The sickest thing I’ve ever written
…is, of course, a version of the infamous Aristocrats gag
. I’m so ashamed* at the foul sewer of filth that spewed from my mind in the writing of this masterwork, and I am certain a special room in Hell awaits me. And the punchline is, perhaps, the worst thing ever.
I didn’t even bother with the standard pre-amble, or even the majority of the sicko ad-lib in the middle. Hold your dinner down, then, for the stunning climax of the world’s worst best-known joke. In fact, it’s so gross, you’ve got to highlight the white space below where it has been cunningly hidden just to see it. Jeez, I need help:
[For those of you too lazy to look up the Wikipedia link, or are unfamiliar with the gag, it's about a family auditioning the sickest stage act in the world for for an agent, and thinks get a tad out of hand...]
...and the father stuffs the severed limbs of his children into the gaping wounds of his wife's abdomen stirring her guts round until the rats flee from her cunt in fear, speckling sprays of blood around the room, as he whacks himself off in time to the music.
"Ta Daaa!" he says as the grimace of the vinegar strokes disappears from his face.
There is the longest silence. At last, the man behind the desk manages to speak.
"Congratulations" says Simon Cowell, you're through to the next round of the X Factor."
I'm so, so sorry.* not ashamed at all.
BadmintonThis story (not my work, thank God), appeared in Wednesday’s Fiver newsletter from The Guardian, and is, quite possibly, the funniest thing I have ever, ever read. Clearly trumping any mirth and woe that I can come up with, I feel terribly inadequate.
"My mate Mark used to play badminton at a local sports centre many years ago and it happened that a pair of twenty-something couples would always be playing on the court next to them," reveals David Hurst, introducing today's embarrassing public faux pas.
"The couples were obviously good friends and would playfully joke among themselves during their games," he continues, cleverly building the suspense while simultaneously leaving us in no doubt that these people weren't just ships passing in the night.
"Often they would swap partners for a game (this is badminton, remember, not a swingers night), everyone having a nice and jolly time of it." OK, we get the message. They all got on like a house on fire. Now get on with it.
"One evening during a swapped partners' game, one of the women bent over to pick up the shuttlecock. Her team-mate said in a loud voice: 'Oh look, you've got a loose thread hanging down from your skirt!' and proceeded to make a big song and dance about how she was too scruffy to be his playing partner, before giving the thread a good tug.
"To his own and her total embarrassment, he discovered it wasn't actually a loose thread... Both couples immediately walked off the court without speaking and my mate never saw them playing badminton together again."
© David Hurst and Guardian Newspapers, obviously. But it’s out in the wild now.
Celebrity MurderThe explanation: A rather disturbing, out-of-control thread on a certain discussion forum on the best way to whittle down the B-List. I thought I'd at least make it topical, and finish of the Chav Wedding of the Year in some style:Katie Price
, former adult movie star, model, singer and now world's most famous celebrity housewife slumped back onto the huge, heart-shaped bed after what had been an exhausting, yet exhilirating wedding day, spoiled only by the page boy coming too quickly during a bunk-up behind the marquee.
The troublesome kids well out of the way - she hadn't seen young Harvey for weeks, and he would never, ever see her - she turned to her new husband, the man she loved, TV and pop music's Peter Andre
, his face a rictus of botox injections.
"Oh Peter, what a wonderful day!" she exclaimed, "but who were all those people?"
"Mmmmnnnggg! Nnnng!!! E-lssssssst" he managed, and Katie thanked the stars that she'd arranged for a pre-recorded "I do" to be used in the ceremony for that very reason.
She turned to her beau, and embraced him, her rock-hard plastic breasts colliding roughly with his face, and she screamed in horror as Andre's head fell off and clattered to the floor, still mouthing the words "Mnnnga! Nnnnnoggers! Gisterious Girrrrrl!"
Backing away, it became apparant that the man she knew as Peter Andre was no more - the stories were indeed true. Hello! Magazine, unable to get a photographer into the the party had kidnapped the feckless Peter, slaughtered him and replaced him with a state of the art KillBot2000, his perfectly bronzed skin now covering the rough metallic edges of the titanium hitman. And now it was here, in front of her, programmed to destroy.
Eyes focussed only on the Killbot's patent Drill-o-Doom ™ as it pierced her slowly deflating chest, she tried to scream, but couldn't. Just like her pop career, she was all plastic and no voice, and the only warmth left in her cold, hollow shell of a life was the stream of urine running down her legs.
And the last words she heard: "Joooordannnnng! Mnnnga! Mnnnnnnnnnnga! Insaniaaaa!"