Jihads against technowittering slugslushiness are now found in a generative capacity elsewhere.

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.

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January 22, 2007

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Lost property Benighted London-based entertainment monkey L Frank Vaughn Spencer last night spectacularly discombobulated his radio channel bosses by shoving his own porcine trotter of a fist down his over-watered, hateful media gullet.

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.


January 8, 2007

So it’s like this but less refined; this, this and this; this too; a whole load of jerry-built, ill-informed and welded-on this; oh and this was screwed on like this as well. This poshoboy wanted some. Hard. And so did these charlies.

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

We call it technosurreal.