Flying Saucerwankery; Arthur’s Back

I notice there is talk of my death, Andy Roberts, pain, diarrhea, and other unpleasantness in my absence. The cats away and you lot come scurrying out to take advantage. But I cannot be angry for I see that you have been enjoying yourselves and carrying on with the fine principles and traditions previously established here. And so I say; good luck to you.

So, where have I been, you might ask. I’ll tell you freaking where; in Despair. It’s just been too awful to contemplate. Mine is a tragic but uncomplicated story that won’t take long to relate, for it goes, quite simply, like this. It’s all turned to absolute fucking, god awful shite.

And what’s more, having not purged myself for a while of my pent up frustration and exasperation, it has now culmatively swelled to such a massive, throbbing, pulsating climax of spermatozoal puss that I fear I have lost complete control and it will erupt in a monster wave of white bile that will shoot skywards for miles and then will take ages to slowly trickle downwards and back to earth with the result that you’ll be wiping it off your terminals and keyboards for months to cum. So be it.

But………..where to begin?

Useless Fuck Orifice magazine, aka UFO twattycuntybollocks drivel has now sunk below the line it’s possible to sink to. There cannot be any sane person interested in the subject who actually reads this piss poor magazine any longer because other than the title, what actually does the publication have in common with the subject any more? Last time I looked, the main article seemed to be some garbage about a night club singer. Duh? There’s someone else in there that looks like Worzel Gummidge but might actually be a little furry hamster that ferrets around the English language like a demented, garrulous, non stop fart machine and then there’s Regan Lee. Okay we’ll leave that one for now.

And the paper that the whole shambolic mess is printed on? Give it to Sheryl Crow, she’ll know what to do with it.

And aren’t you all traumatized by the fact that little Lesley’s cable connection was recently knocked off. Well, if you won’t pay the bill you silly cow, what do you fucking expect, you cretinous, useless asswipe? Back to Starbucks with you. Your absence may have got you as wound up a cat’s gut on a banjo but it gave the rest of us a blessed fucking break from the shite awful mess and your “it takes six hours to load” web site.

D’yaknow? I’m beginning to feel better already.