It's the End of the Year as we Know it

Would you pop "Plum Jerkum" in your mouth?

If only we had a Sidney James "yuk yuk" sound effect generator to hand. Commence playground analysis.

"Another unusual drink, from Warwickshire, is plum jerkum or jercum, a country cider rather like perry. It differs from standard cider in that it is made from plums instead of apples. It was said that the brew "left the head crystal clear while paralysing the legs". Originally it would have been made from the white-fleshed, Warwickshire Drooper plum, but this variety is now very hard to find."
- Taken from greatbritishkitchen.co.uk

Scone Watch #5 : The Return of the BumScone

General Rules of scoring
For a "level playing field" the scones need to be rated whenever they become available. At all times, every time. The scone judge is never off-duty. Only sweet scones qualify for judging and the judge must pick the most ill-formed scone from the pile. Butter with strawberry jam are the prime veneers, marks will be lost for any other variation. Scones may be complimented with a hot beverage such as tea.

Version Tested
1 Classic Scone with potted death

Location
Land of the Doomed, Moto M1

Pro's
Tester was conscious before tasting.
Good old Frank Cooper's Strawberry Preserve.
It came on a plate.
I looked a million dollars.

Con's
It cost a million dollars.
"Natural Dairy" Butter. To much butter-based ambiguation. Brand me happy.
Alergy advice: "Contains Milk". Good job they said, I was hoping that the butter was made from the blood of virgins.
Dry and dry some more.
Crumbly because of it's dryness.
Salty - it's probably crying. If it wasn't so dry the tears might soak-in instead of adopting surface run-off.
Completely dead inside. Once commuteaten it would be "dead inside, inside a dead inside".
Fruit was dry. Probably used dried fruit.

Overall
"When eating in the land of the living dead the food needs to revive to survive. It's just not good enough to allow the shuffling zombies to devour a sconbie so lacking in life that, when being baked, the kitchen oven timer rings out with the sound a single flatlined cardiograph.
More scary than the incontinent commuters is the view of their tongues still pulling the dried dough from their rotten teeth 10 minutes after eating, dry flakes of baked-death blowing back onto the hanging racks of zombieman uniforms, hooked over the grab handles on the back seat.
Damn, these cock-cakes are as dry as tutencarmun's bandaged buns with a salty, sandy taste to match. Forget the undead, I eat at Moto services therefore I am in legion with the unfed."

"I drive therefore I scram with the dammed."


3 out of 10

I can't believe they missplet the movie title.

Bah Fucking Humbug

I walked past three homeless people sitting outside at night in -3 temperatures yesterday and FaeceBook think this (below) is a good fucking idea? Fuck off and die.


As a sign of Love, I was thinking more maybe Tesco(c) mince pies, fantastic value for six shitty parcels of inedible shite. If their crap doesn't give you intestinal parasitic worms, one can only wish for the next pie to be a worm-filled pastry if only to add a little depth and subtlety to their range of tasteless mass produced offal.

I have this Christmas cheer for every other low-quality product taken from Tesco's (c) range of woeful Christmas trash, forced to make you feel festively guilty in every fucking tinsel-covered aisle unless you leave having spent £100 pound + Xmas Tax + Parent Tax + VAT.

Evil Santa

Drunken Santa

Farting quietly into his fake fur throne,
Followed through - Nobody knew.
The guffy smell of excited kids,
Disguised the the stench of his drunken skids.

So fucked-up he believes he's really Santa.
Sitting in a scummy brummy shopping centre.
Bright red cheeks and big white beard,
To leave him with your kids is just plain weird.

If it wasn't for the gin,
He'd be a kiddy danger.
Fucked up on booze he's a festive gangster "playa".

Chatting up the mums with his rancid breath;
40 Marlboro Lights and 10 bottles of Leffe;
A truly Grotty Grotto which smells of death.

Pay £4 a child for his "exclusive" toys,
Bought the the night before for the girls and boys.
Bought down the pub from the back of a Fiat Grande,
The quality of goods would embarrass Poundland.
50p each and the deal is a banker,
Leaving more booze for our festive wanker.

"Passed out in the sleigh,
Muntered all the way.
Oh what fun it is to ride,
On a wanker's sledge with sick inside."

Trousers round his ankles
Covered in sick.
He forgot to pull them up,
when he last took a shit.
Can't stand up,
To greet the little sprogs.
Time to slink off out the way
And swig down more mulled grog.

Unfortunate Names #1

Some people are cursed with embarrassing forenames, some are tarred with hideous surnames. Those people did well to survive the school playgrounds and these survivors would have ultimately gone on to become bigger, better, faster, stronger.

But there are some people who's full names cause confusion, denial and, I'm sure sometimes, suicide.

The importance of this person's name was not immediately apparent until Dr Hock had to call the the source of a faxed quotation. All seemed to be in order until the last page, whereby the four pages of doom were signed-off by a person named so ridiculously that it begged belief.

Not quite sure whether this was a wind-up we called the gentleman in question, expecting the 'phone to be answered by Master Bates, Mr Eric Chun or their their boss Mr Hugh Japsee. It turned out that the namesake of a certain Chris Morris character indeed did answer the 'phone and confirmed who he really was.

"Hello, Wayne speaking, how can I help?"

Please note that The Waiting Room is NOT going to be descending into a re-run of Esther's "That's Life", this continuous sub-humorous commentary on non-amusing photographs is only temporary. Unless of course we find a root vegetable in the shape of a large penis and balls.

The potion of the fax containing the masturbatory moniker is as follows:

Sticket up my Ass Master Ticketmaster

Buying gig tickets through rip-off masters Ticketmaster is pain in the anus. The sore feeling you get after logging-off is there to remind all of us of it's "aberrant practices".

To describe it as "intercourse via the anus for both men and women" would be too kind. How the customers are treated is unnatural and abnormal, leaving us all feeling used, withdrawn, red raw and gaping; to be found days later curled up in a corner sobbing and crying out for Mamma.

How apt then that my random verification security code built into Ticketmaster's plebsite describes the very back-door online malpractice that's been forced down our throats for the last decade.

Comic Comparison #1

It's always surprising what get wafted under one's nose and even more surprising that a classic piece of comic art reminds one's self of the crap sharks.