I have never regretted being being the best dancer in my town but I never thought that my fast feet would take me on such a harrowing journey. Never the less I thank god for the shoes that he gave me to dance all over in my dirty little face. Dancing always reminds me of the time that I baked a sweet pie in the oven of life and it burn’t so much that I have been dancing for months without food or water.

Of course I would of had both these things but my fucking cake burnt didn’t it so now I am still dancing and my fucking feet are killing.
I have shit myself 3 times. My wife has fell out with me because I reak of shite and I have lost my job! My cake is fucking burnt and rotten now aswell so I might aswell dance away the heart ache and just bake and dance.

Just baking and dancing.

The irony of the whole situation is I was baking that fucking cake for our anniversary but life is tough. She came in the kitchen this morning and threw the divorce papers at me. They slipped through my fingers and hit the floor under my dancing boots.

I fucking danced all over them. She will have to get some more won’t she and I will dance the ink off them aswell!! Just keep on dancing son. Keep on dancing.

The Wormhunter(the man, the legend) ,was obsessed with the giant Brown Biter worm which he saw as a child in his garden .He swore that the brown biter was a distant relative of the grass snake with the teeth of a shit house rat and the head of an infant Squirrel Monkey. He found Shoelaces, Hosepipes, Turds,Chair legs ,and even Trouser snakes and identified them too as members of the feared brown worm family.

Some ignorant folk would say that this man was a crazy shit papa but the sinister truth is that the worm hunter contracted river blindness from the river Mersey on an expedition to find the legendary silver wet fish of Liverpool. Needless to say as a result he needed emergency eye replacement therapy treatment which was undertaken by the backstreet Eyeball Butcher boy Fred Cutter. As expected from the low fee the op went wrong leaving him with serious eyeball reservations and toilet problems. The truth be known the Turd, the Shoe Lace and even the Trouser Snake were sighted after his peepers went shit up the but try telling that to a man hell bent on catching the little brown bastard that had haunted his dreams for longer than he cared to remember.
He shuffled around on the hunt for the brown worm in solid stainless steel dungarees he had fashioned with his own fair hands in case the brown worm should strike and administer it’s deadly venom into his warm soft body whilst wading through the long grass on the Football Field in his local park. He reportedly told his friend fat tony with some love that the venom from the Monkey Headed Shit House Rat worm, makes genetalia burn and itch with severe leg swelling making metal pant wearing impossible.

Unfortuantly the frantic shuffling motion in his stainless Dungaree’s caused friction on his warm soft body which in turn melted the plastic tie wrap which held his shit suit of armour on over his shoulders, causing him to flip helplessly forward giving the bastard worms free roam of his stainless dick suit. The tragedy comes to light when it is revealed that the glorious worm hunter had not even left his house the morning the said incedent occurred. The worm hunter tripped over a Monster truck toy car belonging to his 17 year old son, Malcolm which he had told him to move several times to no evail. He tumbled like a great gladiator slain in the colloseums of Gay Rome and landed with his face in a bowl of supernoodles.

Struggling for breath and stricken with terror the mighty Wormhunter believing he had been overwhelmed by a flock of dreaded brown worms inhaled brown worm chicken Super noodles through both nostrils and his mouth hole causing asphixiation and subsequently causing the mighty Worm hunter to sadly pass away with internal swelling due to involuntary ingestion of flavoured Pasta death and external pant shits and terrible mind fuck!!
The Forensic process revealled the extent of the afore mentioned injuries when they arrived on the scene. They were reported to feel very sad that a pillar of the community such as the the Worm Hunter would shit his own life through his ass in such a tragic ordeal. They were also very suprised to find a note up his ass in a condom reading ‘the forgotten land’. We can only hope this is where the great worm hunter rests in peace. We salute you worm hunter. You truly were a hero of the modern world in the field of worm hunting and all that is morally shit.
Wormhunter, we salute you.

He was a reckless young swine who never gave a piss about nobody but himself. The reason why he never gave a piss about nobody was because he was always too busy thinking of ways that he he could draw on things with his pencils - the wonderful special pencils. He had a fist full of pencils in every eyeful of HB dreams. He used to sleep with a pencil in his ass and brush his teeth with a pencil and paper paste then draw a pencil moustache on his face. Right on his face under his nose the moustache. When the night came he would sit in the park with a pencil between his naked foot toe and a piece of paper on the piss floor. The park piss. He was in his final year of high school. Sure if he made it this guy was out of here. No more secret ass pencils. No more foot piss shit dog park. He would be big time. Pencil time.

He approached his exam room for his final exam. English Literature. He had dreamt of this moment. He was going to make his pencil sing. He was going to dream up a wood graphite shat master. Mr cocksniff waited by the door. He was the last in because that morning he had trouble fishing the pencil out of his ass because his thrashing throughout the night had snapped his ass pencil so he had to bum finger it out. Mr cocksniff snatched the pencil out of his grubby little hand and told him, “no pencils in here, pens for you in there and pencils me out here.” He was handed a Biro and patted on the head by Mr Cocksniff. He sat down at his desk and opened his exam paper. The exam question he read shattered his pencil dreams all over his face and up his ass.

“Why is there no place in the modern world for pencils?”

There was no need for life after this for him. Life was a Shitbox nightmare for him now so he stood up and bent over screaming he put the Biro right into his ass with his thumb and forefinger and tried to fart as hard as he could until the pen exploded right in his ass and he fell into his chair covered in shit. The ink shot up to his brain and he died instantly. The instant before he drew his final breath he smiled and regretted nothing but imagined a world where your stationary beliefs would not get you shot up the ass with lethal death ink.

Shoot shot gun,

gun shoot shot ,

pot shot hot shot,

shit shot fuck shot.

Roland Zuzzagard peered quizzically through the upper level of his bifocals at the murky brown fluid thrashing about his conical flask.

Could this be it? He pondered. Could this be the answer to the seemingly endless years of pain he had endured?

He nervously placed the flask on a pedestal constructed from bone and flashed his spindly frame across his makeshift laboratory, carved deep within the bowels of a forgotten tin mine. Sparks flew from the exhausts of his custom-made brogues as he steeled his way towards the control panel. With the fingers of a man on the edge of sanity he keyed in the unlocking sequence. He waited.

Suddenly, a column of glass descended from the cavern roof like shit off a shovel. A satisfyingly audible click could be heard as the glass seamlessly connected with the pedestal. Heavy machinery came to life almost instantaneously, and Roland’s heavy eyes widened in expectation.

A vision blisteringly bright white light descended from the tube and made its way slowly towards the flask. Roland fingered a small lever nervously. Not yet. Not yet. NOW!

As the unearthly light came into contact with the liquid Roland’s miserably dull hand thrust the lever into the “ON” position. The deafening sound of a laser beam cutting through spacetime filled Roland’s ears accompanied by a fucking well strong wind that felt tepid and reeked of foul play. Then. Silence.

Roland fastened his cloak defiantly. His brogues whirred into life, gliding their way to the pedestal. Waiting for the smoke to clear, Roland grew increasingly nervous. This anxiety manifested itself as clear beads of sweat, conglomerating tightly on his top lip, like Asians in a Volvo. He brushed them aside with the back of his hand. This was no time for a sweat tache.

To be continued…

Make your very own pair of pointy shoes, with our simple DIY exercise. All you need is a desire some brown tape and rolled up newspaper. Go out to the pub and ladies will be so impressed they will go MAD and piss in thier handbags!

PLEASE NOTE: These ladies in this post have a dirty foot fetish they like to touch and lick them all. Dirty Ladies, Sexy Shoes, Crazy Times.

I come here i look at the spiders. I love the fookin dinosaurs.

Flies on the wall documentalary exploring why poor Simon won’t get down off his god damn ladder.

I like monkeys, but not ones that can stand up straight. I don’t like monkeys anymore - because of this little headstanding bastard. Just look at this dirty little monkey.

Then tell me what human can’t stand on his head whilst balancing a spinning top on a brown stick. Mind you. I think deep down I might actually like monkeys, just not scouse ones.