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Desolation VI: The Covidian Wastes

Started by Shoulders?-Stomach!, June 02, 2020, 09:29:27 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

petril

a one man war against Radio 2, that one man will never get close to winning

Ferris

"Proud to be an early adopter of the new desolation thread", he thinks, "yes, genuinely proud".

Bazooka

A forgotten episode of Ground Force in which Charlie Dimmock's prolapse is used as a water feature, because the budget had run out, the homeowners are chuffed to bits.

Shoulders?-Stomach!

Jeremy, 45, the preeminent archivist of 90s TV show Live N Kicking is verbally assaulted by Jamie Theakston after cutting him up at a roundabout. 'die mongoloid shit skin' is the milder of the 18 statements Theakston emits. On arriving home the entire archive is slowly and carefully deleted from existence, followed by Jeremy himself.

Captain Poodle Basher

Pauline wakes to find that she wasn't crowned Miss World last night as it was all a dream and that warm sensation wasn't the feelgood glow that winning such a prestigious contest brings, no, merely her shitting the bed once again.

H-O-W-L

Quote from: Bazooka on June 03, 2020, 01:46:17 AM
A forgotten episode of Ground Force in which Charlie Dimmock's prolapse is used as a water feature, because the budget had run out, the homeowners are chuffed to bits.

A forgotten episode of Ground Force where they Find It beneath the patio as they're excavating. As the shovel sinks into the soil and the characteristic sifting sounds give way to a noisy, hollow CRNK, Titchmarsh and Dimmock both turn to camera, having been discussing the right type of mulch to lay down, and give a satisfied titter. "I think we might've hit their pipes!" "Oh dear, Alan, you silly sod!" they say, as Titchmarsh raises the shovel full of earth and gently heaps it onto the growing pile. White. Green. Grey. Red. "... Have they buried their dog out here?" asks Dimmock, as Titchmarsh stares down in horrific confusion.

The cameraman, having previously worked in disaster zones for daytime news, quickly whip-pans away to the nearest item he can find -- Tommy Walsh, who was out of frame. His cigarette falls from his lips. He stares in the direction we know Titchmarsh and Dimmock once were. He steps backward. An inhuman scream. A yell of shock. The patio doors slide open behind Walsh, revealing a cavernous black void where there once was a cozy mid-market living room. The semi-detached slice of comfort has become a nightmare. A single tendril of lightless chitin rends its way through the afternoon air, and Walsh is borne back, back, back, into that yawning maw of darkness. The camera spins out of focus, and then crashes. Our last visible frame is a single, static glimpse at Walsh's screaming face in the bottom corner of the frame; enshrouded by blackness and half-faded into the shadows of a forgotten night. What once was, and what once will be.

The tape is blank. It has always been blank. It will always be blank.

Shoulders?-Stomach!

A bellicose fire marshal swishes her nozzle at a newly hatched paedo.

Ferris

Due to a misinterpretation of your will, your earthly possessions are donated to the local Conservative party and Robbie Williams' Angels is played exclusively at your funeral.

dex

You buy your old man a Mrs Brown's Boys themed Father's Day card as a bit of a joke. He roars with laughter when he opens it up and reads it. Not even out of politeness.

Fishfinger

Tony Blair's brown tooth laments yet another year of mouth prison.

Poirots BigGarlickyCorpse

You start a thread in H.S. Art, tittering happily about willies and bums and poo. Nobody replies so you reply to it yourself with more childish malformed thoughts about willies and bums and poo.

Nobody replies.

Nobody ever replies.

Ever.

Fishfinger

Quote from: Poirots BigGarlickyCorpse on June 03, 2020, 09:10:02 PM
You start a thread in H.S. Art, tittering happily about willies and bums and poo. Nobody replies so you reply to it yourself with more childish malformed thoughts about willies and bums and poo.

Nobody replies.

Nobody ever replies.

Ever.

^ too real.

Actual post:

Your doctor reclassifies you from BASKET CASE to BIN CASE. The close of the coffee-stained folder makes a weak kind of ffupp sound.

Gregory Torso

Fred Sirieix is found to be categorically "not of this world".

Gregory Torso

Fred Sirieix claims to have been born in a place called 'Limoges' which is a Gallo-Roman word meaning 'place where the cosmic eels spawn'.

Fred Sirieix has dyed a map into the blanched areas of his beard which - look just roll with it, Scully - it shows a clear map between Betelgeuse and the Sirieix System. I did a load of sheets for the overhead projector on this. He has a segmented thorax under his chef whites

Fred Sirieix is sometimes called upon to fry an egg on TV where he can be seen crying and whispering "for the good of the colony" under his breath.

BlodwynPig

"Good evening" you sneer into the mirror.

It is not evening. It is not good.

BlodwynPig

Bert falls through a wormhole into another wormhole.

"Let's rent Alf: The Movie" Rodger tells his penis in Blockbuster Video on the last day of VHS.

Gregory Torso

"Always the page-boy, never the groomer" laments a novice nonce-hunter.

H-O-W-L

A parade of purple penis beakers intrudes on a peaceful slumber after some dodgy calamari.

pancreas

Elswick swimming pool is closed after the intensity of the evaporating urine sets off the smoke detectors of the prison next door.

idunnosomename


pancreas

A meth house out of product draws straws to decide which one will have their brain dehydrated for the others to smoke.

BlodwynPig

Quote from: pancreas on June 04, 2020, 01:12:39 PM
Elswick swimming pool is closed after the intensity of the evaporating urine sets off the smoke detectors of the prison next door.

Except there is no prison in Elswick, just Pancreas' house.

BlodwynPig

Quote from: pancreas on June 04, 2020, 03:36:32 PM
A meth house out of product draws straws to decide which one will have their brain dehydrated for the others to smoke.

Except there is no meth house in Elswick, just Pancreas' house

Shoulders?-Stomach!

Quote from: BlodwynPig on June 03, 2020, 10:43:33 PM
"Good evening" you sneer into the mirror.

It is not evening. It is not good.

Very nice

GentleJoshing

'I probably should call my elderly parents this week', you think fleetingly as you set into hour three of Candy Crush

Twit 2

You phone the number on a lost cat poster to tell them your mother is called 'slag hammer' and you wield her every Thursday.

A greying, palsied hand mimes a tale of dissatisfaction.

A tortoise hidden in an Deliveroo pannier shites the last good of the world into a gutter.

The Queen announces the final annulment of her sexual desires by blowtorching her tits and kicking them up a corgi's yapping arsepipe. Stricken, and in a fit of senile discursion, Philip runs his own cock over with a 40 litre lawnmower and teabags the leftovers into her ungrateful cuntface. The entire loathly palace yawns itself into a puzzle box, then drifts down a ditch into a puddle of Cydrax.

idunnosomename

suzanne moore, off her tits in an amsterdam café, makes a stoned post on twitter. hadley freeman thinks it's great.

dex


petril

found elsewhere

Quote
"A fellow keeper used to hold parties at her apartment. One of the party games was Guess The Shit. She had brought tons of animal shit from work, and we had to guess what animal it came out of. And of course everybody nailed it because we all have intimate knowledge of feces of all kinds."