Talkin’ shit with the GP

I went to the GP today to get some cheerpills. Mental thrillness capsules. I also got a tub to shit in. I think it’s for tests. I hope it’s for tests.

I sniggered in the waiting room, imagining the receptionist getting up and putting two hands in the air and shouting “WELCOME TO THE MEAT GRINDER!”, for no reason at all. My tendency to laugh in the wrong place was about for a bit, and continued in the appointment when the conversation turned literally to shit.

She gave me a tub to lay a bum egg in. I don’t know how I’m going to cope with that. Shitting into a tub for a start. It’s hard enough to hit the bottom of a toilet bowl with any accuracy, let along passing it straight into that. Am I going to have to push it in? What if it’s massive? Do I need to cut it up first? Then taking it through town, knowing I am quite literally carrying a tub OF MY OWN SHIT ABOUT.

I’ve written sketches like this. Now I’m living it. And then I have to hand it over to the surgery. What If I give it to the wrong person? Hello, here’s a tub of my shit. Hope you enjoy it.

Stinking up the feces fun.

I kept laughing my way into town again, and went to pick my pills up. The fun continued, as I sat down to wait and Blondie’s Heart of Glass played. I mentally sang it like this:

“Tugged my cock, and it was a gas, wanked myself, in a house of glass.”

I chuckled my way home.

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Peter Jackson’s proper norsed it up again.

Peter Jackson: G’day sports! Come to congratulate me on the brilliant Hobbit films that I done with  my two bare hands?

Accountant: Actually, no. There’s been a…..er…problem.

Peter: Strewth! Alright, spit it out, money boy. My sacks are over-due for a piss draining.

Accountant: The film’s gone a littler over budget.

Peter: You what? How much?

Accountant: Well, interestingly enough, the entire film can be done exactly how it was…er…..will be when it’s released, except….

Peter: Except bloody what you flaming galas?

Accountant: Well, you can have the film precisely the way intended, but there is not enough money to render ANY of the scenes with the dragon Smaug.

Peter: You gotta be fucking joking me.

Accountant: Nope, and conveniently enough, there’s definitely no money left, anywhere, at all. And no hope of getting it.

Peter: FUCK! Get me the fuckin’ props department!

Prop man: Hello, Peter. It is me. The prop man.

Peter: Prop man you cunt! What…what are we gonna do?

Prop: Well, I’e got it sorted out. We just…right….we…

Peter: What? Spit it out yer fuckin’ toilet!

Prop: We’ve still got Benedict Cumberlans. We can stick him in a dragon onesie and give him a loudhailer.

Peter: AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!! Oh well, maybe people won’t notice with the 3d in it.

Prop: We’ve knocked up a poster for it. Check it out.

 

BASRREEE

Peter: What the FUCKIN’ HELL IS THIS? I’M FUCKIN’ RUINED! THEY’LL EAT ME ALIVE! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

 

 

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Radio Slimes.

I’m not a fan of radio. Anyone will tell yer! They’ll say….”Phyllis, he doesn’t like the radio”, pointing in my direction and jabbing to make the point stick.
I’ll nod, pull up a chair, and sit on it backwards, telling them why. I don’t like people talking over music. I don’t like most music. And I don’t like the stinking public, who phone in to talk about their boring lives and trying to win a day off with Plan B.

I don’t know what that means really.
I’d like radio more if it was presented in a style I liked and appreciated. As in, deranged, cruel, dark, horrifying.
“That was the barking dogs hour – 60 minutes of the best barking dog noises, all hour. Uninterrupted mate, uninterrupted. That particular hour contained doberman, daschunds, German Sheperds, all of ’em. All of ’em.
I’m Benny Chipotle, and you’re listening to Chungus FM. (Named after Jim’s classic word, of course)
Coming up! Your shit phonecalls, wasted time and effort for nothing. Call in and tell me what you’re doing and I’ll pretend to care, which I don’t. Here’s a new one; it’s four minutes of a dot matrix printer printing out a nude picture of a woman. Fuck off.

Sort of like that. Imagine more of it….
“Yep, a fine recording there. Vegetable Garden, with Limpet Limp Dick you Prick. Tons of fun. They’ll be in the studio next week, bringing some of their cum for you cunts to win, and drink, if you fucking want.
Paul from Deal phoned us. The fucking wank has nailed his head to his knee. Bellend. For you, Paul, here is Screaming Screamers with The sound of screaming.”
*Four minutes plays of just hysterical screaming. The dj can be heard throughout, wanking to orgasm*

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My Olympic Ideas

Also got some Olympic event ideas, since you’re asking. YOU WERE ASKING.

1. Dog-Head 100m.

Contestants have to run 100m while wearing incredibly heavy, wet clothes. The piece of the resistance is the addition of a full sized German Shepard, gaffa-taped to the head. Also the dog has been given a lot to drink, so the danger of pissage is incredible. Also, a man is employed to poke the slower runners with a fucking stick to “Encourage” them.

2. Milk Chug Glugalug. Contestants have to down massive bottles of milk, then when they are inevitably sick, they have to do it through the hole in a massage table, directly onto a coin fifteen feet below.

3. Nicholas Lyndhurst Goodnight Sweetheart Shagathon. Contestants have to dress up as Nicholas Lyndhurst from the terrible sitcom, including wearing a mask of his face. They’re totally blind because there are no eye-holes. They then have to wander a facsimile of 1940s London, complete with cardboard cut-outs and fake buildings, having sex with the very first object they touch. And there would be many, many objects. Some living, some not living, some dangerous, some not. The most points are awarded for jizzing into a gigantic mouth based on…yes….Nicholas Lyndhurst’s.

4. Rolling Marathon.

Contestants take part in this grueling marathon, sorting out the wheat from the chaff. 26 miles, as usual, but they have to do it by rolling the distance. While wearing nothing. Nothing at all. Across incredibly unforgiving surfaces.

Now fuck off.

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Titanic: Jack’s Drawings.

“Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.”

 

“Alright. ”

LATER

“This alright?”

“What the fuck is this?”

 

topwank

“It’s a man wanking on a top hat.”

 

 

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Zoomeister’s Retro games Review.

It’s hard to believe now, but in 1978, there weren’t many skydiver games on the market. Today, of course, it’s the most popular genre; up there with snake freezing, bus missing, stranger strangling, pushing against crushing walls simulators, the Legend of Artichoke games, and the obvious market leader; Sock or Hat?

All of this lying about video game history leads us to another of my childhood games. It’s Mr Wong’s Loopy Laun….oh, no, it’s Skydiver. We’ll be doing that nonsense another time.

Sometime in the eighties, my father hurled a bright blue Atari box onto the table.

“Here is a video game. Play it. Learn it. Use the knowledge you gain. Become the skydiver. Be the skydiver. One day it will be your job. To jump from a plane in a two-dimensional world and endure painful accidents as you perfect the art, of opening a  parachute from a ridiculously low height.”

sky.jpg

 

Of course, the game was Skydiver, an incredibly realistic depiction of the er….art of jumping from a plane. Sometimes onto platforms. Sometimes onto moving platforms. Sometimes just to die.

There isn’t much to say about it, really. It says five games in one, but it’s just five variations, like most Atari games. Lies. But it is fun. The sort of fun that ends with crying and lying faced down, screaming into the floor. But the blue, the eternal blue, the bright blue box.

That was all that mattered.

 

sky2

God, the eighties were fucking depressing.

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Games of My Life. No 1. Pac-Man.

Everyone’s done the joke. Pac Man is some cunt in a nightclub gobbling pills to repetitive music. Depending on who you believe, that joke was coined either by comedian Marcus Brigstocke, or Garfield.

pacMan2600Screen

Probably.

Anyway, during the early eighties, while I was developing in the gigantic tank buried deep in a fucking science lab, the cold war raged. Fridges were thrown. Ice cream was stuffed into gaping mouths. Icicles stabbed into enemy hearts. Polar bears! Polar bears running through the streets, tearing off limbs, carrying nuclear warheads into Argos.

Erm…I forgot where I was in this. Setting the scene nicely, I was in the first fledgling decade of my chubby youth. Running from that nightmare bear. Teetering on tiny legs. I was small for the only time in my life. I’d never be a child again. Stupid inexorable march of time.

Going off point for the second time there. Pac-Man was the world’s most famous yellow round man with a mouth that was half his size. Due to a heart condition, he was spherical and had just a mouth and an eye. The world was absorbed in his plight, and Pac-Man was roaring through the arcades like a racing wind of fun.

 

The game came to the Atari 2600 in 1982. The 2600 was a fine console. A clunky system of chunky pixels and sparse beeps, but to a young mind, a completely fascinating device. In among the realms of black stood towering character; incredible adventures. It was not so much that you used your imagination to fill in the blanks. You had to use your imagination. And still, there was something entirely unique about this strange, half-wood slab, and its satisfyingly blocky components.

The Atari Pac-Man was not well received. In fact, the bloody thing was partly blamed for the video game crash. Big trouble for everyone, but most of all for Pac-Man, buried in shit and beaten like a bruised apple, his yellowing bulk soiled with the feces and cum of thousands of the grudged.

 

Well, I fucking loved this version. For a start, it’s a functional, playable version. It lacks the detail and colour of the arcade, but so what? What the fuck did anyone expect from the Atari 2600 anyway? It could not render the sort of graphics to faithfully remake the game, but considering its limitation, the conversion is absolutely fine. I spent many days playing it, and happily went out munching paracetamols and punching ghosts like any other cunting kid.

 

Actually, they may have not been ghosts.

 

Oh, and it’s still better than Pixels. But then, so is kicking yourself in the fucking face for fourteen years in a row.

Next time! We’ll be jumping out of planes into a sea of utter piss. In Skydiver!

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