Help!

People are in my room! Phone the police!

"Hey! What're you playing at?"
I approached the man standing at the bus stop, striding angrily across the road. He was average sized, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and seemed to be blacked up.
"That's totally offensive and inappropriate in this day and age!" I yelled.
"Oh," He said, turning. "Don't worry mate, you've got the wrong end of the stick - I'm not blacked up, it's just cheaper and less embarrassing to paint my face like this than it is to buy a gimp mask."
People are shit, don't forget.

This Is Life.

The potato would not dance, regardless of how many times I asked it to. I shot it, then turned the gun on myself. There were no bullets left, and I suppose I'm glad of that really. I threw the gun aside and walked off into the smog.
I don't know what lies ahead, but I suppose I can deal with that later.

Imagine...

3 rather stereotypical Neds doing a badly synchronized dance routine to Cotton Eye Joe. They try to dance, one falls attempting a hand-stand, and another smacks his head when attempting to break-dance. Then a combine harvester smashes through the wall and mows them all down.
Life isn't all bad.

"Hey Max! Look at that kid's phone. Is it one of those new Nokia ones?"
"Yea, think so." Replied Max. "God, I'd love one of those, it'll be years before it becomes obsolete."
"Yea, and it's got a really good camera." I replied.
"What?" Replied Max, "Oh, we're talking about the phone? Oh dear."

As I pushed the cart towards an old lady, I wondered wistfully why they never announced a cleanup in Isle 4 in real life. It needed it.
Slowly, I maneuvered the cart in front of the elderly dear, and let go. It glided into the display of miracle penis enlargement spray, blocking her in. Shoving another cart full of watermelons in behind her, I made a run for it.
I made it to the tills and managed to buy a tub of anal lube and a cucumber before security caught me. The police were called, my wrists were slapped, and the cucumber was confiscated.

They were right...

My door does smell of vomit...

Jolly fat men

"Ho... Ho ho"
I watched sadly as Santa stumbled hopelessly around my kitchen.
"Ho [hiccup] Ho, he!" He announced proudly. I'd always thought of him as some sort of tank, but millions of sherries, brandies, whiskies and absinthe (my mother insisted he liked it) must have taken their toll on the jolly bastard. Taking another swig of vodka - I hadn't left that out for him - he tried to stuff a bicycle into the microwave. I had tried to take it off him, but he had announced I was a bad little girl and rubbed coal on my face.
As he threw up into the fridge, I headed to bed. I could tidy up in the morning, then phone the council about getting a new lock fitted on the front door.

When I got up in the morning, I discovered that it hadn't been Santa at all, just John Prescott, getting into the Christmas Spirit.
He'd stolen my TV as well.

Santa... Doesn't feature in this post

It's nearly Christmas! soon I can celebrate a story I don't believe in by pandering to the spoiled desires of children forced on me by a greedy, capitalist society!
I prefer Easter, where we eat chocolate to celebrate a man dying because he wanted people to get on and coming back as a zombie.

The zombies came for us at nightfall. They walked around the garden and moaned for a while, then stole the gnomes. Eventually, they knocked down the door, and got confused by the sky+ remote. After a cup of tea, they left.
It was all a little surreal actually.