“OPEN UP TO MOUTH CANCER”
You and mouth cancer are like a couple of bloody children. Look at you both sitting there with your arms folded, not looking at each other. Isn’t it time you put your differences aside? Open up to mouth cancer.
This touchy-feely approach to localised cancers is to be backed up with a range of huggable plush cancers, and a Rubik’s cancer that goes benign when you solve it. A sitcom about a boy who lives with a cancer-stricken giraffe and/or alien is set to be broadcast on HBO, and the Chuckle Brothers’ new show – “Tumour, To You” – promises to set the skies on fire and never stop burning, according to Barry Chuckle.
“TURN YOUR BACK ON MUSCULOSKELETAL DISORDERS”
This poster takes a different approach, imploring readers to behave more frostily towards illness. This poster is more in the vein of such medical information posters as “Smile Blankly And Walk Past Your Best Friend Amnesia”, “Scream When Autism Moves Things Around In Your Room”, and “Piss Crabs Off”.
However, “Turn Your Back On Musculoskeletal Disorders” is shaping up to be as popular as 1989’s “OMFG! AIDS!”, with 50 Cent already recording a song to back up the campaign.
“If I was your sargeant, I’d give you this order –
turn your back on musculoskeletal disorder”
Also, it looks like the person is pissing onto a wall, and don’t tell me nodoby noticed THAT in the focus groups. A deserving winner.
A meeting with the Fat Controller;
“I understand that the younger generation is currently labouring under the impression that congregating in groups around the railway is somehow ‘cool’, as your Fonz would say. I can only imagine that they have read Edith Nesbit’s excellent book, The Railway Children, and cultivated a nostalgic romance with rail travel.”
“Perhaps they appreciate the rail paradox – the freedom that such travel gives us, and the train’s own status as prisoner of the tracks. To borrow from our red-faced brethren – if it is a steel horse, then it’s steel testicles have been truly castrated. Perhaps they relish that tragedy all too keenly.”
“I should think.”
“Well, I’m an old fuddy-duddy, I know that. Let’s erect a poster that speaks directly to these romance-dazzled children, in their own patois. All we need to do is inform them that such recreational endeavours are not cool.”
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Well done. I’d have put three exclamation marks after Get Real, but otherwise, perfect. Here, have a train.”
“Wow, are you sure sir?”
“Yes, I’ve got loads.”
SPECIAL WORTHY CAUSE AWARD
If you think you can help this poor tit freak out, you might like to drop him a line. Do you have tits? Then Tit Freak might be interested. Sadly, this quick doodle doesn’t give any information about his interests beyond titfreakery, so if it’s any help, his previous graffiti in this very same toilet (I’m something of a regular) includes “tit freak seeks men for mutual breastfeeding”.
Are you up to the task? ENJOY TIT FREAK.
The Adventures of Captain Scarlet, by Sam. Sam is three and three quarters of a year old, and has illustrated his work with two crayons.
“Hello Captain Scarlet” said Captain Blue “nice to meet you bleep bleep” but Captain Scarlet said “hang on a minute captain blue doesn’t go bleep it’s not allowed” and Captain Scarlet got out a big magnet and Captain Blue’s head fell off. “Just as I thought it’s got custard in and he is a robot” and he licked the custard off his finger and said “THIS IS FRENCH CUSTARD” so he got in a train and went to La Rochelle.
Captain Scarlet got out and there was a Samurai blocking his way. The Samurai said “HELLO MR SCARLET PREPARE TO DIE!” and Captain Scarlet said “that’s CAPTAIN scarlet actually, have a care” and the Samurai said “UH-OH RESPECT ISSUES!” and killed himself. Then Captain Scarlet found three wishes in his pocket and said “I wish my arms were so long that I could feed the children in Africa” and his arms grew to seven thousand miles long and he went to see a play and when he clapped at the end he accidentally slapped George Bush who said “who slapped my president face it had better not have been you Rumsfeld”.
After the play Captain Scarlet went back on his mission and found a trail of custard leading to the leaning tower of pisa. And he met a sad ghost who said “Booooo. I am a ghost because I needed to go to the toilet before I died and I didn’t and now I cannot rest.” Captain Scarlet backflipped and did the splits. “Can you go to the toilet for me please Captain Scarlet?”
“No probs! I needed to go anyway,” and Captain Scarlet wee-weed so hard that it went around the world and hit him on the back of the head with stickers from Peru on it. “Thank you so much” said the ghost and gave Captain Scarlet a mysterious statue. Captain Scarlet gave the ghost the thumbs up, and it went up George Bush’s nose and George Bush said “really this has gone beyond a joke”.
Captain Scarlet rubbed the statue and it went “FPPPFPPFPPFPFPPPP” and sucked Captain Scarlet through a wormhole and he said “oh look there is a big grandfather clock and a caveman” then suddenly he was in the underwater secret base of the robots.
“Oh no it is a custard eater, run away or he’ll eat our custard blood” said the robots and they all ran away except for one that had a headband on. “I am the king of the robots and I am indestructible too so let’s fight” and they fought for TWENTY MINUTES. “you are one tough cookie” said Captain Scarlet. “you are a difficult nut to crack” replied the king of the robots. “that’s nothing, you are a stubborn banana” replied Captain Scarlet. Then Captain Scarlet realised he had a wish left and said “I wish I could do roundhouse kicks” and the king of the robots said “uh-oh” but it was too late and he was dead.
Later on at Captain Scarlet’s house everyone was having tea and jam. “You know what the funny thing is?” said Captain Scarlet and everyone raised their eyebrows. “I don’t eat custard anyway it’s got eggs in” said Captain Scarlet and everyone laughed.
Apparently there’s a code of mutual respect amongst tattooed people; you don’t look at another man’s tattoos, wince in disbelief and say “what the fuck were you thinking, man? That’s not gonna come off, you know! You do know that, right? Everyone knows that. For fuck’s sake! Why didn’t you just cut your dick off and ram it up your ass if you wanted to fuck yourself so bad? Sheeeeet! Ah tell ya, boy, you some fucked up sumbitch. Get the fuck outta my eyes with that monster bad shit! [improvises for ten minutes]”
I don’t have a tattoo, so I say that sort of thing nearly every day. It’s still probably a bit rude, but really – it’s your own fault. It’s not like your parents had a latent genetic defect which caused you to be born with a naked woman riding a pony into a skull’s mouth on your arm. Although if there was a gene that did that, I would instantly believe in god, and sing his praises from my tiny bedroom window.
I like most tattoos. I prefer bad ones, though. Until last week, the tattoo below had been my personal favourite in the “most bafflingly ill-advised skinstain” competition. This tattoo was the one, more than any other, that left me gobsmacked with incredulous horror.
And I can’t explain why, properly. Whenever I try to explain why this is a terrible, befuddling choice of body decoration, words genuinely do fail me. Luckily, when I show it to other people, they generally say “no way is that a real tattoo, fuck off” in such an appalled gasp that I don’t need to explain. Here it is, I’ll let you react.
Does your body ache with sadness? What bothers you more – is it the tube map (for which he had to get permission from London Underground), or is it the domain name, complete with doubleyoudoubleyoudoubleyoudot?A domain name bellowed in a gothic font that would unite the Bloods, Cripps and Beckhams in a tooth-sucking free-for-all?
Well, forget that. Because last week, I walked past the worst tattoo I have ever seen on a human being.
No. Fuck you. Fuck off and fuck you. Also, fuck that. Fuck off, you, and that. Piss off. Piss and fuck off, and fuck you and that. Mathematically, if that’s me, what are you?
fuck off + fuck that + fuck you = me
divide both sides by fuck
off + that + you = me / fuck
you = me / fuck - that - off
I’m sorry. I’m burying myself in comfortable maths so I don’t have to deal with the image of the unhappy folds of melting flesh rolling down his back, and the big spot by the man’s right knee. The picture, as hideous as it is, isn’t the thing that makes me want to cry so sad Doctor. It’s the fact that it seems to be the clumsiest, most ham-fistedly in-your-face way of saying “I LIKE TRUNCHEONS UP MY ARSE”. Power to you, sir. Here is a medal the size of a dinner plate. Why not celebrate your love of truncheon-ups with a fucking huge, ugly mess on your back? Oh! You already have! My silly!
I know of one guy who’s got a really badly drawn picture of Mark Lamarr on his leg. What I wouldn’t give to waggle its chin and say “Hi, I’m Mark Lamarr! Who wants a jelly baby?”
Men! What a bunch of fuckers we are. We sit there, in our armchairs (armthrones, more like), drinking malt whiskies and thumping our fists on the table until boiled hams fly into our mouths, as if by magic.
Only it’s not magic, is it girls? No! It’s your tireless work that keeps the whisky flowing, and the boiled hams flying. You plump our cushions, you save us from bumblebees and you tempt tapeworms out of our bottoms with Mars Bars then hit them over the head with a hammer. Without you, ladies, we would roll around on our backs, unable to correct ourselves.
And do you ever receive thanks? No! You’re lucky if we don’t beat you senseless when our football teams lose, and you have to steal affection from our loveless husks while we are drunk, or asleep. Tits got the raw deal, here!
But no more. This book will change everything.
Here’s a few of the pages. I hope you enjoy them as much as the users of Amazon.Com, who said “I bought this book for my girlfriend and we both found it hysterical.” Another reader promised “PREPARE TO LAUGH”. Are you ready? Are you ready to laugh?
Whoo! Whoo! Do the washing up, bitch! (audience screams) Those pots is dirty! And you know for why? ‘Cos I ain’t washed ’em! What do you think of that, huh? Upset your little applecart, has it? Has your phallocentric world been consumed by a giant vagina? You don’t know what to say, do you? Well here’s a clue, useless – say nothing and do the fuckin’ washing up!
Girls 1 – Useless Men 0
Lick my own stamps? Maybe when I was single – but not now I’ve got a man! He’s absolutely useless in every other respect – especially “down there”, you know what I’m saying, girls. So why shouldn’t I get my stamps licked? I don’t be gettin’ nothin’ else licked, you know what I’m saying! Yeah, you know. You do know, don’t you? I mean my… yeah, you know. Pussy.
Girls 2 – Useless Men 0
You know what I hate about men most? It’s their big, raping penises. If I could cut off every man’s dick and throw them into a volcano, I would. But my man – he’s so useless, he couldn’t rape his way out of a paper bag. So his penis is more of a little punchline to a joke nobody heard. So I just use it as a spike to keep my bills on. His dick’s wider than a regular spike (not much though, you know what I’m saying, girls), so he sometimes has to piss his way through a receipt.
You’ll notice he’s erect in this picture. That’s because I’ve told him that if he goes soft I will shit in his eyes and take off his balls with a pizza wheel. MEN!
Girls 3 – Useless Men 0
No, actually, forget about using his penis to spike receipts and invoices. That’s not painful enough. We should stick their dicks in the ground (like he’s raped Mother Earth his whole life, right?) and use their damned hate-sticks to plough a field. That’s all them dicks is good for – sex? Don’t make me laugh emptily. There ain’t no place he can touch with that dick that I can’t reach twice over with Plastic Frank. You know what I’m saying. It’s a dildo. Not this guy.
Girls 4 – Useless Men 0
I hate men so much! They’re so useless! Arrrgh! Look at them! I hate them all! They can’t even do milk! All they do is spunk all over the curtains and piss in the umbrella stand! And guess who has to clean up the spunk? And siphon out the piss with a straw? I’ll tell you what it makes me want to do. I want to grab that pissing, spunking dick of his and spin him around by it. Just to hear his screams. Just to hear his fucking screams.
Scream, you useless fuckers.
Walking along the road, I found a crumpled piece of paper hugging the railings. I’m curious, and like finding things, so I picked it up. What I found outraged me on so many levels that I quite literally fell over and refused to move for three days. Here, look.
It doesn’t take much intelligence to work out that this letter was written by a very proper mother on behalf of her son, to a girl, thanking her for a present that her parent had bought on her behalf. Now, let’s talk about how evil everyone involved is.
1. The mother is pretending to be her son, and writing to a girl.
This has to be a universal no-no. When will this end? “Dear Georgina, in a recent open conversation with my mother, I told her that I would like to take you bowling and watch a romantic comedy with you. I confided in my mummy that I have a tight foreskin, and she wisely advised me to masturbate vigourously before our date (should you accept), so that my banjo doesn’t twang and bleed inside you. However, you should be aware of this before we move to the sexual stage – please be gentle.”
There is no moral difference between that letter, and this one. The mother is a monster.
2. The mother gives away personal details.
So now Georgina knows that Carl isn’t allowed to play with his daddy’s darts. If Carl let this information slip himself, then it’s his fault and he deserves all the “Daddy No-Darts” namecalling he gets. But for the mother to betray this humiliating confidence in writing is nothing short of scandalous. Anything else you’d like to share, mummy?
“Thanks for the hat. I have nits and it might stop them jumping onto other people’s heads.”
“Thank you for the trousers. I sometimes piss myself so they’ll come in handy.”
“Thank you for the Scalectrix set. Yesterday I put make-up on and kissed the mirror.”
3. Georgina has thrown away the letter.
This only occurred to me once I had stared at the letter for five minutes. However awful and embarrassing this letter is, Georgina shouldn’t have littered the streets with it, throwing it where any old cunt could find it, and put it on the internet. That’s one heartless bitch.
I imagine that Georgina kept the letter for long enough to show her Heathers clique, before throwing it over her shoulder with a hideous, squealing laugh.
4. If the green writing is Carl’s attempt at a signature, he is either 3, or fucking DUMB.
This kid can’t keep four letters inside a sheet of A5. What place does he have using a dartboard? Even if he held the dart in his hand and put it directly into the dartboard, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t miss by six feet and stab the dog’s arse. I can see why your dad doesn’t let you use his proper darts. The dog wouldn’t last a week.
5. The mothers are living in some delusional world where parents actually pretend their 3 year old children are capable of adult behaviour.
You’re not fooling anyone! Carl signed the letter himself, with a green mess! And if Georgina has similar academic gifts, there’s no way on God’s earth she’ll be able to read joiny-uppy writing. So if this letter is from one mother to another, why are you playing this sick game where your children write polite letters to each other? It is the behaviour of MENTALS.
Georgina : Cake!
Carl’s Mother : What was that, darling?
Georgina’s Mother : Georgina was just saying that the cake looks exquisite, and many compliments to the chef.
Carl : Toilet!
Carl’s Mother : How true, Carl. However delicious the meal, it always ends up in the same place.
Georgina’s Mother : A true philosopher!
Families are just plain fucked-up.
Have you seen the Born Loser? It’s the best cartoon strip I’ve ever seen. Poor Brutus Thornapple! His wife not only has trouble COOKING food, she has trouble DEFROSTING it. He lives for 5pm on a Friday (that’s when his working week ends), but he absolutely hates 9am on a Monday. Why? That’s when his working week begins!
Real Born Loser here. Enjoy.