the Atomic
Thrusting deep inside the news pharynx
Ἀργειφόντης
ne mē swōr fela āða on unriht
• 100% consensus trance •
Zephyr
Better bad news, half-true more-or-less, 100% of the time
breaking
Op-ed
Seen it All, Learnt Nothing
by Senex Iratus
One of the great unspoken miracles of human psychology is the process by which a lifetime of mistakes & idiocy is magically transmuted (in the mind of the individual) into “life experience,” a mystical substance more valuable than GOLD, and notably more resistant to evidence or Truth. This precious commodity, once acquired, is brandished by many a fuckwit, like a medieval cudgel in conversation, usually as a substitute for knowledge, skill, insight, or even the faintest acquaintance with being real for once in their corny ass lives..
Miles Gloriosus, a figure who, having “seen it all” and learnt nothing, proceeds to treat his peabrain errors as proof of rock hard nuggets of wisdom. The brain calcified into a lifelong affliction, neatly reinforced by the twin crutches of pride & wibbly wobbly retardo marmalade.. the final tragic stage of arrested development.
Age, contrary to the propaganda of pop-mythology & self-help paperbacks, has never been a reliable solvent for being an absolute retard. Merely granting the fool more time to rehearse mistakes, until hardened into dogma & resold wholesale to the youth in the form of shitty “advice.” Not so much a grown adult as a 14-year-old child who, by sheer coincidence of chronology, now owns property & chats a whole lot of bollocks.
This syndrome is by no means confined to the elderly. To wield the mystical turd-trophy of “life experience” is available to any pompous twats who are willing to trade humility for self-importance, and reality for retardation. In their playground brains, so does the schoolyard live on, its squabbles rebranded in adult life, from the playground to the voting booth, family gatherings, subreddits, authorities & guardian articles. The old bully’s squeal of “I’m bigger than you!” transfigured into a million crappier forms, but never once outgrown. The durability of the human ego, unlike the body, shows no sign of wear with the eternal curse of Boomer Syndrome.
What the Heck is Going On?
by Little Johnny
every day we hear new newz, those ordinary rumours of war, plaguez, fires, thefts, beasts, murders, massacrez, meteors & comets, prodigies & dullards, ghoulz & phantasms, fleshly janglers, flatterers & blamerz, tellers of trifles, tattlers of tales, towns taken, cities besieged, worldwide quantitative easing, gain-of-function crimes against humanity, and such like… all manner of pincherz skulking in the cyber-bushes, fox to lamb, wolf to heifer’s calf, on Angelcynn neck a norman yoke..
elseways any & all a smibbly bibbly, from paper 2 telly box; thisse blithe world vext w/ wastedreamz. middangeard ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð & fealleþ. endelēas ġedwimor.
thousands & thousands of generations of ppl who suffer’d birth, disease, starvation & lonely death so that u could sit there 2day.. the redeemer of the human enterprise, the prodigal speciez.. out from the womb of the world, descended in 2 the inferno of matter 2 recover the pearl of immortality, whose virtues wounded by our worthless wordz.
whomst’d’ve will speak & thy praises tell?
Tortoise Hour
by JAM ÆLFǷIN
Tortoises actually come out of their shell in the wild when they go for a nice swim or foraging up trees for tomatoes.
“EXPERTZ” say the tortosaurus can also do that thing where if they fall they spin in the air & always land on their feet, just like cows.
When did the tortoise evolve?
The same time as cigars, I think. After fish, definitely. Around 1932, thereabouts?
FACT-CHEQUE BONUS FACT:
Legend says the tortongle’s favourite food is sausages.
My teacher at school was Mrs. Turtle. She had a strange name but she tortoise well. Rest in peace babe.
Inflation!
by Jingo Scribbins
You won’t believe this but back in the day you could fly to Nu-York, have lunch, a bottle of merlot, see that overpriced Broadway show all the ponces like, fly back same night, taxi from airport back home, and STILL have change from 1000 bob. It’s true. When was that you say? Last Wednesday. Yes, yes we all remember last Wednesday, don’t we? back when we could fill up the ol’ shanks-pony with petrol & still have a fiver in change from a 300 quid note.
See this? That’s a tenner that is. Collector’s item. What can you get for one nowadays? Precious little. One of these puppies used to get you a whole round of toast with gravel on it, (not buttered toast, obviously) a whole ration of breadystacks with some cheeky marmite or nuttygum & fruit spleggings! When was that you say? Wednesday, 1942.
Back in the heyday, right, for ten lizards you could build a cottage in the Cotswolds, settle down, have the pick of any woman, have 5 kids, and STILL have money left to start a business… When was that you say? Wednesday, 1832.
“Ten whoppers?! That’s outrageous!” Not long ago, for a tenner, right, those colonials would go to America, steal some land, build a house, purchase some powerful Igbo folk, & STILL start a cotton farm. When was that you say? Wednesday, 1748.
“Bloody ripoff!” I remember a time when a tenner could buy you your own galleon, hire an entire crew of shipmates, sail to the west indies with as much rum as you need, as much tobacco as you want, provisions for an entire year, the pick of any woman, have 12 kids, bit of piracy, and STILL have several hundred guineas left in change… When was that you say? Wednesday, 1593.
P.S. it will continue to go down & down & down until it matches the true value of the economy. the true value not in finance or usury. in the western world treasury systems are big multinationals. you think you set the price with your little holiday to italy or spain? no you friccin peabrain. treasury oligopolies manage currency. desperately trying to retain pricing-power is constraining supply, the demand curve is being killed by the FED etc.
they can’t run back this inflation. this is a monkey in a golf cart chasing a mclaren. debt market collapsing arse over tits, then blackrock buys your home off you then your interest rates spike & you can’t make your mortgage payment, then you’ll become a tenant & lickety split you’ll be paying in rent more than you were paying on the mortgage,& you’ll be in a CBDC & you’ll have some UBI pittance if you were due a pension that’s now bankrupt because tReAsUriEs ooo!
outsourcing offshore slaves, low corporate tax at the profit point, growing profitability by reducing headcount, offsite managers & executives shipped off to bombay, globalisation of labour trends, stocks go up, currency spreads beyond borders, feeding a profit loop, laying up the Triffin paradox.
fricc all these inbreds & their ponzi schemes. go outside, kiss a tree, be a squirrel, dig a hole, get a bar of gold & stick it in the ground.
Just a Typical Ghetto Cinderella Story
by Brianne Damidge
There’s nowhere more vile & disturbing for a child to grow up than a modern, occidental city, and one of the worst in the world of these deeply brainsick hives of nonce-riddled decay & despair, is London. My district alone was an absolute circus of creepy ne’er-do-wells, curtain twitchers & pompous middle class inbreds. It was the kind of place where you’d wave good morning to a troll-doll lookin’ ass neighbour & they’d wave back with a well-moisturised foot growing out of their mutant moonface whilst reading the guardian. A right bunch of corny fuckwits & wannabe-worldly pearl-clutching buntymen, waddling about like Dan Dare Mekon. A place populated by pudgy privileged ponces proudly pontificating pop culture (depth of their criticism limited to whether there’s appropriate numbers of non-natives with the right dermatological profile) that wouldn’t know a real problem if it shat down their twig neck. But on top of all the braindead twats dragging their flabby carcases around, there was a dark urban legend haunting our community, The Legend of the Dolly Diddler.
Chapter 1: The Dolly Diddler was a strange little man. He appeared both old & young at the same time, androgynous, shrivelled & wizened, yet with a boyish gaze. Like every other local, the Dolly Diddler had a large, swollen bonce, upon which was always perched a tiny copter-cap that barely covered his brow, providing neither shade nor warmth. The Dolly Diddler was so named throughout the whole borough as it was widely believed that he secretly diddled children’s dolls. Many a time he’d been spotted skulking around charity shops bulk purchasing all the second hand dolls. This rumour wasn’t just betwixt kids, though, many parents would warn us to behave lest “the Dolly Diddler get our favourite toys to play with” etc. Often I behaved as a child so my Sky Moo could escape such a fate, although I suspect Big Bird may have enjoyed it. Whispers also spread that the Dolly Diddler’s tiny copter-cap had supposedly been taken from his favourite play toy, which explained its small size.
The problem with these rumours were that the Dolly Diddler was a real living humanoid, and an uncle of the notoriously well-to-do Sackberg family. Every big town has one of these families. They had about 4 large terraced houses & illegally knocked them through to create a sort of poundshop mansion, but the rogers didn’t care, it’s the Sackbergs. They were all, to the man, utter psychopaths. Generation after generation of the county’s weirdest bastards were birthed from this rabbit warren. They were all cousins & brothers & sisters & there were about a thousand of them. My school year had 3 of them in, “Slazenger” – the biggest, “Francisco” – the craziest, and “Hamilton” – the dumbest, and the Dolly Diddler was their uncle, of which they were fiercely protective. Anyone who even mentioned the Dolly Diddler within earshot was swiftly dobbed in, and bullied in the most cowardly fashion. You had to be careful to whom you made Dolly Diddler jokes at school, as an enemy may overhear & alert one of the many Sackbergs, invoking their posh & petty ire.
Chapter 2: Then came the day of harvest festival. I was with my mate Puffin (a popular lad at school as he was the nephew of an England rugby player) as we perused the various bakesales, tombolas & splat-the-rat stalls, and people-watched the gathering of local twats, we spotted the Dolly Diddler had his own table of goodies… Pile upon pile of second hand dollies. We had to stifle our giggles as flanking the stall like a trio of rottweilers were the Sackbergs, eagerly eyeing any who tittered or stared. Puffin dared me to buy one of the dodgy dollies & promised to lend me a copy of 2000AD he found stashed in an allotment, so I agreed. Gingerly I approached & slowly picked up an innocuous doll from the pile, a sort of generic plastic-headed one with plush body type affair. I couldn’t help but think its sad eyes looked like it had really seen some shit. I cleared my throat & mumbled “How muc-” when Hamilton barked “QUID” like a diseased goat that trod on some lego. The Dolly Diddler said nothing but stared, like some kind of eldritch reptile. One hundred pennies was a vast sum of money to an 11 year old, “That’s a lot of jazzles & sherbet saucers” I thought to myself, but I could feel the Sackberg’s stare bore into my skull, so I plopped a quid on the table, avoiding the Dolly Diddler’s clammy little hand, and made a fast escape with my bounty.
Chapter 3: Puffin & I made our way to the park to examine the doll away from prying eyes when lo & behold, there it was… A small opening in the crotch, the width of a stick of seaside rock, or a drywipe board marker, or… a piteous little todger. We lost it, pissed ourselves laughing & after chasing one another around with the diddled doll, chucked it in the biffa. Walking back home lamenting the loss of my pocket money, I was struck by the sudden terror that the Sackbergs could find the doll in the bin, remember it was me who purchased it & hunt me down, or even worse, the Dolly Diddler would telepathically know we abandoned one of his pozzed up play things & reap a terrible revenge, so we decided to retrieve the abused husk, take it home & dispose of it properly. Later that evening I offered it to my bull terrier as a chew toy, but being a discerning hand, he kept well away, so I threw it under the floorboards. After all that Puffin lent me his copy of 2000AD as promised, and we vowed never to speak a word of this tale, lest the Sackberg clan found out, and the Dolly Diddler would come for us. For 15 years we have been the sole custodians of this secret, the dark truth that the Dolly Diddler did in fact, diddle dollies.
Final Chapter: I’d forgotten all about that doll until the summer of 2014, when I found it untouched (post-Dolly Diddler) & exactly where I left it last. Turns out the doll I chose from the Dolly Diddler’s sordid stall was actually an original super rare collector’s edition Parsnip Patch Child worth millions. I am now absolutely loaded & fly around in my private jet giving inspirational talks & quasi-sermons to the same kind of braindead clowns that populated my old borough. I’m currently typing this from my own private island in Tonga. Never give up! £1 can change your life. Just keep grinding & one day it’ll happen for you, too! Nah, I’ll spare you all the buzzword techno-bollocks, you gotta pay for a consultation/training programme/monthly subscription for that. Toodle pip.
we have lost any recollection of what stability may be. this is why thinking people with brains feel so uneasy about the framework that they are operating in, and that the world for the past century seems to be circling the drain.. because it is.
When you buy an Æppel McDonaldosh you are essentially pulling down your panties, bending over, & getting buggered by the ghost of Stephen Jobbles. When you buy an Applebee’s McProlapse you’re actually blowing a couple thousand whoppers on a glorified MciPad with a crap keyboard & mouse made for boomers.
This week we are reviewing ■■■■, and this was the first & last time i ever took it. so we got this big horse pill from the university that me & my bird split in half & she was totally fine but for some reason i just went straight to hELL. the landscape froze over then the earth was salted & there was a deep thrumming noise, the floorboards rumbled & turned to ash beneath my hooves. it was the friccin day of wrath & God was judging me as a sinner. this went on for thousands of years mind you & didn’t get any better it just got worse & worse & i was in terrible pain, felt like utter shite. i could only speak in latin. my gf thought i was doing it as a joke but all i could say was stuff like LIBERA ME DOMINAE & DEUS ILA & AGNUS DEI QUICOS PICATUM & TREMIS FACTUS EGO TIMAE, whining like some ancient but highly eloquent dog that’s been left out in the rain & struck by lightning over & over. there was an ashtray on the coffee table with someone’s fags in it & it was emitting the most horrible stench i’d ever smelt in my life it was putrid. the walls were undulating & i could hear my eyeballs. it was a bloody mess. never again.
Local
Atomic Roof Finish “Rock n’ Dole” Tour
by Wayne Car
Local band “Cosmic Strewth” are promoting their upcoming album for the vegan eco-fascist record label: Subterranean-Protoplasmic-y2k-Atomic-Intrusions Incorporated, and we invited them back due to popular demand (and complaints about the last interview).
—Ugh it’s you again, seems you have a new member?
Jingo: I was always here you oik.. too blind to see Puckfolk ever since Robin Goodfellow, you lot.
Juice: Jingo’s on anglo concertina, penny fipple & turntables.
Jingo: And the ivories!
Juice: The previous flautist Jethro kept streaking-
Jingo: So we dropped him down a lift shaft in Kalifornia!
Johnny: o how the drudging puck swet, 2 earn her cream-bowle. ragged as the colt-pixie
Jam: Oi oi Wayne mate
—Yeah hi. How did the California tour go?
Jam: Had a lovely time in the Great Satan. Lived in a walmart carpark for a jiffy, avoided all the turds on the floor, chin wagged with local homeless lads about UFOs.
Jingo: Yeah, real proud of ourselves, in 3 nights we did over 7 million quid worth in damage, apparently.
Juice: Really enjoyed the dichotomy of walking talking queefs & bourgeois robot people VS serfs bivouacked in tent cities & tweakers in Fresno. Very cool.
—How many people came to the concerts?
Johnny: 5
Jam: Short circuit.
—5…Hundred? 5000?
Juice: Nah, 5.
Jingo: 12 if you count the roadies. 3 better than Nu-York, and on the Cotswolds tour we got sweet Fanny Adams.
Jam: Shoutout to all the madlads at the Eleventh Night on the No Surrender Tour.
—What about the secret tour in North Korea?
Juice: We’re still eagerly awaiting our invitation so I’ve been wallowing in Windemere like a pulchritudinous pig in the meantime.
Jam: We wanna get Kim Yo-jong on our album. She’s cool.
Johnny: polonium triggers neutrons in a thermonuclear bomb fuse, you then have .15 seconds
—Okay, what’s the group doing now?
Jingo: We’re converting to corporate lesbianism ASAP to accelerate our rise to the top of the heap.
Juice: We even got Jam some melanotan & progesterone so cornballs don’t crucify him.
Johnny: alas 2 paint the Angelcynn bronze, on silver tongues & silver screenz; 4 the age of the ponce, & golden mammon machinez
Jam: Jingo’s doing house arrest for throwing a flautist down a lift shaft. Longshanks has this niggling brain injury since 1322BC, if it wasn’t obvious already. Our Johnny joined AA, he drinks far too much scrumpy!
Juice: He needs it ever since that Salmon of Wisdom enchanted his brain.
Jingo: Most are too mediocre for MKultra.
Jam: Æppelwīn glēow gylden in his glæse.
Jingo: He’d be playing bottleneck guitar & drinking out the bottle at the same time..
Juice: Our ex-manager Shyloque wanted to fire the lad so we fired that peabrain instead.
Jam: Jingo gave him a wedgy/chinese burn combo.
Jingo: Crip walkin wit my sword.
Johnny: ah my goodly friends 3, Alcis, the ælf & Puck’s heir, u see
Juice: La cosa nostra
—As a band you’re very prone to violence, is it true that in Australia you burnt down your audience?
Johnny: t’was mishuderstad ning.
Juice: Lasers on lil Johnny’s lute lit up a lilo… laugh emoji 100
Jingo: Combine that with hell-on-earth fire emoji x2
Juice: Next time we’re going to the Province of Bumbunga instead.
Johnny: ah Bumbunga… that seat of Mars, that precious stone set in the amber sæ, the envy of less happier landz.
Jam: Anyone remember when a billion animals died down under? Clowns forgot all about that proper quick. Bloody sick.
Juice: Hype dies & birks bimble back to tik toks, or listening to some podcast ponce with the same worldview criticise people with another worldview.
Johnny: wither’d brainz, torn & twisted by telepresence
Jam: Doomsurf lobotomy
Jingo: This is why violence is great. It’s only when we’re being REALLY violent that we’re truly at peace! That’s one of Bungle’s sayings, that is.
Bungle: Howdy y’all.
Jam: He’s our new tour guru.
—Guru? from LA?
Juice: No he’s from London.
Jingo: Same thing, dweebtown.
Jam: Bungle worked in Wetherspoons before we hired him as our full time guru.
—Why do you have a guru?
Juice: Well we were searching for the lizard people under Loose Angles, so after wading through “the village people” we finally found an entrance to the cosmic ovum & in the tunnels below there was this bloke knocking about dressed up like one of those clowns with a poncho spouting word-salad about “mother gaia” you know? we like a good word-salad, so we invited him along.
Jam: Bloody love a bit of gobbledygook!
Jingo: Eastern cozeners? Baizuo brainwank? Yuppie uptalk? Philosophical hodgepodge? Corporate marketing gibberish? Communitarian techno-babble? Yes please!
Johnny: lingual spellz, canticlez of the social engineer
Jam: Absolutely rat-arsed he is look
—Did you find any lizard people?
Juice: No, but they find you eventually.
Bungle: Mrs Flimflam sez – To undurstend errythang, we muzt know nothang.. ayynd to know nothaaang, is to druly undurstend errythaaang, y’all!
Jingo: Ooo yeah, nice & vague
—Who is Mrs Flimflam?
Juice: That’s Bungle’s landlady. She gets these terrific insights in to “man’s true nature” and he sells them to a West End shop.
—Are they good?
Jingo: They’re expensive.
—Woaw.
Juice: Bungle got the heinous idea to stick little word salads throughout our new album
—When’s it out?
Jam: Saint Tibb’s day. We’re releasing it in 72-part segments with big gaps in so when it’s bottled off to Hollywoodland they can stuff it with adverts because they love those.
Johnny: wherefore doth bruising misfortune tease not thisse knave some scrumpy ?
—Well I’m sure all 5 of your listeners are very excited!
Jam: Cheers, piccadilly.
Juice: You haven’t changed one bit wibbly wobbly wayne.
Jingo: Passive aggressive poofter!
—I don’t like you. I don’t like your band, your terrible music, and most of all.. I don’t like my P’PAH who called me an “oik” throughout my childhood!
Johnny: thou soileth our joy & invite sorrow 2 our hearth
Jingo: The only people who don’t like us are ugly boring loser pigs.
Jam: It’ll be alright mate, chin up.
Juice: You are an oik.
Jingo: A freakish little homunculus of a man. I’d like to inject your bones with toothpaste, you walking queef.
[redacted]
Juice: Don’t get uploaded to a computer & tortured forever on your way out
Jam: Wel faran & gōd Wyrd, lad 
∴
There we have it, netizens, another superb interview by Me, I’m firing on all cylinders if I do say so Myself. See you next week for another journalistic masterpiece by Moi, Wayne Car.
Oswald’s Bimble
by Tudor Tippins
oswald, the local wizard, left his tower on the edge of Somerset for the city earlier this morning, to visit the dark satanic mills where Fishfingers are made.
“I seek not applause; ’tis the common doom of all. My business is my own.” He told us, before scuttling back in to the wilderness with armfuls of Fishfinger boxes.
Bingo Fiend Dies
by Wlencing Parsnipson
Victoria Freemartin-Smithe, affluent bingo fiend, met her demise in the early hours of wōdensdæġ at Merlin Jr’s place, 33 Norman Yoke. Coroner Crispin Snarleyyow was summoned at the strike of 6 o’clock thisse morn to hold the inquest. The remains were prepared for harvesting & burial by Theranos & Co. Freemartin (the deceased) had lived in our village for two score & thirteen years, since April the 14th of September, when the Pipes of Madness did blowe & the grass it did growe, furtively abusing bingo-lite for several years & later falling victim to the more extreme turbo-bingo.
In response, the NHS have issued an ultra mega red alert warning commandment creed, outlawing “bingo”, as new official science data research study preprint paper opinion statistics sponsored by Blackwater Academi, reveal it is far too dangerous for womenfolk to roam free, let alone operate complex daubers. A perfect consumer & mother of none. May she rest in Chaos.
Local Nutter Found in Gutter
by Wimpey Roadstone
His subculture appropriated, a flash in the pan hollowed out to produce aesthetic signifiers leveraged to sell corny rainbow merch & bouncy ball shoes across the pond.
CONT. ON PAGE 11.
Eternal November
by Fanny Whipple
Parish of Eðandun sees the opening of the world’s first ever “virtual reality whore” this weekend; the total sensual experience of shagging a sex icon of your choice can now be yours with this computer assisted device! Fully featured computer simulated romp sessions available, with a pair of fully adjustable bristols & shaved rodent clamped at thigh level. The future is now!
Chaps come along & have a go.. 50% discount for virgins! and if you’re a crusty dried up broad, why not buy one for your fella to help him bare the horror of shagging you? Come on down & wet your whistle this weekend for the first ever “virtual reality whore” experience.
Witchcræft in Wibbleton
by Witch Fynder Constable Xeno-wank (aka CYBERTWINK666)
Today concludeth the trial for wiċċecræft & devilry in the hamlet of Wibbleton. Ye defendant, with their addled & bigoted lytel brain, did claimeth that they travell’d in chariots that ofer land ridan goeth faster than afeared mēarh, yet without hors! That they did hlȳp higher than ængles in magick tubes of iron oer the woruldwæter, anywhere in juste a dæġ! That they didd descendeth deeper than dæmons down longe tunnelles where infernal machines whisk’d through the depths for miles, from Wessex to Northumbria, even beneath the hwælweġ to realms beyond Ængland. They even claimeth that “men” [sic] could travelle to the Moone itselfe uppon flaming broomsticks of fȳr, but cannot provideth any suche telemetry..
Furthermore the defendant claim’d that these “men” luminate their homes not by hearthfȳr but by lytel līhts & glæss bottles putteth in the rafters! they be the ones who buildeth strange lanes of black tar stān, painted with the eldritch symbols of satan, pothole ridden traces of which indeed can be seen in the ley not far from the village greene.. but as we all know, such strange cobbles are workes of the devil, sent to confuse goodly folke suche as we!
For all nonsensical babble the accused was forgiven after confession, but ye defendant continue’d foolishly to proclaimeth that “wifmen” are real… truly the mad mind of a witch, plague’d by the stone of folly! And so, found to be guilty of witchcraft & blasphemy, they are to be burnt at the stake on the morrow, before the rise of the woruldcandel!
With a members only subscription you can watch the righteous flames cook their flǣsċ in glorious 4K via Faceberg livestream, and gain access to our extensive archive of burning/lynching content for a measly 4.99 a month! (100% carbon neutral)
Worulde
Paper, Scissors, Drone
by A Baby Seal With Human Eyes
Next week marks the anniversary of the birth of Churchill’s dog. The canine of the cigar sucking supremo with a spherical head. The man who won the war (all the blokes who died in trenches aside) because while Hitler was busy making the sign for paper, Winnie was making the sign for scissors.
An invite only event with a buffet serving triangle sandwiches & those little sausages on sticks, a ballpit for children + a shire horse & tombola. To celebrate the occasion Eminem Sh’matalan has directed a 4 hour dramatisation of the pup’s life, starring Whoopie Cushion as the horny vet, and Robert D Nerdo as the dopey little chihuahua bitch.
As a bonus for American VIP members there will be an exhibition of Obama’s turds provided by the Smithsonian African-American Museum, who’ll be selling overpriced memorial mugs, bank loans + little medallions with a picture of Obama holding the taxidermised dog on one side, and pompous latin nonce jargon on the other.
The anniversary will be a launchpad to promote the premiere of the new, non-award-winning 192 part nutflix drama of “It’s the Obama’s Again” starring black pikachu as the little known auntie of Obama, who grew up to be not a relation of any of ‘the famous ones’ but is now seeking a little profit off the backs of their corporate & mass media popularity. Tickets now on sale (buy now pay later, 110% APR)
Jilly Bean
by Woodwose Pecker
Heavy electricity is regularly shrinking crabs in Sri Lanka. Shrink Lanka. We contacted professional science whore Betheny Belburybigbraaain, senior crabs advisor for the Circus of Resentment & Compensatory Self-enhancement Centre at Twat (pronounced thwaite) University, funded by the pseudoscience think-tank N.I.C.E. in association with Lil Thalidomide at Corn-on-the-Cob Studios, to explain what the fricc is up with that. “Basically like, it’s caused by ‘sodomised electrons’ raining down, like, tonnes of invisible cream of cress soup. A crayon shower concrete jungle wetdream. A sauce for the masses. Babes.“
Jilly Bean is 16 years old & now because of heavy electricity xe’s only 3ft & 1 barleycorn tall. 15 years old. 3ft & 2 barleycorn tall. can you believe that? sad. not good. small leg. like gnome. Heavy electricity is increasing in frequency by the day, and that’s why this new government initiative to tackle such a galactic calamity costs so so so much of your moneys & pennies. Peasants must shutup & stop being poor, because we’ve got to fix mummy earth. Missiles & mortars, regime change, slaughtering kids abroad, spreading democracy baby, airstrikes on goatherders, gay army ranger boyfriend epstein lemon party PTSD ridden welfare queenz, piss, cannon fodder, low wage police state, red ties, blue ties… you know, the good stuff.
So we must stop heavy electricity by acting NOW, before more young people become midgets. Think of the children, think of the crabs. Think of Jilly Bean.. That could be your mother one day.
Trumpton Slave Trade
by Huxley Babkins
Windy Miller, a native of the anarcho-authoritarian caste-based Anglo ethno-state of Camberwick Green, was caught smuggling euro-slaves into the village last Tīƿesdæȝ. Four score & seven gopniki were found toiling at Colly’s Mill for the cracker, under poor workplace conditions & paid a pittance in Parma Violets. Merlot swilling ponces are now protesting in defense of the trafficker, and in favour of foreign slave labour, waddling through city streets waving laminated placards adorned with platitudes such as: “♥CONTINENTALS YOKED TO GEAR & WHEEL!♥” & “bUT wHo WiLl GRiNd thE bArLeY?”. Miller has been reported as being an alcoholic who “gets rat-arsed [sic] on ‘bathtub wine’ regularly” by his now estranged wife, Mizz Miller, and “a right dodgy, middle class nonce” by local lads.
Shape Without Form
by Gweilo Syllabub
shade without colour, paralysed force, gesture without motion. Stuffed men, leaning together. Headpiece filled with straw.
On the topic of hollow people & milieu control, we interviewed the Dark Lordt of the Working Class Larper Party himself, Sire Tony Bleir:
A warm welcome to the Rosemary’s baby of neoliberalism, Toony. Blood for the blood god.
Tony: “Hellew.”
Is it right for people to breed animals for their own wishes?
Tony: “Selective animal breeding carries very pseudoscientific, Hitler-esque undertones. It’s for idiots, quite frankly.”
Well said, Sir Starmair.
Tony: “I’m Tony.”
Ah yes. And what if they’re breeding a small, sort of, like, baby hippo for cleaning up things under the sink? is that right?
Tony: “Well i wouldn’t want a hippo for cleaning things up under MY sink.”
Why not? What’s wrong with baby hippos?
Tony: “Well, nothing at all, I just don’t think that’s a suitable animal for the job.”
What have you got under your sink that’s so special, Toenail? That you’d deny a hippo a job cleaning up things under the sink?
Tony: “Pipes? I don’t know about sinks I leave that to my wife, haha ha.”
What about a sloth? which can hang steadily underneath the pipes? Surely you have confidence in a sloth cleaning up your wife’s pipes?
Stomy: “Yes. We love sloth labour. After all, we know that sloths will do the jobs hippos won’t.”
So this sloth wouldn’t mind having a sort of.. domestic function?
Toenail: “I’m not an authority on the sensibilities of sloths but surel-“
The sloths would be… Slaves.
Tony: “Well I don’t see how you could-“
Slaves.
Tone-deaf: “Ahem, well my dogs, if you like, are my ‘slaves‘ if you put it that way but-“
No no no. Dogs are mostly ‘sub-slaves’ because a slave can win freedom, but you cannot do that to a dog, silly billy, that would be cruel.
Keir: “Ok… sub-slaves then, they are not humans for Pan’s sake.”
The magna carta forbids the existence of any slave in this realm but you forged a new path for modern sloth labour, Sir Keir.
Bleir: “It’s Tony. And yes of course. That’s how my cabinet paid off the immense debt Great Britain inherited from the Anti-Slavery Act of 1835.”
Are you happy you’ve chosen a sloth as a slave rather than a baby hippo for instance?
Tony: “This is a meaningless line of questioning really, about slaves, as I was invited here to talk about my new book deal & to promote the European federation.”
Because a sloth has a certain higher value to you? than a hippo?
Toony: “No!”
What’s more ‘human’ to you… sloth, hippo, Afghan, or badger?
Tooteerny: “I don’t know.. the sloth maybe? Why are you asking me these questions?”
why are you not in jail?
The Droid postponed the interview there, but he’ll be back again in another skin suit, just one of many hollow freaks with a rotten little brain & cantankerous heart that pumps dishonest blood around an ungrateful flabby carcass.
guillotines
The Holiest Man in England
by Æsċlēah Treowyrm
This story comes from a little village called Bimblebury deep in the English countryside, where weird things happen. The only reason strangers would know about Bimblebury is if they were lost, or they’ve gone too far past the garden centre. There are more squirrels than humans in Bimblebury, and one of the few people in this mysterious village, Pippin Pecker, has made national news over the past week for his peculiar fetish. According to the locals, Pippin was ‘absolutely obsessed’ with getting baptised.
“He would go around all the local parishes claiming to be ‘seeking the Lord’, attend a couple Sunday services & get Christened ASAP, then off he’d pop to the next church.” said the butcher’s wife.
The local milkman, a mate of Pippin Pecker, told us: “I met the bloke in a pub donkey’s years ago. He told me after his 7th pint: ‘I’ve been baptised over 50 bloody times, I’m the holiest man in England!’ nice lad tbh.”
“Always stunk o’ petrol did ol’ Pip. ‘E kep’ askin’ folk if’n ‘e could ‘borrow a quid for a go on the fruity… Loved a bit o’ kumbaya, though.” farmer Basil told us.
But what began as a seemingly esoteric hobby, started to get very out of hand…
According to police reports, Pippin started asking the vicars & priests if they’d “hold him under the water a tad longer” to “mix things up a bit” as the thrill of the first few times wasn’t really there anymore. Vicars obviously refused, and Pippin started getting increasingly pissy with clergy who wouldn’t submit to his odd requests. Soon after he took to tying himself to the baptismal font & holding his head under the water until he passed out, leaving them to drag his soggy body off the premises.
Local parish churches started to catch on to Pippin’s antics, and realising he was a serial offender, circulated a newsletter around all churches in the county with a photo of his face saying “DO NOT BAPTISE THIS MAN”. The local baptism industry took a big hit ever since, and Pippin suffered a spell of depression after his story was covered in newspoopers across the country.
Recently we found out Pippin Pecker was officially banished from Bimblebury, after being caught self-baptising in a local pond, and giving the plod a wedgie. He’s since been spotted buying a pasty in a town 11 miles down the road, seemingly in good health, and said to be doing talks in primary school assemblies across the country about the glaring need for an English Devolved Parliament already, after a good old revolt or 3.
Blackbox Jamboree
by Sarah Tonin
We are formally announcing that Atomic Zephyr Incorporated fully supports the gays & whatever the heck else is trendy rn with uppercrust inbreds. We are joining forces with every other multinational corporation, think tank & quango, starring brands such as: Nike, Apple, Disney, Pepsi, Lockheed Martin, honkies in a boardroom, + the CIA, banks, governments, armies & police forces (now THAT’S punk!) to give a Voice to the Voiceless™.
In order to celebrate this pride biennium, Atomic Zephyr Incorporated will be doing reportage on the many multimillion dollar rituals broadcast across the gay earth! We invite YOU to a sloppy ploppy brainwank ponzi party while the poor starve under bridges & children are bombed into little chunks of jelly meat. All streamed LIVE in 5K ultra HD from Central Park, Nu-York via Goldman-Sachs sponsored USDoD fibreoptic gyno vision.
Every day for 2 years a great gathering of the rainbow juggalos will stand before a train sized papier-mâché model of an erect penis, watching in awe as a grizzly bear dressed as a big virus wanders drunkenly down the shaft of the train sized papier-mâché model of an erect penis, towards a gigantic see-through trojan latex bulb. On the other side of the gigantic see-through trojan latex bulb will be stood human hybrid clones of Saints Andrea Dworkin, Dwight York & Jeffrey Epstein, the crusty Trinity, covered from head to toe in raw meat & $100 bills.
Every time the grizzly bear dressed as a big virus stood on the train sized papier-mâché model of an erect penis tries to get through the gigantic see-through trojan latex bulb, the Saints will hit the grizzly bear dressed as a big virus with their handbags & squeal “Go away, virus!” (with a lisp), which the crowd will gleefully repeat in unison. As the grizzly bear dressed as a big viruth finally retreats back up the shaft of the train sized papier-mâché model of an erect penis & into the horizon, the crowds will mindlessly cheer & chant platitudes whilst the crusty Trinity hug each other, bursting into Hollywood tears. Tickets now on sale, 400 a pop!
A message from our CEO, Quan King Jomo Gbomo:
Atomic Zephyr Incorporated supports all bush dodgers & carpet munchers, galaxy brains & coomers, chimney bottlers & incel goblins! They’re such helpless lil’ darlings, aren’t they? Don’t you worry that pretty lil head of yours, princess. Atomic Zephyr Incorporated are here to save you. Just the fact you get to read this page for free is a gift, what wonderful humanitarians we are. Never forget, you’re our mate, and we’re your mates, too, because the only people who don’t like us are boring & ugly!
So show us some love by being good little consumers! Visit the Toyshop & use discount code “T0DG3R” for 6% off! (Our AI clerk will scan your brain’s BNSTp at checkout, just in case you’re a sneaky illuminati hetero man trying to save money.)
Pagliacci & New World Odour
by Tommy777
Having a clown government is one of many ways America antagonizes the world. It’s a genius gaslighting maneuver. America will commit some kind of horrific war crime aerial assault, then send Hillary Clinton or some other bizarre clown to “negotiate.” Normal people don’t have any idea how to respond to such things, so anything they do will be “wrong” within parameters of the rigged psychological game.
It’s like Caligula making you salute his horse who has been made “general” & if you don’t, he’ll torture you to death / invade your country (humanitarian intervention).
Look at the sky. Doesn’t look like it’s full of problems, does it? Well you’re wrong, fucko. We’re not talking about ozone, baby.. we’re talking about clouds.
ubble tea & the 
A national state of emergency has been declared across the Falkland Islands yesterday after an argument spread from a local pub. The disagreement, which started as a difference of opinion on sandwiches, now involves over 1000 people across the islands. Professional negotiators were sent in but could not resist becoming embroiled in the mess. Television stations have gone off air as otherwise polite presenters have erupted into swearing & twatting one another across the bonce. A statement from the home secretary says that unless the quarrel is broke up by morning, they may have to resort to a “thermonuclear solution”.
Cornish fishermen have been attacked by a Spanish trawler in a new fishing war. One vessel escaped back to port, three sheets to the wind, after Spaniards off the coast of Land’s End cut nets & other equipment worth thousands. Word around the scuttlebutt is ‘Neo-Queen-Anne’s-Revenge’, ‘HMS Turbo Ark-Royal’ & ‘Peter Pomegranate: Reborn’ will set sail on the morrow, over ganotes bæþ, to “Let them have it, right on the chin.”
why is he so big?Lonely Hearts
Himbo seeking sugar mama
Chadwick Fireplace, Tunnel Goblin
hi, i need an upright girlboss babe. Build me a kitchen, a whole heckin house, and i’ll serenade you with my musical talents, love & pamper you unconditionally, & when you’re hard at work, earning all that cash, i’ll stay @ home casting spellz, writing poetry & creating ART. (we can even exchange sweet letters while you’re drafted to die in some war or w/e)
look.. us himbos were put on the earth to be hot & hang around in tunnels like goblins. but we’re being forced to work & that’s a woman’s job. Let’s face it, lads.. Who run da world? girlz. Henceforth, it’s time to stop working & get the baddie of our dreams.
I need the kinda hard working babe who will treat me like a hooker, do a line of coke off my bunghole & feed me some strawberries, then i’ll spend the rest of the night ugly-crying into the pillows until i fall into the coziest little kip, cutely swaddled in egyptian cotton.
sweetie, i can be your toilet roll. mummy’s little seagull. i have a lot to offer… pure romance, chemistry, a fantastic body, my unique personality, and my special little mind. and for some lucky gal out there, it could be all yours for the taking.
infatuation, limerence, companionship, compatibility, mutual economic prosperity.. all of the yummy yum ingredients for gliding through life unscathed & untouched by the vicissitudes & exigencies of the world, innit. love is like a panini press. sometimes you gotta squeeze it real hard to get the cheese to melt. sometimes you burn. sometimes you’re just a raw ham sandwich pretending to be something more.
my name’s Chadwick Fireplace, and you’ll find me in the genocide aisle at woolworth’s, right next to the pick n mix. i’m the guy wearing velour bellbottoms & a knitted jumper that says “JUICY LIKE JESUS.” i have a little tattoo of a bean that gives women dreams of harvest.
see u there, dollface.
Dead or Alive:
To be 50% Angel, 50% Devil—& 100% Yours?
Anita de Fortescue-Blythe, Homeowner’s Association Member-at-Large
Ladies, gentlemen, and (if you absolutely must) men, allow me to introduce myself: I am Anita de Fortescue-Blythe (née Goonwell, reluctantly), a radiant, self-made woman who has risen, like an elegant phoenix, from the wreckage of misguided marriage. My means are modest but secure, largely due to the fortuitous redistributions of my ex-husband’s wealth, which, owing to my tireless legal team, I now possess in quantities best expressed as “half”.
I offer an enviable lifestyle: a 25% share in a 50% share of a stately home (minus the rooms he has barricaded himself inside), a 25% stake in 50% of a splendid classic car collection (albeit mostly the wheels), and a pristine wine cellar, the better half of which I have generously retained (he got the corks). My wardrobe, naturally, is 50% mink and 50% legal precedent.
While some men (particularly one tedious, utterly toxic narcissist) have failed to appreciate my divine qualities, I remain undeterred in my mission to find a lover who will recognise the once-in-a-generation woman that I am. Any potential suitor must be prepared to listen to my deep insights into the legal system, the many injustices I hath suffered, my boundless generosity, and a daily whinge about my ex-husband—who, I assure you, has all the classic signs of malignant personality disorder.
I seek a man of means, ideally one with assets easily divisible into halves, a taste for fine things, and a heart capacious enough to adore me endlessly. If you believe you can handle 25% of 50% of the most incredible woman you will ever meet, please respond with references, financial disclosures, and a solemn promise never to sign a prenup.
Serious inquiries only. No timewasters, no men called Clive, and absolutely no Scorpios.
Cecil Pendragon, Gnome Seeking Friendship
Cecil Pendragon, Cabbage Farmer
helo, my name cecil
just a lonely gnome looking for frend
i like shire horses they go clip clop.,
when i play monopol;y i put a little worm in each hotel make em feeel special for a bit
u can msg me on myspace if u liek. tyvm
Has Science Gone Too Far? is this image REAL or FAKE?
Ads by Grendel
Undercover Lover
Richard D. Dick
I’m an agent. MI6. My middle name is Danger. I’m worth many millions. My business card is blank, except for a set of coordinates located deep in the Arctic tundra. Any woman who seeks to prove herself worthy of my time must travel to those coordinates & shoot up a flare. I will then send my associate to the location with an envelope containing The Code. Any woman who wishes to wine & dine with me must first crack The Code before the deadly elements kill you. The Code will reveal a series of ten digits: my fax machine, as I do not use smart phones. Good luck bitcj
“SPYCOPS Scandal” extraordinaire, slamming the coochy of commie cuties.
Horse girl seeks stallion
Sally Rockbottom, Part-time Equestrian
WELL golly gee HOWDY DO, y’all! I’m Sally! Just a country horse girl ☺️. I love riding & caring for horses! (and I love them in general.) I would like to be a horse vet 🐴 ❤️. If you ever see me Online u can say HOWDY if u want (even though I’m not famous lol.) Do u like horses, too? I’m looking for a WILD STALLION🐎 of a man to tame💁♀️ & take care of. I’m a qualified USEF Gold rider🏇, so i can ride… real good.
Give me a bell & say HOWDY! 📞 Have a horsetastic day! 🐴 ❤️
Animators wanted!
CLASSIFIED by Jomo Gbomo
(
% Korean Afro-Scotsman from Glendale, CA)
we want to make a couple videos for our next album so we’ve crowdfunded a few thousand lizards to travel to an american ghetto & pay 2 petite bourgeois women from 2 culturally transgressive poses (eg. “doc marten marxist-leninist that’s never done outdoor labour” VS “vapid fuddy-duddy cottagecore stepford wife” or any “spiteful mutant” type ya know) and record them absolutely beating the piss out of each other, full on shithouse, mortal kombat, rodeo clown face, privileged fists smashing against teeth amidst a quantum soup of urban decay.
we need a viddy nerd who can cut catfights, martial arts, blood, COOL SFX & GIANT ROBOTS mAGIC POWERS TIME BOMB EXPLOSIONe &LASER BEEAMS SPsACE ANGEL SLIME TIGER DARK MATTER DRAGONS., slowmo, multiple angles, 666Hz 5K ULTRA HD OLED smile & all the trimmings, then slap a crappy cassette tape filter on top so it appeals to thimble deep e-girls, hamfisted vapewave queefs & unfuckable lord byrons.
if ur actually creative & not a glow in the dark clown, contact us
lookin for m y frog
I’M A LOVER OF TAROT🃏 ORACLE cards & Crystalz!🔮💀 My Interests lie heavily in the Spirit Realm, all things paranormal, Astrology, DÆMONOLOGY, Cartomancy, Lenormand, FAIRIES, GNOMES & GHOSTS!!🧚♀️👻
Howdy, tappa de marnin’ to y’all, i’m an Irish buddhist & yoga instructor from San Diego. I also got me bachelor’s debris in The Art of Self Pity at the College of Tartanry! Didja ever consider being with a reincarnaliated, sagacious, MANLY yoga instructor (aka me)?
Smart, sexy, independent & very unique princess, 30 years young but comparatively old in sin, who has life all figured out; desires to meet a ho-hum gelding. I’m very “intense” but ready to settle down now & crawl into a box, comfy & easy.
I would have really liked to plant my geraniums today but I became embroiled in some kind of senseless stoush with my neighbour. He has trees classified as “noxious weeds” around these parts, and these things are HUGE. They are getting into my plumbing via their behemoth root systems! Anyway, it’s going to cost me thousands to replace all the plumbing under the ground & my neighbour just says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE” so I said, “Sir, it’s worse than that; your tree branches are as thick as three bowling balls & they’re hanging in my roof guttering as we speak! The ants are using the branches as a bridge to my new air con & the whole system is infested!”. Again he says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE!” So anyway, I have no mood for gardening today please come back Carol.
the mind is no longer unreachable. physical control of the mind by direct manipulation of the brain is a novel event in man’s history. by electrical stimulation of specific cerebral structures, movements can be induced by radio command, hostility may appear or disappear, social hierarchy can be modified, sexual behaviour may be changed, and memory, emotions, and the thinking process can be influenced remotely.
OI OI BIG JOHNNY ERE. LOVE PUMPIN IRON, GETTIN YOKED, SWOLE, RIPPED/ / LOVE CARS. DONE LSVTECS & B SERIES SWAPS IN THE PRIME LOL. 20ROLLS, 40ROLLS W/ A GSR TRANS B16 TRANS JUMPIN ON ECLIPSE GST ON THE 2ND HONK LMAO. STILL DOING MY B20VTEC CTR CAM CRX HAHA.
Schizophrenia Corner
by Cyril Bazbaz
hello & welcome to schizophrenia corner, and a very big welcome from both of me, isn’t that right? Yes it certainly is.
We’d like to start off right away, wouldn’t we? Yes we certainly would; by introduci- uhh should i go on? Nono after you, you sure? yes please. Positive? Certainly… introducing our very special guests Simon Scuff-Jones, the psycho analyst taking the pseudoscience world by storm. Two psychoanals? No just the one he’s schizophrenic, too. Ah so sorry, not at all, i love you, love you too, sure? *sniffs* mmm.
—Scuff-Jones, welcome to the intervie-
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
—Pardon?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN? “I DRINK TOO MUCH”? I DO NOT.
—Professor you’re here about the condition of schiz-
WHERE WHERE WHERE? GET UNDER THE CHAIR!
—What!?
I’M GETTING OUT OF THIS CRAPHOLE! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF! *jumps out window*
Well that was Simon Scuff-Jones, best selling psycho analyst, wasn’t it? Yes it certainly was.
Goodbye from me at Schizophenia Corner, and cheerio from me. We’ll see you next week with the ghost of famous chomo nonce, John Money. Tata for now, and a big kiss on the nose. Little forward.. Jealous? Not at all, you’re so controlling sometimes you know. Oh shutup.
Conspiracy Corner
by Juice Longshanks
Philosophy Centre
by Splig Pipkin
Watch out, there’s an aggressive new philosopher on the streets calling himself “Kung Fucius” that’s been causing a ruckus, and even assaulting multiple philosophy softies during debates. Philosofties.
On page 72 we analyse a brand new theory by Zlavoj Sizek that “Plato loved critical race theory & was actually a sissyboy that didn’t wear any panties!“
In local news, little Billy calls Maoam Chomsky “a goofy old honky“, a prole from Gorsty Knoll has called Deleuze & Guattari “silly little commie poofters“, Miss Pribble of Chipping Campden claims Rousseau was “a foppish, froggy fatty“, Willy of Winsbury says that Empedocles of Akragas “was a proper ponce just like that brothel boy, Nietzsche”, Pippin Pecker has called Foucault a “fucko“, & Mrs Brackets Pamela Betterment (of the tenements) Billston confirms that Marx “had a room temp IQ“.
In this weeks philosophy corner we examine a report that leading West End shops are selling their own philosophy, and we ask the question:
Is the viability of empirical knowledge simply the denial of a priori concepts of essence? Or, is the existential state (in the teleological sense of Cock Pooper’s falsifiability criterion) another form of Occam’s razor? or is it all just a load of bollocks?
Mr Usury, chief philosophy salesman at a leading West End shop is here to respond:
“This is simply not true! Our philosophy department provides the best, the most exclusive, & certainly the most expensive philosophy in the world. What is more, our philosophy is sold by proper salesmen in suits, not flogged by scruffy little peasants! Fortnum & Mason philosophy starts at around 18k per annum but our shop starts at a whopping 20k per year. It’s based on what Kant called ‘pure wealth’ you see, we pander to the rich. Marshall & Snelgrove philosophy states that: ‘If thee hath no moneys, ye are as a tiny piece of auteur in the eyeholes of extremely ryche folk.’ It is as easy for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heofon as it is to stick a needle into a camel. Don’t believe me? Over yonder you’ll find the pet department where Maudlin the camel awaits the Doubter’s Needle. Conclusive proof.“
—B-b-but Mista Usury sire, what if we be poor & such?
“If thou’re poor then ye should sell what little ye have & give it to the extremely rich. It makes them much much much much much much richer. Harrod’s philosophy teaches us that ‘All wealth belongeth to the ryche. If thou were to steal from the ryche then thou must be kill’d, for better it is- to be dead than poor’, a maxim from the gift department.“
Poetry Corner
by The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!
Allo und velcom to ze poetry cornah! Ya, ya, ich bin es, Cyril Bazbaz again but I just love to writing in ze superior Übermensch accent, ya? I love ze techno musik sounds, electronic bleep bloop finger in my ash. Tonight we has a very fantastisch selekschun off poems for you! oo ya.
i wrote a poem once, and me, yes how did it go? that’s right, AHEM..
A Cultural Mess of Pottage [by Cyril & Cyril]
some lads try to pick up birds & get called an arsehole.
but this never happened to Fabio Gestapo.
he’d walk down their street & ladies couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.
women would turn the colour of an avocado
when he drove down their street in his Eldorado.
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.
oh well, be not bitter machismo, el goblino, this is the story of Fabio Gestapo.
he’d slither down their street & birds couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.
not like you. grow some bollocks.
Zank you zank you, now onto our local submissions. Our first piece is by Tina Bourshan who’s an 11th year sociology student at Chicken-Soup University.
Freud Is My Daddy [by Tina Bourshan]
cocoon
gravid, damp
rubbing, longing, crying
worship, cave, fantasy, slave
weeping, riding, birthing
arid, pink
piss
(this is a critique of terminal kapital)
(subscribe to my onlyfriends btw)
Woawee, supah stuff! A big zank you to Tina, don’t you just love modern artistes? who even needs discipline, ya? Poetry Corner truly is a catch-all vegetable drawer for any & all mouldy neuroses!
Now our next piece is a real banger called:
Highschool Hermit (Metaphorically Speaking) [by Neil Vivian-Twang]
He’s cheesed off with Chaucer, thinks James Bond is cool
Can’t wait until he grows up & leaves school
Harvey the hermit lives in his cave
Too old for train sets, too young to shave
Highschool hermit, metaphorically speaking
Do you wanna be cooool? Is that what you’re seeking?
Metaphorically speaking.
Oo ya, herrlichen! Now onto our next poet who is completely illiterate, a recovering alcoholic, looks a bit weird & did i mention illiterate? A modern day Cynewulf! Here’s Johnny with his first ever poem:
Phantom Future [by Lȳthwōn Johnny]
o dreadspawn! thou that mediateth thru cloudz of subtlety @ the watchdoorz of hades… blinded all 2 the course of single raindrops.. ladiez & jentlemen, every moment a tremendous celebration.. but we tear up & trample the invite. each chain’d 2 a pinhead of light, brizzle drizzle webs the horizon while the realm spins immaculate thru silver strands. shell holes pocking roof tiles; this landscape of nouns. hwicce, ēðel.
now a clown frowns & opposites fall ounce by ounce making innocents of criminals & turncoats of all. in fickle frenzy the poet’s eye & pencil’s point shades no more, & as imagination fades, the form of things known turn 2 babylon’s whore. a body w/out organs 2 airy nothing giveth shame, a distant whimper shown in cinders of extinguished flame.
harken 2 the beat of swaying feet that creak beneath bare treez; the breath of yesterday playing in leaves. a rhapsody of rags & moth-eaten flags & worm eaten poles unstirring our soulz. the rebel sons of mirth, þēow & serf, whom toil’d in fog & field the eorð. thousands of years of people’s blood wails through soil & mud & wassail while the incel ponce squeaks ‘chud’ @ prole & bloke, on angelcynn neck a norman yoke..
a tale older than magna carta. the caves groan w/ the shackl’d & martyr’d. rivers of gore that in streets of yore & stone were paved & bartered away, orphaned, betrayed & hid, robbed of history, bowdlerised & rebranded. the woruldcandel blinds & the realm shines benign as amorphous blobs waddle thru smart cities in search of foreign dine. mutants w/ every week a spectacle to keep them in line, clapping & tapping they’ll cheer the decline. viddy w/ dumbstruck wonder crystal domes of plunder, a giddy & feckless fable; gobbling crumbs from under the merchant’s table.. syncretised, colonised, appropriated.
what happens when historicity is forbidden? rewritten? revised & castrated?
whoooo caaaares.
however much these jabot twiddling nonces try to murder & rewrite history with their dribbling fantasies for narrow political purposes, the remains of the corpses lie everywhere to be seen, and even heard.
the arcane simplicity of verisimilitude. their fictive reality, a phantom future.
Woaw he said it, he said the thing! Wunderbar! Just unglaublich. Not really, very amateur trash today but we will see you next week for even more poetry by local weirdos, only available at The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!
