That elsewhere is now.

Leave this digital grave alone, necrobots.

Millions of twenty-something nogoodniks briefly paused in their monomanically self-absorbed existences this morning, as they listened with cocked ears to the emerging news that their favourite shenanigan playground, Fuckbook,might actually be a front for the robot neo-conservatives, who are aiming to enslave humanity and prove that The Matrix was, like, you know, true. 

The allegation was made by Bob Bobbington, a gentleman threshold farmer, erotic scholar and editor of the publication Oh, Lazy Cocks. Bobbington claimsthat the lion’s share of the dough for keeping servers happy at Fuckbook is actually provided by bald, white-cat-stroking, dashing-scar-wearing darling of the ‘Fuck me ‘cos I’ll allow to snot whatever you want’ school of Valley capitalism, Dick ‘Running Dog’ Ripper. 

In a series of increasingly hysterical screeds written on the freshly-drained blood of some humanely-killed chickens, Bobbington claimed that ripper was backed by a ‘shadowy cartel’ (although sources say is first draft actually read ‘shoddy cart’) of secret US government operatives, Wall Street bankers and the actor Paul Nicholas, who in addition to providing seed capital also participated in a ritual emanating from the KumKwickly tribe of North Dakota, to donate their own seed in very very small phials, to be used in a transcendental experiment to resurrect gloomy civil servant and thug theorist Thomas Hobbes, in order to provide intellectual cover for the whole shebang of getting people to share their jockstrap and cup-sizes in the form of zeros and ones carried by electronic pulses, while all they get in return in adverts. Cocking adverts. With tits in them. 

When contacted for comment via his Fuckbook page, Hobbes said, “Fuck that man. I’ve been poking that fucker Rousseau for days now, and no joy. And that prick Engels will not stop bitchslapping me.” 

Hyper-evolved 10-somethings everywhere responded in this same way when asked for comment: “Bobbington has been let down by downshifting, seeing as the countryside, while promising oodles of grassburn sex, has merely been one long carriage of organic agricultural shite!”

Ripper is 40, and despite his libertarian beliefs, lives on state handouts of tuppence a day.

Tonight the benighted Department of Home and Stringing-Them-Up Affairs was quaking in its ill-shod Plod Shoes, as it was announced that current Torquemada wannabe John ‘Hammer of Everyone’ Reid was to rip a page from the Nuclear Weapons School of Consultancy, and rebuild his fiefdom from the rubble up, following a thermonuclear reorganisation.

Reid, with a half-life of 900 years, has decided that taking a mighty big fuck off amount of H and A-bomb action to his civil servants is the only way out of the ‘Fuckety fuckety fuckety fuck, how come The Sun is lecturing me on gormless chancers roaming the streets?’ meetings that he is having every single minute of every waking hour of every working day that he parades up and down Whitehall, like a hand-cuffed gibbon.

A source buried within the ImmigrationPrisonPassportBorderPolice bunkerate said, “Fuck him, and his ‘fit-for-purpose’ weaponising bollocks. Us cockroaches have survived fatter hammers than him, and we’ll be standing whatever can of atom whupass he wants to open up.”

OmniCorp has offered to build five trillion new prison spaces over the course of the next three months, by rebuilding destroyed Easterhouse towerblocks. Unit costs of these high-rise cells will be tuppence a unit.

Gates-gifted spirtual healer and clairvoyant

With power of Hailstorm & Psychic

I can see when your PC will fuck off and die

I can solve it’s hard drive’s lack of mojo in a few days. I specialise in bringing back loved files using the most powerful Hailstorm spirits from Redmond. I can bring back those dodgy IE page histories, detailing where you looked at business nookie, animal nookie, everything but your wife nookie. Hair loss, skin problems, weight loss, sexual problems, medicine. My spam provides it all.

I also specialise in the removal of malware magic, and bad habits for good. I can give you the most powerful organ protection, protecting you for life from Kathy, and Zandy, and Sheri and Bobbi and the pills they give you offer offer to make your mouse hardie hard. Evil spirits, bad spells, voodoo dolls and your enemies – they don’t use OneNote. DEFRAGMENTATION. Bringing back lost nookie .WAV files, all your dampy damp dreams will come. WITH MY POWER OF HAILSTORM.

Your pain is your credit card’s responsibility, you dirty one-handed worker. You will not be disappointed.

Don’t hesitate, call Mr Su-per IT: nookie.nookie.defrag@su.per.it

L Frank, 11 and three-quarters, performed the action in reaction to the news that he had mislaid all the listeners to the non-hit radio show, Breakfast Death, Shnizzle and Sizzle, currently glutonnising valuable commercial whoring time on the airwaves of Banal FM.

An onlooking, un-named, un-circumcised media boss, high after inhaling a mixture of his own blood and crack burbled, “What a show! What a freakin’ show, mofo! We were about to can him to kingdom come with a big fuck stick, and then he went and did that. What. A. Man.”

“Mmmfmfmmfmfmfmfmfmmfmfmfmfmfmfmf,” said L Frank, displaying the now-legendary witty, quippy, surefire repartee and banter that has seen many happy listeners turn off their RadioPodEarCans, and jump in front of their nearest passing public transportation pantechnicon.

Banal FM shares were up tuppence on the news.

Then its all been taken to Cockington and beaten about the head with a big stick.

We call it technosurreal.