Desolation VI: The Covidian Wastes

[Greg Torso]

Shoezone kek discipline and compulsory toilet training workshop, presented by Cheryl Tweedy

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

Carole Malone's opinions lure you onto some rocks, destroying your ship and crew.

[Greg Torso]

You are paid an aglet for your service to the millipaed vigilantes of West Ashby

[Catalogue of ills]

In your wedding day speech your describe your spouse as a "scrawny beastfuck", eliciting nods of approval and envy from the guests.

[Ferris]

Your musical career is compared favourably to the Pigeon Detectives.

[Cuellar]

Fin-domed by Alan Hansen.

[Ferris]

After your best anecdote falls flat, you are asked to leave a dinner party hosted by Vanessa Feltz.

[Catalogue of ills]

Your musical career is compared favourably to the Pigeon Detectives.

You are in a Pigeon Detectives tribute band.

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

The Secretary of State for Work and Pensions comes around an announces they are going to give your mum 'all the girth'.

[touchingcloth]

You decide to holiday at Pontins Prestatyn because of their corporate stance against Irish Travellers. Whilst there you discover that the only passable wanking material you can download quickly enough to not lose your erection are records in Hansard of upskirting debates. You cum yourself dry on this newfound motherlode of grot, then head to the bar to tell Nige that all gypsies are slags, before forcing your phone beneath the skirt of a 6 year old. It is not until you return to your room that you realise that Nokia 3310s don't suit your needs. Few more tugs over Hansard and you head over to Phones4U to ask about the best cheapest phone with a camera that can work upside down in the dark. 3AM on Sunday morning by the time you arrive, so you just kip in the doorway until it opens, at which point a security guard stamps your guts into the pavement calling you hobo filth in a mockney accent. There is no funeral.

[touchingcloth]

Dick and Dom in da bungalow belting you up da arse while eating haslet off of your back.

[Twit 2]

"He's my therapist. I'm paying him. It doesn't matter," you mutter as you jet shit out of your arse at his head.

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

John Torode and Greg Wallace are in your kitchen teaching your mum how to do the urban hand motion thing and laughing.

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

Your pub Pornhub is picketed by the Marxist left.

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

Your sister has been sighted in the High Weald neighing, stealing sandwich fillings, damaging fences, quarreling with palfreymen, yet it is you the police are searching for with gun-mounted helicopters.

[Ferris]

Liza and Jimmy hatch the doomed guerilla self-promotional concept of stealing both "S"s on the outside of Starbucks.

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

It's been a hard week trying to find ways of bridging porcine epidemic diarrhoea virus from pigs to prostitutes.

[Ferris]

Your elaborate Jimmy Tarbuck gag fails, to the surprise of no one.

[batwings]

You are denied entry to a persons only jumble sale.

Joylessly throat-fucked behind the cafeteria bins by a workplace Colin.

Your new wife reacts badly to your attempt to play off your affair with her daughter as 'bants'.

[pancreas]

You were belted up the arse by an ettin called PAEDWRAITH

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

You have the moniker 'Sane' attached before your forename, and even the census people seem to be using it.

[buttgammon]

Big Chives sends some henchmen round to incinerate your herb garden and rough up your flowerbeds.

[Ferris]

"Fuck you, you're not a hero, you didn't stand up for Skyrim: Ultimate Edition."

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

Your 'Win The Future' Kevin Starmer pillowcase has arrived!

[Twit 2]

The Gerontocark Institute informs you your GranDa is due "an absolute cunting."

[Twit 2]

Your wedding reading is field recordings of Alabama slaves recalling the arduous tanning process.

[Twit 2]

Your life is overtaken by a man who calls himself "Frank Ovens."

[pancreas]

Frank Ovens has taken my wife. Frank Ovens has taken my children. Frank Ovens has taken my ovens.

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

Belted up the ovens by Frank Ovens

[Twit 2]

Your anus begins hosting evenings of whist.