WARNING: You should know how messed up in the head our writer Pickled Jhon is by now, and this is probably his most grotesque piece of writing to date. If you’re easily offended DO NOT READ THIS POST. Go here instead.
As you’ve probably read by now, the world is ending on Friday, so I’m gonna try and keep this article short and snappy like a baby crocodile with a penchant for bonsai tree photography. If I’ve only got a few days left to live, then I need as much time as is possible to try and ejaculate whilst looking at a picture of Miranda Hart’s face. It’s my biggest challenge yet. It’s the onanistic Everest, as it’s impossible to feel sexy when you’re looking at a picture of something that looks it was made in a laboratory. To be fair, I’m sure that if the world does end on Friday, then Miranda Hart will be the only person to survive. I don’t think that even a nuclear blast could pierce her fierce rhinocerotic exoskeleton, and she’ll survive by microwaving rat corpses in her gargantuan cement-mixer of a vagina, devouring them and washing them down with her gelatinous menstrual discharge. The only other thing that’d survive would be all the Linda McCartney sausages. They were modelled on Paul McCartney’s erect genitalia (including taste, texture and size) and at least Miranda would have something else to chew on if all of this is true.
So what do I know about the end of the world? I don’t really follow the news, and I don’t really listen to Hearsay but I can tell you this: The world is predicted to end on December 21st 2012, due to the ‘Myleene Calendar’. The Myleene Klass calendar has been going strong since a few years back, when she half got her lady-bits out on that shit programme, where they send Z-list celebrity retards to a jungle, in order to eat millipedes for Ant n’ Dec’s twisted pleasure. Ant’s forehead is also rumoured to actually provide 3G for the whole of South Korea. That aside, the Myleene Calendar has been a particular favourite for builders and lesbian housewives, who can’t get enough of the beautiful and bubbly big-breasted babe, who bashed her way into Britain’s bikini books with her bountifully bouncy and buxom boobs, but bored brainier broads with her banal banter. The massive juxtaposition of the fact that she used her sexuality (by sharing her space-hoppers with the U.K to make money) against the fact that in her real life, she has never even chugged on a cock, meant that it caused a catastrophic tear in the world’s anti-matter. This was first announced in the 2007 Myleene Calendar, which foresaw that the world would end on December 21st 2012. If Myleene had only become a successful fitness instructor, and released the ‘My Lean Class’ DVD, then armageddon would’ve probably been avoided.
If the world does end of Friday, is it necessarily such a bad thing? Just think: no more whiny Facebook statuses from acquaintances complaining that they stubbed a toe and it hurts. No more pricks tweeting about the fact that it’s fucking snowing, and no more cunts going on about Gangnam style. Just to inform you that Gangnam style was actually invented in North Korea, and is being used as a smokescreen so that North Korea can kidnap Ant McPartlin and utilise his forehead, as they’ve set up a more financially viable 4G service which will fund their plans for megalomania. Other reasons are that you’ll never have to go to the 2023 Colchester Pantomime and watch Jack and the Beanstalk, with Miranda Hart as the giant and Myleene Klass as the loveable Jack. No more having to go the toilet in the middle of the night. No more cunts using the word “fab” and no more patronising cunts calling you “hun.” A hun is a member of a nomadic Asian people and is now synonymous with a destructive type. It’s not a term of endearment. No more vegan anarchists quoting Propagandhi lyrics at you even though the material on their anti-fascist patches was manufactured in a Guatemalan sweatshop. Cunts. No more cunts. We’ll also never ever have to accidentally switch on Radio 2 in the afternoon and hear the dick-jockey Steve Wright reading out: “Love the show, Steve!”
On the other hand, there is some positives from if the world survives. Think about all the tight-fisted fucks who haven’t bought any presents for people just incase the world does end. Our country’s Marks & Spencer shops will be full of men buying last minute poinsettias and exorbitantly priced wool knits for loved ones. If there’s no armageddon, in 2023 I’ll be able to lose my virginity to a Lithuanian prostitute, who I’ll then fall in love with and we’ll have two kids (Myleene and Klaus) and we’ll go and see Miranda Hart in pantomime, and every time she falls over in her hilariously clumsy fashion, we’ll laugh heartily. Another awesome reason for survival is that we’ll all get to see the royal baby come out as a lizard. The reason why Kate Middleton has had severe morning sickness is due to the fact that her womb can’t handle the future lizard king. I’m with you David Icke. That poor nurse was actually murdered by the same people who killed Diana. You see, they both knew about the reptilian overlords that will be trying to take over the planet. The fight between the North Koreans and the Reptilian Overlords will be one to behold and savour, and Ant McPartlin will be assassinated by a reptilian hit-squad to stop the Koreans profiting from his newly 4G-enabled forehead. If you want proof of this, then just look at Michael Stipe. A blatant lizard, who since 1996 has been raising money for the lizard revolution from singing “It’s The End of the World As We Know It.” All of this doesn’t matter though. The single best reason for the world not to end on December 21st is this: I can’t fucking wait for Noel Edmonds to be arrested on Christmas Day for being a massive paedophile. I can’t wait to rejoice in the moment of Noel’s formerly-smug face sat in the back of a police car, and then for him to be beaten up by nonce-haters for the rest of his years in prison. I’ll sing all Christmas Day, “No-el, No-el, the worst No-el, sent to prison as a paedo-phi-el.”
Whatever happens, I’m going to leave you with this. Miranda Hart’s pussy actually looks like someone punched a hole in a mouldy Christmas tree. I hope the baby crocodile never has to take photos of that.