Celine Dion in Bolton.

or something.

Anyhoo, up comes them GovernMental Men In Blacks with their conspiracy tales.

"No ma'am. That was no lion you saw take down that Gazelle. That was your average ginger pussytat!"

Now, I'm no David Attenborough, but even I know the difference between a monster moggie and a great big feck off lion!

One sits there, sunning itself and licking it's arse. The other is a bloke in a bad aminal costume prancing off to see sorcerers who will fill his custardy heart with bravery.

Then again, it wasn't frolicking in the field with a silver-painted bloke with a funnel on his bonce, a Wurzel without a brain, and an underage schoolgirl.

Unless it was some other form of ginger pussy, if you know what I mean (and I'm sure that you probably don't if you're a "friend of Dorothy").

These Government Agencies must think Joe & Josephine Public are stupid!

Honestly, some huge beast with a great mane rears up at you, biting your face off - it's hardly likely to be Mr Tibbles from next door is it!

It wouldn't surprise me one bit if we had feral lions roaming the English countryside. After all, Yarmouth houses the HIPPOdrome - and hippopotomi aren't supposed to be native to the Norfolk shores!

Actually, come to think of it, these so-called Hippopuomussessessessesses in the Hoppodrome look suspiciously like Horses to me. Mind you, this IS Yarmouth, where the slack-jawed web-fingered local yokels have probably been convinced that a Greyhound is one of them there Velociraptors out of Jurassic Pork.

Hold on... what's that in the mud flats...

Uhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrromnomnomnomnomeuargh!

Yikes! Save yer cauliflower...

Thursday, 7 June 2012

And the mice all call me, Puss In Hoverboots...

And they called Norman Bates a Psycho!

Well, a boy's best friend is his mother.

Unless it's his cat.

And what better way to remember your cat upon it's death, than to have it stuffed and mounted.

And not in a sexy way.

And once you have it all taxidermied, it's a case of taxi round to the Heliport, for what better form of memoriam than turning your faithful friend into a feline flier.

In other words, convert your moggie into a remote control helichopter.

Yes - one of them Dutchmen has taken time away from fingering his dyke, cobbling his clogs and reverse engineering cheese to add landing legs to the belly of the beast, and added rotary blades and landing lights to all four paws. A bit of the old meccano to knock up a remote control, and the Marvellous Mister Mistoffelees is your aunties bestial lover.

I reckin this is all a cover up.

Now, we all know of the aminals that fly in the skies, and those that dwell within the aquasphere (such as the infamous hedge hopping hog, rods, and probably them Chupacabra, which is Mexicaine for Chubba Chupps in women's lingerie. Probably.). I reckon one of them mad greybeards, cackling under a crackling Tesla Coil and showered with sparks, has created a new arial menace.

Flying Felidæ!

Either that, or the mutant moggie is native to the skies over Dutchland, and this story came about because one was caught tethered on a line. Ever heard of "flying a kite"? Kite - short for KITTEN, perhaps?

Flying a Kitten!

And what benefit do these Helikitteh's give? Why - whatever keeps them afloat, of course.

Farmed for the helium in their bellies, that's what's going on!

So, next time you get a floaty birthday balloon, just remember - some poor puss had to have it's stomached pumped to fill that balloon you're so enamoured of!

No wonder there's so many cats on the ground these days - people blame a lack of neutering. Bollocks! It's just that their natural state in up in the clouds where they couldn't be seen, and our greed for making squeaky voices by sucking on a balloon has rendered too many pussies earthbound, thus rendering them more noticable!

Ban balloons and let the kitties fly free!

Let's go fly a kitteh
Up above the highest City
Let's go fly a kitteh
And send it meowing
Up to the Aquasphere
Up where there's no vet's here
Oh, let's go, fly a kitteh
And stop nicking pussy tummyhelium for party purposes

Monday, 19 March 2012

You think you can read me...

You can ever read me!

You can only read what your insignificanly little minds can concieve!

For this blog does not exist!!

Shock! Horror! Consternation! Casternets! Uproar!

There's this interweb based company called Blue Coat. Obviously some spin off from Butlins and run by them happy go lucky Bradley Walsh type gormsters, who have categorised my blog as being "under construction, parked domains, search-bait or otherwise generally having no useful value."

It's been a while since I revealed any inner secrets of the masonic illuminateri Tibetan tunnelling secret leaders and their diverse conspiracies, but it would seem they have caught wind of my exposure of their assassinatory attempts upon The Xym and tried a new tack.

Cyber Hackage. and the prevention of access to me blog!

They've marked my revelationary texts as a Placeholder - meaning it doesn't exist, and therefore access is denied to various search engines and corporate firewallery.

Which makes my Blog sort of an Area 51 of the net!

Miss Carthcart and her Blue Coated brethren, having divested her banana colored raiment of the Maplins Electricals Holiday Campanology, has become one of them Govermentment Women In Black! Or deep shade of deep blue. Or something.

"Blogger Obscura does not exist, it is a placeholder - nothing there but a name. So you can't look at it coz there's nowt there. What do you mean, you can reads it? I'm sorry, you're trepanning on space monster technologies and mystical bollocks of the Ancients, so you will have to be shots on sight".

Well, you in your serial killer suits made up of skinned Smurf can try and deny the presence of these texts - anyone who hath stumbled upon these ramblings can see they exist by the evidence of their own optical recepticles.

Unless they're blind, in which case they can read it through the bumpy bits on their monitor lizard.

Generally having no useful value, my best hat!

And my new best hat will be out on Sat!

And tall of hat The Xym will be.

But you won't be there to see it coz this Blog doesn't officially exist, so you can't read it, and therefore will be all unexpectant of millinery towerage that must remain all Pisa-esque upon the cranium as removal would reveal the now legendary cap coiffure of disarray.

So it'll be a nice surprise then, won't it!

Friday, 2 March 2012

I ain't 'fraid of no goats...

Now, there has been theftage of thatch de visage from an acquaintance of mine, who claims it blew off in the wind.

Which must have been some mighty flatulence to defollicle the facial forestry!

This prompted another, in true wild-of-hair and mad-of-eye mad geneticist stylee, to proclaim a desire to breed a race of nocturnal beard nibbling nannies.

Naturally, The Xym got rather excited at the original premise - nightly nibbles by a nanny! Even better - Mary Poppins... popping 'em out... naughty nannies gnawing on nipples...

But then it turned out the nannies in question were goats.

And goats are too large to house in a bedroom and reshape your facial furniture as you dream of does. And dears. Some mad old dears. Gay, and off their tits on rum.

So you have to have smaller goats. Younger goats, in fact. The Michaela Strachan Wac-a-day Wild club term for them being Kids.

And no-one want nibbling on the nipples in the night and being de-teated by kids¹.

The advantage of cabrito cleansing is that would naturally do away with the requirement of daily grooming², allowing the grower of soup-catcher to maintain their hirsute appearance without the hassle of accoutrements and diverse other tonsorial utensilry.

But even so, I think kids would be too large.

You'd have to get David Attenborough out of Jurassic Pork's InGen to clone an army of miniature pigmy goats - no, even better! Forget nanny goats - nanogoats!!

Nanogoats that creep out from a matchbox stable under your pillow as you slumber, and then munch upon your moustache and binge on your beard. And, for the ladies, allow them to roam your Jumanji³ - binge-ing on your brazillian bush, saving you a painful minge-waxing.

Ever wonder why a goatee is called a goatee? A-ha!

Suddenly, Rick Moronic in Honey? I shrunk the Kids! doesn't sound so fa-fetched now, does it!

Although he didn't shrink goat Kids. But he DID feed his dentist to an Audrey II, in which I could've done with his help on Tuesday morning with the replacement Hygienist. Orin Scivello? Hah! Steve Martin had nothing on Martel - who went at me ivories like Pete Martell at a 2by4 in the Packard Sawmill. With added lumberjackeries.

Hopefully Annie will be back next time.

How's Annie? How's Annie? How's Annie? How's Annie?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!

¹ UNLESS YOU'RE GARY GLITTER. IN VIETNAM.

² BUT NOT ONLINE. FOR THE GROOMING OF KIDS IS FROWNED UPON - SEE ¹ ABOVE

³ THIS BREED OF NANOGOAT ARE CASTRATED SO THEY CAN'T ACCIDENTALLY NOB YOU IN SLEEPY BEASTIALITY AND BREED A RACE OG GOAT PEOPLE. THEY ARE CALLED WETHERS, AND THEY PICK AT THE PUBES ROUND YOUR POON. YOU MAY HAVE THOUGHT WETHERSPOONS WERE PUBS - NO, THEY'RE DWARVEN GOATS MUNCHING ON MINGEHAIR. NO WONDER WETHERSPOONS IS SO CHEAP - WHAT WOMAN WANTS SOME HAIRY BEARDED SATYR IN HER KNICKERS, HENCE THE CHEAP ALCOPOPS. YOU KNOW THE OLD ADAGE: BACARDI BREEZER - (half-man half-goat) PAN UP HER BEAVER!