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Aaaaand.... relax.

Anyone got any whale songs around? Or failing that Dark Side of the Moon?

And politics.

I smoke coz it makes me look cool man.

It is genius, Keef. Get it!

Silence, you red eyed bum.
Isn't there a script to be done?

Fuck.

Inflammation of the foreskin
Reminds me of your smile
I've had balanital chancroids
For quite a little while
I gave my heart to NSU              
That lovely night in June
I ache for you, my darling,
And I hope you'll get well soon

My penile warts, your herpes,
My syphilitic sore,
Your monilial infection
How I miss you more and more
Your dobies itch my scrum-pox
Ah, lovely gonorrhea
At least we both were lying
When we said that we were clear

My clapped-out genitalia
Is not so bad for me
As the complete and utter failure
Every time I try to pee
I'm dying from your love, my love,
I'm your spirochetal clown
I've left my body to science,
But I'm afraid they've turned it down

Gonococcal urethritis
Streptococcal balanitis
Meningomyelitis
Diplococcal catholitis
Epidydimitis
Interstitial keratitis
Syphilitic coronitis
And anterior ureitis.

Ha! Beat that!

Oh there once was a Judge from Nantucket
Whose-

Oops, maybe not that one. How about:

Once upon a Dreddcon bleary, while I pondered drunk and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious comic of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a slapping,
As of some one gently flopping, flopping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some stray perch,' I muttered, flopping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Oxford,
And each separate drunken student shook its pants upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my comics surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the cold and evil psycho hell bitch with a big gun  whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me (wahey!) - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
A bit like a Mark Millar strip. I stood repeating
`'Tis some harmless minnow entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late cod entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew soberer; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam (with any luck), truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was pissed, and so gently you came and slapped,
And so faintly you came slapping, slapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more (phew!).

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, swearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Timotei!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Timotei!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my guts within me burning,
Soon again I heard a flopping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my guts be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis my wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Trout of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Tharg just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more-Which is a pretty good feat for a fish.

Then this pink trout beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy scales be shiny and slick, thou,' I said, `art sure no prick.
Ghastly grim and ancient Trout waddling from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonium shore!'
Quoth the Trout, `Hoots! Jings!.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fish to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing piscine above his chamber door -
Trout or Pike above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Hoots! Jings!'

But the Trout, sitting with menace on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one phrase he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Not fuckin likely'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught by some masterful fisherman whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his journalist career one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Not fuckin likely."'

But the Trout still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velore sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Not fuckin likely.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, scratching my arse and guessing
To the Trout whose dead eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining (tasteful me) that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind pint of best, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Trout, `Do ye mind, I?m smoking a fag'

`Monarch!' said I, `thing of evil! - monarch still, if fish or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Mega-city 1? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Trout, `Stop talking bollocks ye twat'

`Monarch!' said I, `thing of evil! - Monarch still, if fish or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that Grud we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a psycho hellbitch whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a hot yet deadly chick, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the Trout, `Prolly not, ye wanker.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, fish or fiend!' I shrieked like a lady upstarting -
`Get thee back into the ocean beyond the Night's Plutonium shore!
Leave no cute pinkish scale as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the Tharg above my door!
Take thy flipper from out my heart, and take thy fat arse from off my door!'
Quoth the Trout, `Piss off!.'

And the Trout, never flirting, still is sitting, still is shitting well there
On the green hued bust of Tharg just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a Shark's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his grotesque shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Bollocks.

Yeah, I heard that Sweet Child O mine will be on the radio.
If they have Smells like Teen spirit as well, then that'll be my childhood revisited!

Plus, you'll be able to do drive-bys on a bicycle.
Live the kill craze dream, baby.

Do I hail him like I hail a taxi?

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Seriously, this is pretty major

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Seriously, don't look, you'll spoil it!
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Still here? Blimey
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Darth Vader is Luke's dad.





Warned you!

Ere, you know that Star Wars? Never guess what.

Ha!

There you go.

Keep looking. You never know...

Before he started writing comics, Goron Rennie had a successful music career...http://www.pielawa.de/bilder/jmj-era/era-andy.jpg">

Good lord...

The sheer power of the combined Psycho Hell Bitchness would be a thing of terrible beauty. I'm almost tempted to join them as the black clad samurai sword wieding ninja that I am, but I've put those days behind me. I'm a man of peace. I'm done killin.

Max! Get yer arse out, we need to fend off Chainsaw wielding women!