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Story No. 983
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"Kill me! Kill me! Kill me now you cunting fuck-sacks!" my Grandfather wailed as he realised I had acheived check-mate in our rather drawn out game of chess. He never could take losing you see, ever since his own father had christened him
Elias Maturbation Fishlips, but he had changed it by deed-poll to simply Elipse. What a wanker, you know, the Goths, Huns and Vandals all found him at some stage
with the pearl jam all over his pyjamas, wandering dejected and lost through swamplands. The mosquitos had rescued him from
having to appear on Family Fortunes. Being horribly ill and likely to die was many times preferable to appearing on that excerable dog turd of a game show. If he ever got out of this bed again, he'd kill his uncle for doing this to him.
Again, and again, and again, until they got bored. By then his arse was as numb as Vernon Kay's humour. A quick dab of Cillit Bang pepped him up in time for the next round of
University challenge, where a load of posh twats answer questions about things that mean fuck all to anyone normal.I'd had enough and went mental with a meat cleaver. I managed to kill everyone in my street, like in that song by Nick Cave. Fuck!
- Contributors:
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Raaaa -
aBnOrMaLiTiEs -
Vern Acula -
The Bishop of Southwark -
Crowfeeder
[ See who wrote what ]
