Monday, 9 January 2012

No Worries

With the New Year, Junax was no longer troubled by the hairdresser. She'd got herpes or gonorrhoea or got pregnant or summat, either way her precious diet was fucked. If she wanted to bang someone who looked like a flabby, child-molester version of Eoin McLove then best of British to her. Anyway she looked like Liza Minnelli circa now. Junax deserved better. So he was under contentment and Pinkeye was under surveillance.

Which left me to not much except what was. But I was thinking; herpes infected fat hairdressers would not be the remembrance of the human race, but then it would just be our luck they would be. However, there were the Voyager and Mariner probes with their gold discs of human civilisation on them, the music of Beethoven and Chuck Berry; they might just make it.
I spat that Justin Bieber's music would never be sent into space in the same manner. But then what if it was? You know the whole earth purged of it and it just fired off in some rocket-propelled interstellar trash can. Or there's even better!

Justin Bieber wakes up in his stagnant Canadian family home where the shoes are perpetually taken off to protect Canada's main resource, carpets, and his anus was red raw from all the ritualised family abuse he received. The doorbell goes and he is entranced towards it that there are people outside who just want to devote themselves to him which is why the little cunt keeps going; slavish devotion to him and all his pomps for no good reason whatsoever.

He exits calling faintly to the imagined devotees and is instantly chloroformed. He wakes up to find himself strapped to a Ukrainian space-rocket, which is about to blast off. Experts say that if he is still alive when the rocket reaches outer space then the little cunt had SOME talent after all!!

Actually fuck these little Canadian wastes of flesh, fuck all chubbster hairdressers and their emotional instability and fuck all perfidious 27-year olds. A pox on all their houses!

I have better things to do.


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