Happy Birthday Us

By Drib Drab

Can you flippin' believe it? The Zezaurian Society is going to be one year old next month. I certainly can’t believe it. When Mr Morose and I first thought this silly thing up, groping each other under a warm blanket as we gazed up at the stars, I never thought it would last. But it did last and we’ve achieved so much more with our lives since then. For instance, Mr Morose grew some bumfluff on his face and I finally got that aggressive fungal infection sorted out.

Oh, and this little website. But I'm not sure that can be described as an "achievement". I promise we'll post something good on it one day. But in the meantime, join us for The Zezaurian (Tweed) Birthday Party – 22nd August, at London Fields. All you need to do is turn up dressed in tweed with a suitcase full of drugs and the rest will follow. There’s a secret plan B if it rains. But it won’t rain because Mr Morose is going to do his Sun Dance every morning between now and then to ensure it’s bright and cheerful.

All the details are in the flyer. Rub it Click it to make it bigger:

(if you have trouble viewing the text in the flyer stop using Internet Shitsplorer.)


Drib Drab.


Here is a map.

Battersea Cog Home

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Ronan Keating, winner of the Zezaurian Cycle Race, July 2009.


And here is a picture of the winner’s bicycle. Apparently, when he bought it, it came with free tampons.


No wonder it took him over an hour to get around the first lap if he had to keep the stabilisers on his tiny blue bicycle.


The only girl in the race. Just check out those sexy, trim legs. Oh wait. That’s Drib Drab – or as I like to call him “Mr Spaghetti”.


This guy spent £2000 on his bike but doesn’t know how to change the tyres. Still, at least all the Hoxton cunts give him the nod of approval when he walks it along the pavement during working hours.


What a worthless piece of shit. I'd rather drink dog cum than be seen riding this.


First thing: look at the fucking size of Conan Keating's arm! Jeepers! Secondly, to the goof in the lead: buy some new fucking shorts you lazy bum-poser. No wonder all the cabbies try and drive you off the road. I think I even saw a rogue testicle flapping wildly in the wind as you flew past. Eww.

Next race will take place in September sometime. Email if you want to take part. The winner gets a pair of (Zezaurian) hair curlers.


Miss Vacant Eyes


Zezaurian Music Dept. vs. Poo Flap

Festival toilets are grim, everyone knows that and it’s boring listening to people go on and on about them each summer - but oddly, the one I used on the weekend was immaculate. Admittedly, I was quite high for the entire festival, but still, it seemed pretty special compared to some of the shit tanks I’ve dumped in over the years.

Anyways, by the time Saturday arrived I could no longer ignore the fact that I had been holding in a giant turd in my bursting colon for at least twenty hours and I was anxious that I was over cooking it (with recollections that they can dry out inside you and you have to pick them out with chop sticks and olive oil).

So I got inside the toilet and tried to hover my bum and genitals over the plastic “Poo Flap”. The thing is, the log I’d been cooking up was clearly a nightmarish behemoth and I really needed to sit down to get it out effectively - but in doing so it would mean my genitals would have to touch the Poo Flap as the bowl of the toilet was so shallow. That clearly just couldn’t happen in any way. Seriously. I've put my dick in some gross places before, but there was no way it was touching the Poo Flap.

To overcome this I ingeniously sat down on the seat whilst cupping my cock and balls in one hand, and held them above my thighs. Problem solved. I actually ended up quite enjoying the turd in the end, and I sat thinking about all the good fun things I would do with my day, but at the very last contraction to evacuate the turd, my body betrayed me entirely. I just didn’t anticipate the involuntary jet of piss that would erupt from my penis, hitting my face, covering my shirt and, eventually, dousing my already smelly balls in hot slash.

They should give a name to this unfortunate reflex, because it’s fucking embarrassing dangerous.

I might call it "being a massive loser".