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As one of the estimated 1,000 people in the UK in a persistent vegetative state, I believe it is time to wake up and take action. I propose forming a standing committee of interested biological impulses, including antibodies, to formulate a sustainable strategy. Meanwhile, I would be grateful if you could leave any thoughts you have at reception, where they will be assessed by qualified proteins. PS my universe is blind, not dark, you thick fucks.
The fight to quit smoking can take many forms, but shock tactics worked for me. After being stripped naked and jeered through the streets of Wolverhampton, I was manhandled into an operating theatre to watch lung cancer surgery. Seeing the ribs pulled apart and the surgical implements poking through the skin was horrendous, plus by then I really badly needed the toilet. Going into a special room to see the cancer afterwards was emotional. They let me feel the tumour and I still can't believe I touched cancer. It yelped when prodded, which was another surprise as I didn't know cancer had feelings. Now that I don't smoke any more I am more relaxed and happy. I am looking forward to my retirement and watching young, previously attractive teenagers plastering thick make-up over their faces in order to hide their grey pock-marked deoxygenated smoking-related damaged skin and laughing, relaxedly.
andy_clockwise@nightdrawing.in Every two weeks or so I 'remind' my partner, who suffers from dementia, to turn the clocks back one hour. Not only do we now get breaking television news much earlier than our neighbours, it also gives us a sinister economic edge. For the last few months our household has been steadily gaining on the Tiger Economies of Asia. By Christmas we'll be earlier than Australia. Personally, I'm dreading passing the 12-hour mark, waiting for the darkness to start closing in again. But, as I keep 'reminding' my partner, at least you're always going backwards.
I have been on 23 speed dates so far this year. I love to steer the small talk round to TV programmes, so that when they ask ‘what's your favourite telly?’ I can say the Sony TV9-306UB. Classic portable 9-inch. Appeared on the cover of Sergeant Pepper, which is like the whole of the 20th Century in microcosm. I love that TV. It still works, though it can't get any of the programmes that are on now. The picture's just black and white shimmerings, though every now and then it picks up this ghostly wraith of analog signal trapped forever in the mysterious, echoing, aerial wilderness of the past. A voice, the snatch of a song from the 1960s, the movement of a dress across the screen. My 24th speed date tonight, wish me luck.
I disagree strongly with Muslim prisoners being able to wriggle out of long periods of detention by committing suicide. Justice must not only be seen to be done, it must be seen to be seen to be done. If a prisoner has committed suicide in his cell, I would send in a film crew. Maybe with Melanie Phillips, she would tell the corpse a few tough answers. I don't know what she'd say to it, but I bet I'd fucking agree with her. Listen, you pop-eyed bongo freaks - if you deny us years of justice, you owe society that time. Either share it out among the next of kin, or put everyone from Forest Gate inside for five minutes. Or what about some sort of non-lethal laser game, but in real time and actually real?
worlds_sexiest_mum@embossed.fat Now I have split up with my boyfriend due to the smack I am having the word 'former' tattooed in front of 'property of Joe Pownall' which I had done in Gothic across my tits in happier times. Not only will this draw a line under our relationship, it hopefully should make me more attractive to other men.
Yes, we’ve had to wait until the Twenty First Century for legally-recognised civil partnerships, and Japanese handjob machines. So what? Progress takes time. Until the 1940s rhubarb was considered a FUCKING VEGETABLE! I have a perfectly civil partnership with my Japanese handjob machine, though sometimes I call it names if I’m in a hurry.
human_jean@homebaby.bio
As one of Britain’s most talked-about young artists, I don’t really get going until the early evening. I’ll have something snacky like peanut butter on toast and a cup of tea around six-ish then with any luck after a bit of a think a boundless depth opens up, effaces walls, drives away contingent presences and accomplishes the miracle of inexpressible space. I like to have something weird playing on the hi-fi, too, in case anyone drops in.
selfprobe@kaiser_chiefs_fanring.anu As something of an existentialist wanker, I have chillingly modified a classic Nintendo game. All Mario's enemies, all the prizes and all the architecture have been removed. Now all you do is go for a walk, run out of time and die. Then you get a life again, and so on. I wonder if any of your readers could help.
rat_faced@nonstopguineapig.sex As a guinea pig, I think animal rights activists should spend less time sitting in pubs smoking toothpick-sized roll-ups and making their lagers and blackcurrant last an hour. They should consult the animals they're supposed to be campaigning for. What about our fucking right to work? I am union convener for the 670 Staffordshire guinea pigs now out of a job thanks to these student wankers and military clothing fetishists. This staffordshire breeding farm provided employment and three square meals a day for generations of guinea pigs. Yes, it was a time-limited career. Yes, there were occupational hazards. But the rewards were enormous, and obviously there was no shortage of sex and drugs. In fact, guinea pigs like me and my members are the professional footballers of the animal kingdom. Imagine if Arsenal, Chelsea and Manchester United were all sacked. And then gassed. I hope the animal rights activists are happy, not that they ever smile. Look at them, muttering bitterly through a smother of metal piercings, dreadlocks and lovebites. You never see a guinea pig in that state.
I know I have done wrong by marrying many wives and begetting many children but I think I deserve a bit more fucking help from the Ethiopian government than 'Please stop getting your wives pregnant, you gurning arsehole, you've filled up one school already!’ People see me as a funny man, but there is no fun in my condition. I am a desperate man struggling to survive. My wives have given birth to more than 100 children, although to be fair 23 have died. I'll have one more wife and then knock it on the head. Them wind-up radios have shown me the way.
So what if some glacier in Greenland is melting? Fucking good riddance! How a pile of ice became 'a UN heritage site' and 'one of the wonders of the world' in the first place is beyond me. The result? Off licences now sell ice cubes at £1.50 a bag. You ask the sulky assistant with the tattoo across her navel why and she says "I don't know, mate, maybe ice is one of Earth's Precious Resources, I'm not a fucking scientist. Are you buying that vodka or what?" Scientists! Most of them have never seen the inside of an off licence in their PISSING LIVES! Reading their books and moaning on. "Oh dear, the Greenland ice cap is the only remnant in the Northern Hemisphere of the continental icesheets from the Quaternary Ice Age. The ice cap formed during the Middle and Late Pleistocene..." SHUT YOUR FUCKING CAKEHOLE, SCIENTISTS. Do they think we are totally stupid? According to them, in a few hundred years time "the Arctic ice could melt completely, raising ocean levels by 20 feet, threatening the lives of more than a billion people who live within 20 miles of the coast". How the fuck do they know where anybody's going to be living 300 years from now? I mean, as tsunamis go, it's quite fucking slow, isn't it? And for those living inland it will cut journey times to the seaside. It's no good following up your first question by asking her how far the tattoo goes down either. She just buzzes through for the governor.
horse_jocky@almostcertainlyascottishaccent.has
tonto@headout.of
disco_mavis@stoptilu.bop
chairs_in_semicircle@needfornotes.no You don't have to be a Creationist to believe that most of the dinosaurs died in Noah's flood. And that surviving dinosaurs terrorised the primitive peoples of the earth, who called them dragons. The 8th Century poem Beowulf records a genuine encounter with a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Loch Ness Monster could easily be a dinosaur. Who is to say that undiscovered dinosaurs may not thrive still, perhaps in the ocean? And do we all not ultimately derive from a single cell, divided into Adam and Eve? As your short course tutor over the next two weeks, I shall be exploring some of these fascinating ideas in the context of developing life and theology skills for continuing adult education employment. I'll be keeping it casual - you can cadge a roll-up off me any time - but focused. Ignore any sexual tension, I'm just putting the psychological feelers out. See you in the pub - if you don't see me first!
sicktone@sideeffectsheave.ho
stop_the_treatment_coalition@neuralterritory.psy The wife and I don't get out much these days, so we marked the anniversary of the War on Iraq with a silent breakfast, after which we linked arms and marched slowly round the conservatory, murmuring "No Blood For Oil". At 3 p.m we released two balloons symbolising Hope and Peace. There was still some helium left, so we inhaled this and recited Wordsworth's poem Daffodils in high-pitched unison. As it got darker, however, we were carried away by a wave of melancholy, the familiar coastal landmarks of our minds diminishing as a chill darkness descended, perhaps forever.
a_n_archer@cotsdeathwolds.uk.ind Pace the Crumpet, shin-kicking and summary execution have all played their part in England's 392 year-old version of the Olympic Games. Every Spring we in the countryside gather to celebrate Nature's Awakening, wearing clothes similar to those in the Harry Potter films. All afternoon it goes on - straw effigies, rolling casks, fluttering ribbons, thrashing livestock, coconut shies, baked goods, whittling, singing in rounds etc. When dusk falls torches are lit and everyone winds down the hillside past the ubiquitous fields of dark sprouting thorns to the town where we dance in the streets until after midnight. Ignore The Dark Sprouting Thorns! Listen To Us!
What about the third of the electorate - myself including - who didn't vote for anyone last time? We were very poorly represented in the last parliament, as there was someone there.
Operating on the theory that there's no such thing as empty space, I have created a new art installation which takes this as its theme. Gallery visitors are invited to imagine that the exhibition area is crammed with thousands of industrial monofilaments, hung ceiling to floor in dense vertical curtains. If they existed they would catch the light and fragment into an endless cascade of colours. I believe this takes contemporary art a step further, as the perceptions I am challenging in the mind of the viewer are entirely of their own devising. If visitors refuse to imagine the above they are politely asked to leave.
paddy_ashdown@rorybremnerimpersonation.is As veteran Croatian hunter, imagine surprise when I am shot by own hound. Yes - hound! I prepare to go off into woods. I clean, I load shotgun as usual, OK. I check to see is slivovich, is slivovich. I lean gun against wall, now my hound Lero comes, chasing goose, oof, runs into shotgun, gun falls, bang, pellets in leg! NOT motherfuckyou OK! Now, you think "This is accident, veteran Croatian hunter, hound did not shoot you!" OK. I crawl over ground, check to see is still slivovich, is slivovich. Hound now is on two legs, like in circus, he holds gun in front paws, he aims gun at throat of me, barks something I do not understand in language of Serb. Lucky I have grenade, blow his motherfuckyou guts everywhere. I check to see is slivovich, is slivovich gone. I know, I know. Now you think "This story, is set in Balkans, is all lies. Who is right, hunter or hound? Croatian people - good, or bad? Which ones did we bomb?" I crawl past telephone to slivovich.
gene@lonelycellsclub.codamol.co.uk Bubbly cancer victim (young 72) seeks short-term relationship, non-smoker, GSOT.
bobo187@hardworknever.kil
loss_leader@institutionalrace.pip I have been unhappily married for 45 years and have often fantasised about beating my wife to death. Now the doctors have told me I have just two months to live, so as long as Madam hangs on for another three my prayers have been answered!
viral_marketing@deathbug.bu.bo As a non-violent DIY enthusiast I condemn euthanasia. Suicide is the proper response to despair - with certain exceptions. Building your own guillotine and beheading yourself in the back garden is far too 'showy', and if it gets into the media everyone will assume it's a fake. The same goes for sabotaging your own parachute or arranging a piglet race in the Occupied Territories. Why not go out in style by getting 'medieval' on your own 'ass'? The Black Death, or Bubonic Plague, killed 23 million people in the Middle Ages. The virus responsible is still lying dormant and can easily strike again, thanks to my new online ordering service. Simply pop the spore-infested sachet of mead in the microwave for 1 min, awaken the Black Death, quaff...and prepare to meet your Maker! For a few agonising hours, you could go back in time and stay there! If you are part of a melancholic self-harm group, you can order enough for everybody and host a Black Death Weekend with period clothes and folk ballads. When you're all dead, just get someone to tip you into a pit and add your names to the 1349 death toll.
Imagine my disgust when, after being held hostage for 13 days by Iraqi bandits, I was sacked for absenteeism by the Austrian engineering company I work for. Luckily, I have persuaded my captors to postpone my execution by six days so I can use up this year's statutory sick leave entitlement.
miss_devizes@breastsofdifferentsizes.ha.ha
shaky_fan@punkbubble.pop
Following the revelation that Diana, Princess of Wales wore nothing but shoes, jewellery and a fur coat if she really fancied someone, I sometimes wonder how Mr al Fayed must have felt, knowing that she and his son were both wearing pants when they died?
sioux@homewithnomains.diy
- tobacco juice stains on carpet
All this fuss about charity workers in Africa exploiting children, but sometimes the boot's on the other foot. I work in the Penrith British Heart Foundation shop and children are always stealing Lego while we're busy with pricing the garments.
clickable_thumbs@namecheck.txt
double_felix@miniaturevillage.psy
arwan@usedtobeinkraftwerk.ja
In order to continue receiving benefits, I had been encouraged to sign on for three days work dismantling an old nuclear reactor in the East Midlands. I certainly wasn't prepared for the dozens of radioactive nests we discovered in the outer core wall, packed with thousands of irradiated wasps! There was something very 'Islam' about it, I thought at the time. We reasoned with the wasps in the end though not after a Muslim lad had ironically been stung a few times in the face. You have to laugh.
So contact with animals helps the elderly to live longer does it, you thick infidel fuck? Try telling that to my 90-year-old mother, who was fatally crushed when a clumsy motherfucking 485-pound circus bear performing at her Syrian retirement home tripped over a wheelchair and fell on her! Fucking bears! Get out of our motherfucking motherland!
e_e_cumin@burpingthealphabet.rrp A poem is a little path That leads you through the trees. It takes you to the shops and back, And anywhere you please.
The second verse is harder, As you've run out of ideas. It takes you to the shops and back, And anywhere you please.
I must pass on my wonderful news. At 55 I feel 18 again, and the secret is - burglary. Until last year I hadn't 'spun a pad' for 25 years, but my grandchildren persuaded me to go in with them. Perhaps the biggest thrill was to be told by my youngest son how young and pretty I looked in a hooded top. Ladies, take my tip and jump in!
costcutter@value-engineering.uk Can't social services just beat the children up instead? It would save a lot of paperwork and stress-related holiday payments.
It was Joseph Conrad who wrote "We live, as we dream, alone". This is also true of eating pies. One each or "what's the point".
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