Grand Theft Alter

A good hearth these days is hard to find. True rugs – the bearskin kind. Thus spoke The Undergroans solospack “Fear Gull” Sharky, in one of his many “hits”. And never a truur word was spake by one so whys. But such hearths and rugs, once they are the pride of your living room, are even harder to KEEP.

This is where GOD Security Assistance Reductive Surveillance Enhancement (GODSARSE) Systems come into their own. GOD stands for Geographically Omnipresent Device. GODSARSE equipment is unique in the fact that it harnesses the power of the Lord God Almighty to keep tabs on the security of your household, with no need to install any equipment. So – no unsightly boxes, no installation, no wires, no mess, no fuss. Just one setup fee, a simple contract (minimum one year and a five-year commitment to Friar Cous-Cous), and your household contents will literally be in the hands of God.

For those of you who are not down with the Jesu, or indeed his father, God is everywhere, all at once. He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He also knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be GOOD, for Christ’s sake™. This unique power is enough to deter even the most hardy criminal. How do you run away from someone who knows you’re guilty? Don’t even try, brethren!™ These fantastic magical powers are compounded by the knowledge that any failure of GODSARSE equipment to successfully deter criminals is NOT in fact a failure, but the will of God. Maybe the video would have been used that following w(eek) to display child pornography in widescream, or perhaps the blender would have had its way with your wife’s hands. We don’t know, but God does. Sign up toady.

In Some Knee, ja?

I chloroformed myself last night
Just so I could sleep alright
Rag on face and held self down
And not til morning come around.

Sleeping tablets serve me ill
Ineffective lethargy pill
Daterape sprinkled powder delight
That’ll sort me out alright

So sleep now, little self, until
The morning, afternoon daylight shrill
Pokes through curtain peephole slit
And on my bloodshot eyeballs hit

And blaring lights and grating noises,
Deafening sunlight, giddy voices,
Throw my shattered nerves asunder
So once more I send self under, under.

A Bitch's Hangbag, and a Handjob's Bitch

If you find yourself at the crossroads
of calamity’s cumjunction
Do you awake in Grundy’s Scatflip Diner
And order a number 2?
Cuz that’s what you’ll get
Served by Bill Grundy himself
“Oh what a clever bouy
to order that shit”
And smears it in your face
Like you are a clown
Who knows not his arse from his anus

If you find yourself at the abortion boutique
Ready to remove daddy’s little monster
Do you scream "begone!" for abortion
of your portion
of eggs served at Grundy’s Over Easy Rapeshack?
Cuz das wot he gone do young ma’am
“Are you having a good time?
Maybe wee could meat aftershow”
And shaves your wife
As you gaze from afar

In masturbate shame

Mingeflute

Yesterday, I let my autistic brother do the weekly shopping on his own. I gave him £60, which he instantly and quite correctly converted to 728.57 Norwegian Krone based on an exchange rate of 12.14285 per pound sterling. I patted him on his poor fucked head and out he strolled with a shopping list I had drawn up.

I now appreciate that although his successful return from the supermarket was in itself something of a personal triumph for young Crickeytwat, the actual purchasing was a right royal fucking disgrace. Despite having ignored the contents of my list by not having bought anything which was on it, he had still taken stock of how much each item would have cost, and had drawn up an accurate but nonetheless hypothetical grand total. He had instead bought 30 double packs of peach-tinted lightbulbs, and 15 copies of Bella magazine.

At first I was angry. I wanted to hurt him so. But then I contemplated who would complete my maths homework if he were to be beaten, and so I let him offal. Having pondered why in fact I still need to do maths homework when I haven’t been at school for ten years, I decided I might as well use the excessive stock with which I had been burdened. Switching on all the lights, I had a surprisingly randy wank to the Bella cover feature on Jordan and Peter Andre, fed my own, personal, rain man, and tucked my own’s self back into dead.

If you think you might be autistic, please go here, quoting every Premiership relegated team from 1914 to the present day.

Sky Rocket Surprise, Afternoon Demise

Since last week’s titillating recipe for “Spadge Snapple”, I have been inundated with requests to make recipes such as this a regular feature. Well, this week, I do in fact have a rather good recipe for “Chicken Soup Surprise”. This dish is amazingly popular around the world. You may recognise it under one of its many international pseudonyms:

“Mein Gott Gegrillte Bratwurst”
“Sacre Bleu Crêpes”
“You’re Shitting Me Snags”
“Bullshit Beefballs”
“Fuck me! Flambé”
“Mr Lai’s Lychee Lie”

Here’s the very simple recipe:

1. Take two slits of bread, preferably brown. If you have no bread, you can substitute with two slices of brad, a beard, 3 bards or an ill-bred child

2. Take six Brussel Sprouts, and lightly bruise them, as you would your wife when she’s pissed you off for being upset and indulgent about her mother’s slow, boring death

3. Leave the sprouts for one day out in the sun

4. Take the sprouts, carefully place between the bread. Do not butter!

5. Firmly press until mash

6. Throw the fucker away away

And there you have it. The perfect meal to give to friends at a dinner party where you reveal your terminal Aids condition. Or maybe a nice entrée for a potential rape victim. Enjoy!