Category Archives: Rob the Trollololol

Thanks, Rob! You’re awesome!

Happy Pissmas, humans! This is Rob, and I’m going to give you some awesome ideas for presents. If you’re a peasant, or you’re like me, and would rather buy stuff for yourself than all those other greedy little bastards, you haven’t got loads of cash to spend. So, like the generous and all-round fantastic person I am, I’m going to help you out!

Here are some fucking awesome gift ideas that will bring a smile to the face of anyone. Even your bitter and twisted Aunt Fanny, who’s got a face like a puckered anus, and constantly stinks of cat-piss. Even Aunt Fanny knows a thoughtful gift when she sees one!

 

DON’T YOU DARE READ THIS, EDEN! I don’t want to spoil the surprise!

 

 

Rob’s Top 10 Pissmas Craft Creations!

1        Piss Surprise – Pissmas is, as everyone knows, as a celebration of booze. But for the true connoisseur, give them something special this year. A bottle of pre-used Jack Daniels, filtered to smooth perfection by your very own bladder! Can’t beat a genuine Rob-produced pisskey on the rocks! If you want to take inspiration from Asia, you could put a wild animal in the bottle. They use snakes and scorpions, but for a traditional English feel, use a dead mouse. This isn’t just a decaying rodent in a bottle of piss, this is an M&S rodent in a bottle of MY piss!

2         Chocolate Starfish, a la Rob – Inside a Pissmas card, it’s nice to leave something personalised, so people know you love them. This year, give them an individual arseprint, in the medium of shit on toilet paper. Guaranteed to end up on Granny’s wall!

3         Gary the Toenail – Pets make people happy, but a dog is for life, not just for Pissmas. Instead, give someone a pet toenail, on a little string, so they can take it for walks. Everyone needs a friend!

4         A Sack of Wonders – One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, they say, and everyone likes a big present, so this year, give someone one of your binbags. This is a really exciting present, there’s so much different stuff in there for them to play with – old condoms, orange peel, clumps of Eden’s hair, a mouldy turnip – something for everyone! In fact, it’s such a lavish present you could even get away with giving it to several people. They’ll all find something they love in there, you mark my words!

5         The Furry Fag Fairy – Take your hairbrush, and pull all the hair out of it. Hopefully you’ve got a nice big wodge of hair, and if you’re cool like me, it’ll even be multi-coloured. Shape it into a fluffy little ball, then get two fag-ends out of your ashtray, and poke them into the hair so they look like eyes. Nothing could be cuter!

6         Lunchbox – Everyone likes food, the fat fucks, but Pissmas dinner is a bit passé. Instead, give someone a cheese sandwich – everyone likes cheese sandwiches. To make it a really personalised gift, and for quality control, eat half of it first – Pissmas is all about sharing. And since it’s so cold outside, don’t give them a nasty cold sandwich, carry it around in your pocket so it’s nice and warm and comforting. Can’t go wrong with a squashed old sandwich!

7         Fuckjuice – Are you meeting your brother’s new fiancée at Pissmas this year? Make a good impression by giving something that shows you approve of their relationship. New couples have loads of sex, and like a caring sibling, you don’t want your brother’s willy to get all sore – give them a bottle of lubricant, lovingly made from your own saliva. To be really creative, you could shove a chocolate into the bottle of spit to make it flavoured!

8        Errgh de Toilet – It’s nice to appreciate foreign people’s culture. So, if you’ve got a Frenchie in the family, bottle some water out of your loo. I know it’s a bit weird, but they like that sort of thing. Make sure the toilet’s been used first, and not flushed. This is very important! They also really like stinky cheese, so buy some French brie, then hide it under the sofa cushions, and sit on it as much as possible. It’ll be really ripe by Pissmas day, and they’ll love it!

9         Thoughtful – Like I said, everyone likes big presents. Put four different sized boxes inside each other, and wrap each one up. They’ll be delirious with excitement as they unwrap it all! Regarding the present itself, it’s the thought that counts, so inside the smallest box, write down a thought. It can be any thought at all really, like ‘My toes are a funny shape’ or ‘I think I might have a wank now’ or ‘God I really hate golf’. If you want to be really thoughtful, give them several thoughts. What a generous person you are!

10     The Sock of Destiny – If you’re in a band, like me, there’s lots of opportunities for giving your family valuable merchandise. In a few years, everything you touch could be worth a fortune. So, this year, give someone an old sock. Don’t even think about washing it – your fans want a proper smelly sock, full of rockstar foot odour, so wear it for a straight week before Christmas, to make sure it really stinks. That’s the smell of success, and your family will feel really privileged!

 

 

These are just a few ideas, but everyone should find some inspiration here. Your family’ll vomit with joy, and I bet you’ll get to buttfuck that girl you’ve been trying to shag since October. You can thank me later -:)

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The Spirit of Defecation

Happy Halloween, fuckers! This is Rob, and I’m going to bestow upon you a traditional Halloween tale. This ghost story’ll make you prolapse with fear. Are you ready? Turn out the lights, and drop some acid, I’m about to fuck with your head!

 

 

Long, long ago, before I was even born, there was a massive old house in the woods. Three siblings lived there together, until they were old and insane and incestuous. They became completely incontinent, and eventually they all died in bed together, having an orgy, half buried in their own faeces. Ever after that day, the house was haunted, and no one dared to enter.

Several years later, the local Lord was a sadistic bastard, and enjoyed thinking up unpleasant punishments for bad behaviour. Which brings us to the heroes of our story, Ejaculus and Blob (people had funny names back then. This story is 100% historically accurate!)  They were cheerful fellows, who enjoyed drinking all day, and fucking horny maidens all night. Lord Labia despised them, but they were cleverer than him, so he hadn’t managed to kill them yet.

One autumn night, Ejaculus and Blob had been eating magic mushrooms in the woods, and freaking out about the size of each other’s big toes for the past few hours, until they tired of this, and wandered back into the village. Just as they opened the door to the inn though, they walked straight into Lord Labia. He looked grumpy, and started asking them complex questions, like “Why are you wearing one shoe?” and “Why are you staring at me with such a stupid expression?”

Now, Blob was a particularly intelligent fellow, and he came back with lightning fast answers, such as, “Because my eyes are in my toes,” and “Perhaps you are looking in the mirror,” but Ejaculus could be an idiot sometimes, and with no warning, he vomited a vast puddle of slimy, half digested mushrooms all over Lord Labia’s stupid shoes.

Lord Labia wasn’t impressed. While a herd of peasants scrubbed puke off his silly shoes, he ordered that Ejaculus and Blob should be locked in the haunted house for two nights, to teach them a lesson.

Ejaculus and Blob were locked in a cage and hauled off to the house, where they were shoved inside and locked in, with some bread and vinegary wine and a couple of lanterns. And a nice little card from Lord Labia, with pictures of kittens on the outside. Inside though, it said “I HOPE YOU DIE!”

“I’m going to puke again,” Ejaculus announced. “I’m going to find the shitter.”

He picked up a lantern, and wandered off down the corridor. Blob went to explore the living room.

Ejaculus was deep into the dark bowels of the house before he found a filth encrusted bucket, writhing with maggots. He puked on them, which probably made them happy, and turned to leave, when he felt something brush past his face. He stared into the darkness, his heart pounding, when suddenly, from behind him, there was an eerie fart. A disembodied fart, from no human arsehole! Ejaculus ran down the corridor, screaming, until he slipped in something and crashed down on his back, his lantern sputtering and nearly going out. When he scrambled to his feet, he realised it was a trail of piss.

“Blob?” he whispered. “Is this your piss?”

But there was no sound in the darkness except his own rapid breathing. Terrified, he began to follow the trail of piss. Soon, he began to hear piteous screams, and splashing, as though someone was being drowned in a bathtub. He started running, the swinging lantern throwing creepy shadows up the mouldering walls. He burst into the living room, and found Blob in a coffin, with a fat old ghost squatting on his chest, and pissing all over his face.

“It never ends!” Blob spluttered. “He’s going to drown me in piss!”

Ejaculus ran towards the ghost, and it vanished, Blob scrambling out of the coffin, dripping with piss. They both jumped when a disembodied cackle emanated from one dark corner.

You’re going to die, whispered an evil voice.

“Who are you?” Blob shouted.

I am the Spirit of Defecation… said the voice.

Suddenly, a massive turd came flying across the room, and it splattered all over Ejaculus’s head. They were being pelted with shite! It came raining down upon them from the ceiling, whizzing through the air, splattering lumpily up the walls. Soon the room looked like Glastonbury, and smelled even worse.

I’M THE POOPING POLTERGEIST! yelled a high pitched, insane voice. DON’T FUCK WITH ME! I’LL PULVERISE YOU WITH POO! PLOP YOU TO PIECES! I’LL PILLAGE YOUR PUBES, YOU PESTILANT PUKING-”

“ENOUGH!” Ejaculus yelled, spitting out a mouthful of shit. “You alliterative anus!”

This seemed to anger the poltergeist, because from the ceiling, a vast avalanche of shit descended, and it buried them completely. It seemed that all was lost, and they would die here, their bodies forever smeared in demon faeces. At least they had each other.

But just then, as they began to suffocate, a little voice said,

Do you want my help? I’m the Farting Phantom. I could fart you right out of here if you want?

A mighty, rippling vibration shook the entire house, and Ejaculus and Blob were shot high, high into the air, all the crap being blasted clean off them, and they flew all the way home, and landed softly in a cowpat. And they lived happily ever after.

The End.

Not So Private Thoughts

Rob’s latest hobby appears to be journaling. I think he’s been inspired by the blog, but that isn’t necessarily a good thing. He has taken to leaving his diary strategically open upon the sofa, displaying entries such as this:

 

“Dear Diary,

*sigh*

I am sad today. I am sad today because Eden is being a buttmunch.

I lent him my Breaking Bad DVD. I don’t know why. Probably because I’m such a kind person. But I should have known better. Eden is a buttmunch. He says he’s lost my CD, but I know he’s lying. Last week, I was creeping down the corridor to his room, with the intention of bringing him breakfast in bed. When I got to his door, he was inside, wanking into a sock. And on the telly, he’d paused a shot of Walter in his grimy Y-fronts. My poor innocent mind was irreparably wounded, but I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I just tiptoed away, with my eyes bleeding.

So I know what’s really happened. He’s hiding my CD in his room and he’s going to force poor, harmless Mr White into watching him wank! Until the CD burns out from overuse! Oh, poor Walter, what have I done to you?! I could almost see his little freezeframe figure weeping tears of pure misery!

So that’s why I’m sad 😦

Love from ROB”

 

 

“YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD!” Eden screamed, grabbing the offending diary and shooting out of the room. I followed him into the kitchen, where I found him beating Rob around the head with it.

“Why are you hitting me?!” Rob exclaimed, all wide eyed innocence.

“I have never wanked into a sock!” Eden snapped, scowling at him.

“You’re not supposed to read my diary!” Rob whined. “Those are my private thoughts!”

“I do not want you privately thinking about me masturbating!” Eden shrieked, waving his arms around.

“I can’t help what I saw!” Rob replied innocently.

“YOU DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!” Eden screamed. “Apart from anything, when have you ever brought anyone breakfast in bed!”

“I’m trying out being a good Christian,” Rob said, keeping an impressively straight face. “I’m turning over a new leaf!”

“Your new leaf looks a lot like a bastard to me,” Eden replied sniffily.

“Do you make Kate wear baggy Y-fronts too?” Rob asked eagerly.

Eden stared at him blankly for a moment, before taking a deep breath, picking up a bottle of wine, and smashing it over Rob’s head.

 

 

Following the initial kerfuffle, Samuel came down to see what was going on, and found Clara and I picking shards of glass out of Rob’s head while Eden manically scribbled, “ROB IS A ROTTEN ANUS,” and other such choice phrases in as many pages of Rob’s diary as he possibly could.

“He assaulted me!” Rob wailed, dripping with blood and wine.

“Think yourself lucky that’s all I did,” Eden snapped. “He made disgusting allegations about me!”

Samuel sighed. “Not the diary again?

“But Eden’s allowed to write stuff,” Rob moaned. “It’s only me who’s not allowed to be artistic!”

“Must you be artistic in such a vile manner?” Samuel asked exasperatedly.

“Yes!” Rob exclaimed. “It makes me laugh!”

Samuel pondered this. “Perhaps you should simply be vile about someone who doesn’t live in this house. I was not desperately delighted with what you wrote about me, either.”

“It was very complimentary!” Rob protested. “I said what a massive cock you had!”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Indeed. You waxed lyrical about it for quite some time. That is not the point. You should write about someone who will never read what you have written.”

“Like who?” Rob asked sulkily.

“How about that bastard at the off licence?” Eden suggested. “The one who wouldn’t sell you anything because you were drunk?”

Rob looked inspired, and he snatched his diary back from Eden.

“I’m going to write it,” he declared triumphantly, “And then I’m going to get drunk, go to his shop, and read it to him!”

 

************

 

If you’re wondering, this is the entry Rob wrote about Samuel. After Samuel requested that he burn it, he instead chose to dispose of it by going to the local library, and leaving it tucked inside a book. Some unfortunate member of the public is going to find this inside a copy of War and Peace.

 

 

“Dear Diary.

Today is another difficult day. Last night… Last night something terrible happened. You know how Samuel’s got an enormous cock? Well, I hadn’t seen it in a while, but last night…something crept into my bedroom. I thought it was a massive pink snake at first, but then I realised it was a PENIS! A massive, wriggling, veiny penis, creeping across my floor. It was the most monstrous penis I’ve ever seen in my life! It could have eaten me whole! If I was a woman, and someone unfurled that uber-dick and threatened to fuck me with it, I would probably pass out on the floor, only to wake up with it curled around my neck like a boa…

It came right up to my bed, and then it reared up, and it STARED AT ME! I was looking right into the japseye! I nearly shat myself!

Now I feel awkward.

Love from ROB :)”

Morning Death Syndrome

Rob recently had one of his better ideas. He has created a website giving information about IID (Intellectual Intolerance Disorder). It is, apparently, a disease that causes headaches, seizures, and potentially death, if the sufferer is forced to spend time with intellectually inferior humans. Tragically, there is no cure, but the worst symptoms can be staved off with a strong dose of alcohol. Now, any time Rob is forced to interact with stupid people, he claims that he suffers from this mythical condition, and tells them to look it up. This most recently happened in a pub in Birmingham, when we were forced to queue for several minutes at the bar, with a group of vapid females standing in front of us, chattering and giggling at an obnoxious volume about someone’s wedding. Rob grinned at me, and then he started clutching at his head, groaning loudly. When that failed to attract much attention, he started staggering about, crashing into people, before dramatically flinging himself onto the floor, and having some kind of seizure. Eden yelled,

“Help! He’s dying!” and dived onto the floor next to Rob, enthusiastically slapping him around the face.

“I’m….dying!” Rob moaned, flailing about like a fish out of water.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked a barman, running over to us. “Shall I call an ambulance?”

“He’s got IID,” Eden told him seriously. “It’s a rare condition – look it up. This whole environment is very toxic for him.”

“It’s…” Rob groaned, “All…the idiots….my…brain! Urghhhh!”

Eden nodded. “There’s no cure,” he said sadly, gazing at Rob. “He’s going to die soon. I don’t know how I’ll live without him…” He glanced up at the barman, pouting mournfully.

“Need…” Rob whispered. “Whiskey!”

“Alcohol keeps his symptoms under control,” Eden explained, managing to keep a straight face. “Could you spare a dying man some whiskey?”

Rob rolled his eyes up in his head and started drooling, and Eden snorted slightly, managing to turn it into a cough.

“You’ll have to pay for it,” the guy said, looking uncertain.

Clara came running over, and dropped onto her knees next to Rob, wide eyed.

“There’s no time for this!” she said urgently. “He’s dying!” She glanced up at the barman, slightly red-tinged tears gleaming in her golden eyes, and she burst into noisy sobs, burying her face in Rob’s t-shirt. The barman jumped up and ran towards the bar.

“God, I love you!” Rob hissed, grinning, and Clara laughed, her face hidden behind a curtain of wavy red hair.

“Here you go!” the guy announced, reappearing next to us with a large tumbler of whiskey.

“Is it…” Rob mumbled weakly. “Is it…Jack Daniels?”

“Uhhh…yes?” the guy said, looking perplexed.

Rob grabbed the tumbler, and downed the entire thing, before flopping back on the carpet with a big smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Clara said earnestly, fixing the guy with her most beautiful smile.

“No…problem,” he said in a monotone, looking totally transfixed.

“While you’re at it…” Eden added. When the guy glanced his way, Eden looked intently into his eyes, and demanded, “Three more double jack and cokes, and two glasses of red wine. We’ll be over there,” he pointed at a booth in the corner.

“Thanks mate!” Rob said cheerily as the guy got up and walked away. He scrambled to his feet, and noticing a few people staring, he affected an expression of heroic suffering, leaning heavily on Clara as he began plodding towards our table.

 

 

Eden was so impressed with this idea, that he decided to make up a disease for himself, too. He has dubbed it Morning Death Syndrome. Apparently, he is a fragile creature with a weak heart, and being forcibly removed from his bed, or excessively stressed during the early hours of the morning, could give him a heart attack and cause him to drop dead. Unfortunately, his plan didn’t go quite as well as Rob’s.

When we were forced back into the recording studio at 9am, as soon as Gary came in, Eden told him seriously,

“I need to tell you about my medical condition. I can’t play in the mornings.”

Gary scoffed. “Pull the other one. What’s wrong with you today?”

“I have Morning Death Syndrome,” Eden said earnestly. “If you stress me out in the morning, I could have a heart attack. I nearly died last week when you weren’t here…”

“You’ve pulled that directly out of your arse,” Gary replied, taking a swig of his coffee.

“I don’t like to make a fuss,” Eden said sadly, “But I couldn’t hide it any longer. I don’t want to die before I finish this album…”

“It would be tragic,” Rob agreed, nodding. “We could never replace him if he died.”

“Oh, fuck off, the lot of you,” Gary stated, rolling his eyes. “Get in there and start playing.”

 

 

Eden seemed to have given up on his ploy, until Gary forced him to repeat Indestructible, which is a song he didn’t even want to put on the album in the first place, and seems to highly resent playing unless he’s feeling miserable, in which case it’s all he plays. Scowling through the glass at Gary, he made it most of the way through the song.

“Her eyes shut down

Like iron gates

A stake in my heart

Never felt such hate

 

Floating, adrift, lost in blood

I am indestructible, but still I try

Peace in unconsciousness, all that I want

I am indestructible, I wish I could die…”

 

At that point, he started clutching his chest and wheezing dramatically, before staggering backwards and collapsing into Rob’s drumkit in a crash of cymbals.

“EEEEDEN!” Rob hollered, jumping out from behind his drums and landing on Eden, enthusiastically thumping him in the chest until Eden surreptitiously thrust one knee into his bollocks.

“HE’S DYING!” Rob hollered, waving his arms around. “YOU’VE KILLED HIM!”

I could see Samuel trying very hard to keep a straight face behind the glass. Gary downed the last dregs of his coffee and came stomping in. Looking disgustedly down at Eden’s prone form, he asked,

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Eden coughed pathetically, and whispered,

“I need…to go home…”

“Oh, no,” Gary replied, smiling slightly. “That sounds far too dangerous. You’ll never make it there alive. You just stay here for a few hours ‘til you’ve recovered, then you can finish.”

Eden scowled. “I’m going to fucking eat you,” he muttered.

“What?” said Gary.

Eden just growled quietly, and stood up, dusting off his black jeans.

“Ah, good,” Gary declared. “Morning Death Syndrome not so severe after all.” Rolling his eyes, he turned to leave.

“Might not be my death,” Eden hissed, sticking his fingers up at Gary’s back. Then he looked like he’d had an idea. Grinning, he rolled up his right sleeve, bent over, and stuck his fingers down his throat until he succeeded in loudly retching up a small torrent of blood.

“Jesus Christ!” Gary exclaimed, turning back and frowning down at the half-clotted blood on the floor. “You weren’t kidding!”

“I need to go home,” Eden stated, spitting a glob of bloody saliva onto the ground.

That is not normal,” Gary stated seriously, pointing at the lurid mess on the floor. “I’m calling you an ambulance.”

The door opened and Samuel strode in with a mop and bucket, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. Grabbing Gary by both shoulders and staring into his eyes, he said firmly,

“You did not see that. Go for a cigarette.”

Gary nodded mutely, and turned to leave.

“What are you doing?!” Eden protested. “He was about to let me go home!”

“You are here now,” Samuel stated. “You will be out of here in an hour. That was absolutely no call for that revolting stunt!”

“I could have done it better,” Rob said smugly. “I can puke with the power of my mind. Want to see?”

Please don’t!” Clara groaned.

“Clean that up,” Samuel ordered, thrusting the mop into Eden’s hand.

“I’m hungry now,” he complained.

“Serves you bloody well right,” Samuel muttered, wandering out of the room.

 

 

In case you’re wondering, Eden would like to explain why it’s not easier to just mindfuck Gary:

“Samuel’s banned it, besides, there’s no bloody point. It’s like playing Bastard Whack-a-Mole – the minute you smack down one irritating cunt, five more pop up in its place and your phone starts ringing and they harass you until you want to kill yourself. When I was stoned last night I came up with a beautiful extended metaphor for the music industry. I call it the Penis Tree.

From afar it looks beautiful and bountiful – an exotic glittering thing, and it lures you in. But once you get close to it, it ejaculates in your face, and you become glued to the spot, smeared in cold, gunky jism. And the people watching from afar think it looks like glitter, but you know the truth – you’re being paraded for all the world to see, smeared in a fat man’s wretched, viscous spunk. And suddenly you’re surrounded by nothing but penises. Flaccid, infected cocks rubbing all over your face, being thrust into your ears. Eventually your ears are so stuffed with cock you can’t even hear you own music anymore, and thus the cycle is completed – you become a penis yourself, and for the rest of your miserable existence you’ll do nothing but ejaculate terrible music, your stringy vocal sperm catching fresh meat in its sticky web. I present to you, the ever growing Penis Tree…”

Umm…thanks, Eden. That was…beautiful. Or something…

“I smoke weed so that everyone else doesn’t have to,” he added thoughtfully. “They can all be enlightened through me – I make the world a better place. Until I inevitably turn into a penis, anyway.”

“Will I be a penis too?” I asked, grinning.

“Probably. Or maybe we’ll all just merge into one massive, mecha-cock…” He frowned. “I suppose everyone who legally buys music must therefore become an enormous vagina – being forcefully fucked by the many heads of the Penis Tree, until their braincells are drowned in semen and they start listening to One Direction.” Looking horrified, he sparked up a joint.

“Your brain is a bizarre place,” I told him.

He didn’t seem to hear me. Staring out of the window at the rainy countryside, he smoked his joint thoughtfully. Then he cleared his throat importantly, and declared,

“My ears are leaking cum!

It’s oozing out of my bum!

In the spotlight

Smeared in shite

A penis is what I’ll become!”

I burst out laughing, and he grinned at me, offering me the joint.

Love Letters

Rob got into an argument in the pub with some literature students the other day, because they were, according to him, “Romanticising jumped-up twerps!” He overheard one of them say that they would love to have lived in Victorian times, so he marched over with his drink, and told them that,

“I would love to see you teleported back there! You can have my fucking life! A ghastly nagging bitch of a wife you can’t get rid of, who goes moaning to her daddy if you don’t fuck her and try to breed repulsive, snotty little children, and there was no deodorant so she just stank all the time, and probably so did I but that’s not so bad, but she…she really stank! Fuck your Victorian nonsense! There was no hairspray back then – you wouldn’t last a week, you smarmy little poof!”

He gave them a final satisfied “hmph” and returned to our table. After that though, he was determined to get his revenge on students. He spent every evening for the next week wandering around Birmingham on his own, listening to thoughts, until he found what he was after – a computer hacker of reasonable talent. He mindfucked the guy, and together they hacked into the system of a local university, exchanging pictures of students for carefully chosen, extremely explicit porn gifs. The teachers’ pictures were swapped for detailed drawings of penises, that Rob had gleefully crafted himself. Then he set to work altering everyone’s reading list, so that it consisted of,

 

“-Contextual Fuckpuppets

-The Intimate Language of Sodomy

-Voyage of the Bastards

-One Flew Over the Mouldy Cunt

-Flight of the Testicles

-Rectal Reasoning

-A Bucket of Sick, and other tales

-50 Shapes of Snatch

-The Tales of the Spewing Nostrils

-Shakespeare Was A Turd

-Overcoming Obstacles and Shitting Lemons”

 

After that, he gained access to teachers’ email accounts, and sent out several mass messages with the title, “IMPORTANT!”

Inside, they said things like,

 

“Children, this is your Tutor. If you do not do the following, you will automatically fail and be expelled. Tonight, you must go home, turn on your webcam, and masturbate enthusiastically! I shall be reviewing the footage tomorrow. When you come, shout my name. And then lick your hands whilst telling me how much you love me. I repeat – it is VITAL that you do this!

With sticky regards,

Ms Fell.”

 

“Dear students.

I am a sensitive soul, and I am becoming increasingly worried about something. I’m always at the front of the room, and you’re always staring at my back. Now recently, I’ve been experiencing some anal leakage. I tried wearing adult nappies, but they made my bum look fat, so instead I’ve taken to wearing trousers that are the colour of my runny stool. But I’m still not sure, so I am making this poll. I shat myself in first period this morning, and they were the only pair of trousers I had with me, so I just sat in my own shit all day. Here are the poll answers, I would be much obliged if you would give me your opinion:

1 – I didn’t notice any shit on Mr Hampton’s arse this morning, and I think Mr Hampton’s arse is very sexy. Don’t worry about anal leakage Mr Hampton, everyone shits themselves sometimes!

2 – I couldn’t see any shit on Mr Hampton’s arse, but I wondered where the stink of poo was coming from. I thought it was me, and it made me sad -:(

3 – Sorry Mr Hampton, your arse was covered in shit, just dripping with shit. I took a picture and posted it on 4chan.

4 – I’m a scat fetishist. Can I eat your poo, Mr Hampton?”

 

“Dear, beloved Miss Wilson.

God I love you. I love everything about you, from the hairy wart on your chin, to the wrinkled grey flaps of your labia. I love the fact that they hang down to your knees. Nothing is more erotic than watching you roll up your cuntflaps like a crinkled grey hotdog, and tuck them into your stained, sexy white grannypants. I love how much your pants stink. It’s like day old mussels and dog shit. I wish I could bottle that stench, turn it into ketchup. I’d eat everything tasting of your arse, Miss Wilson. I can’t wait to bury my face in your arse. When I think about you sitting on my face, and I’m at home, alone, I have to rape my dog. He doesn’t mind.

Now I’m thinking about fucking your armpit. Why won’t you talk to me anymore, Miss Wilson? I’m so sad. I tried to kill myself last night. I was strangling myself with your pants, so that the stench of your anus was the last thing I’d ever experience in this cruel world. But they just ripped. So now I have nothing. My dog’s arse is bleeding, I’ve raped him so much.

I love you Miss Wilson. Please sit on my face again.

Love and cum,

Mr Brown”

 

For his piece de resistance, he chose a particularly mousy looking tutor, and sent an email from his account to every single student and faculty member, quoting the incomparable God of Obscenity, James Joyce. He chose an incredibly fat female tutor to be its muse.

 

“Dear, beautiful, wobbling Miss Chase,

Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny naughty little farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know your fart anywhere. I think I could pick it out in a roomful of farting women.

All my love and flatulence,

Mr Nicholson”

 

 

After that, Rob considered his work done, and came home to smugly tell us all about it, complete with screenshots.

“Why didn’t you bring me?” Eden wailed, his eyes full of sadness and betrayal. “I’d’ve been brilliant at that!”

“I was brilliant without you!” Rob retorted. “What would you have done?”

Eden frowned thoughtfully. Then he grinned. “Did you get their phone numbers?”

“Whose?” Rob asked.

“Everyone’s!” he exclaimed. “Mostly the teachers’. I hate teachers,” he added darkly. “Jumped up tossers.”

“Prank calling them would be fun,” Rob conceded.

“Fuck that,” Eden stated, pulling a face. “Phones have pictures now! We could send them some really, really fucked up pictures…” He grinned evilly, and I could practically hear the devious little cogs of his scheming mind spinning away.

“Like my arse!” Rob agreed. “This is a great idea!”

“Your arse is pretty fucked up,” Eden agreed, “But we can do better than that. Vlad’s organising you and Kate’s birthday, right?”

Rob nodded.

He sniggered. “I have no idea what that insane little dude is going to come up with next, but I know we’ll end up with blood and body parts everywhere. So, we buy a cheap phone, and send them all pictures of shredded, bleeding corpses! Wrung out hearts and, just…just puddles and puddles of blood, all over the fucking place…” he trailed off, his eyes slightly unfocussed, a contented smile on his lips.

Rob scowled. “You’re right,” he conceded grumpily. “I should’ve brought you.”

He stood up, announcing,

“I’m going back to get the numbers. Phone Vlad – tell him to go completely wild for the party. I’ll check Alex still has access to that incinerator…”

He shot out of the room in a rush of air.

“I fear I had better order some more plastic sheeting,” Samuel said thoughtfully, getting out his phone.

 

 

I have no idea how Vlad’s going to top last year’s blood waterslide, and the game of decapitation volleyball, but I can’t wait to see him try. And by the sound of it, a few choice lecturers from Birmingham will get to see the highlights. I bet they can’t wait, either…

A Song About Saturday Nights

Lick my arse and roofie my icecream – the genius is back. This is Rob, and I’ve been making a far superior cover version of All That Jazz. You’d better sit down in case the poetical punch of my all-powerful IQ makes you shit yourself.

 

Rob’s Saturday Night

I wanna go out, and shake my arse about, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

I’m gonna drink a lot, til I puke blood-clots, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

See a pretty girl, I’m gonna bite her neck, fuck with her mind, and have some sex!

It’s just a sweaty club, but no dubstep, ‘cos that’s, just, shit!

 

Smoke some crack, have a panic attack, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Party like the Sheen, wank with margarine, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Grope some tits, Guinness gravy shits, crap on a homeless man, tell him it’s fake tan

It’s not a decent night, until someone dies, and ALL! THAT! SHIIIITTT!

 

Take some drugs, give inappropriate hugs, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Drink some beer, puke in someone’s ear, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Ninja wank, while I rob a bank, loudly upchuck, mid-fuck,

Urinate, on someone’s prostate, and ALL! THAT! SHIIIITTT!

 

Balls deep, inside a sheep, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Jager enema, ner-ner ner-ner-ner NER, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Piss up the staircase, call Eden bastardface, kick him in the balls, just for the lols,

Don’t tell him there’s pee, in his cup of tea, and ALL! THAT! SHIIIITTT!

 

Fuck a sloth, whilst touching cloth, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Jizz on someone’s face, then insult her race, and all that shit! (and all that shit!)

Rip out her heart, try not to fart, play basketball, with a mouldy stool,

Tear out her guts, wrap ‘em round my nuts, and ALL! THAT! SHIIITT!

 

Told you. My version’s way better than the original. I expect to be phoned by the director of Chicago at any moment, telling me he’s going to insert my version into the film. Or maybe they’ll just make a new film starring me

A Blessing from the Prodigal Punk

DEMON TITS!

Guess what? Today you’re a lucky little bastard. I’m Rob, and I’m a password cracking ninja! Good fucking thing too – someone’s got to balance out Eden’s melodramatic bilge. What a complete load of old waffle. Where’s the stuff about me? I’m the awesome one around here, and don’t you forget it!

Just because I’m fucking brilliant, I’m going to bestow upon you my latest song. It starts on the piano, and then it breaks down into an insane apocalyptic explosion of Punk Bastard! As you have come to expect from the creator of Winston Churchill Needs A Treadmill, my lyrical ninja-powers make Eden’s piteous flailings look like Justin Beiber.

Hold onto your cocks, guys, and get ready for an arseload of this!

 

 

It Won’t Stink For Long

She says she doesn’t love me

Because of what I did

I killed her little sister

Put the corpse under our bed

 

The odour betrayed me

Rotting eyeballs in the sun

Our bedroom is aswarm with flies

Excuses I have none

 

But don’t worry dear, I told her –

It won’t stink for long.

It won’t stink for long, it won’t stink for long!

The maggots will come

Crawling up her bum –

It won’t stink for long!

 

Once I got really drunk

And puked in her wig

I cleaned it up as best I could

The mess was just too big

 

Next weekend, at the club, she discovered my sin,

There was nothing I could say, my excuses wearing thin.

 

She screeched at me, and beat at me and….

KICKED ME IN THE BALLS!

 

Don’t worry dear, I told her –

IT WON’T STINK FOR LONG!

It won’t stink for long, it won’t stink for long!

Vomited beer

Is an aphrodisiac, I hear,

It won’t stink for long!

 

Then I did a frightful shit

In our en suite bathroom

She ran away retching

Beans had been consumed

 

How can you love me

When you won’t tolerate my shit?

You told me that you loved

My every single bit!

 

But don’t worry dear, I told her –

It won’t stink for long.

It won’t stink for long, it won’t stink for long!

The stench will disperse

The turd will immerse,

It won’t stink for long!

 

It is a little motto

With which I strongly sit

Everything shall pass my dear

Even the smell of shit!

 

Nature is clever

Nothing stinks forever

When greeted with a deathly pong

Don’t be scared,

Don’t despair –

IT  WON’T! STINK FOR LONG!

 

 

See? Shakespeare is weeping in his coffin – he knows I’m better than he ever was. Sometimes The Drummer is the one with the real talent. The Drummer with a capital T. THE! The one and only, most holy, God of The Drums!

Over and out, minions. I know you’d crawl through broken glass just to lick my godly toes, but Clara hasn’t heard my song yet. I bet she fucks me afterwards. I’d fuck me.

But don’t worry. I’ll be back. I have so much to show you…