Zezaurian Award For The Worst Thing Said In 2010

I'm absolutely fascinated by the Wikileaks story and every moral, political and philosophical question it throws up. But boy-oh-brother, have I read some bullshit in the past week. Most of this has come from our world leaders and the dickfaces they employ and collude with, but I think it's too easy to vote for them in our Award for the Worst Thing Said In 2010.

That title is going to 'Bill40' commenting over at Comment is Free at the Guardian in a discussion about the hackers targeting Mastercard et al.

Click on the image to read the entire, sorry mess -- and I think this can only be read in the voice of Alan Partridge:

My Cringe Gland is has inflamed to the size of the fucking moon.

Dedicated, or just another victim of bullying?

Long time Zezaurian, Hercules Beefcake, (imaginatively named at birth by his parents 'Tom Cox') has done something either entirely amazing, or has just fallen victim to some form of bullying.

He left London to spend a few days with our solicitor -- both having recently been made out of work -- and next thing I hear from our law man is that he's convinced the fitness freak to sign a Change of Name Deed. In both a reference to the made-up Zezaurian name I gave him and with a less flattering reference to a well-known Bash Street Kid, 'Tom Cox' is now -- officially in the eyes of the law -- named "Hercules 'Plug' Beefcake".

Click for full-size proof of this man's stupidity

I'm going to say this is both a form of bullying and coercion but is also entirely amazing. And now that he's signed it in ink, I really do see the resemblance.


I did a bad thing (again)

Hello, reader (and that’s definitely "reader" in the singular),

It's been a while. Partly because I have shunned technology to spend time exploring the soggy delights of a woman the Lake District...not with other Zezaurians, but with my parents. First observation: parents are much better company than people of your own age. They pay for everything. All food is totally free, you don’t have to pay for petrol and even accommodation is a just a given. I had my dad making me breakfast every morning for a week whilst my mother was busy preparing my daily jam sandwiches. They're like fleshy, good natured, mobile bank machines.

When you go anywhere in a car more than 10 miles with anyone your own age they suddenly demand that you chip in on the running costs of the car.  Do you see me asking for you to pay X% of my gas bill for that time you crashed over and took a shower? No. Sod off. Parents are way better than your friends.

Anyways. The Lake District.

Here is Drib Drab senior and I arguing about what was better: hiking with a girly GPS device that tells you everything, including when (and how) to wipe your bottom – or a 1973 edition of A. Wainwright’s fourth book in his fell walking series. (the GPS won whilst we were still navagating our way out of the car park).

Unfortunately, despite how amazing parents are, they are also, generally speaking, a little frailer than people your own age, and as such mine sustained minor injuries that stopped them from climbing the highest peaks on Day Two. So, in true parenting fashion, my mummy made me some more jam sandwiches and sent me up the mountain range on my own (but with the GPS device strapped firmly around my neck).

Twin Peaks

The whole, lonely climb was pretty straightforward, except I was holding a wee in for about an hour and could never really find a spot to relieve myself -- there are no trees or bushes of any kind up there and I had been caught out the previous day when a group of children appeared from “nowhere” when I got my penis out by some trees. I kept on ascending higher and higher, with each step becoming more painful as I felt the searing hot pain of my exploding bladder bursting below my guts. I took a deep breath, however, determined to reach the summit before I relieved myself, as if it would be a little treat to for having reached the top.

I got to the summit pretty quickly, hopping about with no time to celebrate as I found a small boulder to crouch behind and let rip. I had to be careful though as there were a few other hikers up there and I didn’t want them to see what I was doing; as if taking a slash is somehow a mysterious and creepy-weird thing that only creeps and weirdos do.

I got down on to my knees, unbuckled my penis and let the hot gushes spurt out. It was a blissful feeling as my bladder drained; I even closed my eyes such was the pleasure I felt. However, with hindsight, that was my major mistake: it was as my eyes were closed that the most insane gust of wind literally curled the jet of piss into a perfect, horizontal U shape and sprayed it directly into my face. The weird thing is, I was so eager to get the fluid out of my body, and so keen to not be caught relieving myself that I just let it carry on that way for entire duration of the piss. Big fat yellow droplets of hot piss splashing in my face.

Within the space of 16 months I have accidentally pissed in my own face twice. I’m thirty years old.

On the upside my mother did all my washing.



Hercules Beefcake hurts himself (again)

There are not that many things that make me want to double over and vomit, and I'm pretty sure I've seen the worst the internet has to offer. But one thing that really, really makes me queasy is the thought of pulling off a fucking toenail. Jesus wept.

Hercules Beefcake is forever hurting himself (example here). True to form, he did it again a few weeks ago -- apparently kicking something so hard that his toenail, after bending backwards, 'died.' I'm not sure I understand the science here, but it's enough to make me ingest my own testicles. But it gets worse; as he pulled off his sock the other day it snagged and ripped most of it out. Here, in an awful effort to boost this site's stats, is the video.

Has this shit gone viral yet? Why do my videos never go viral?


Zezaurian online dating secures zero responses

Poor old Drib Drab. He was never very good with women.

If you're single and would like a date with DD, send saucy pictures of yourself to


Zezaurian summer in 12 shit pictures

Behold! a bunch of terrible pictures we took during our summer holiday. I think my favourite incident this summer was watching an old lady fall out of the back of a car, but I didn't have my camera with me so you'll just have to close your eyes and laugh at that one using your Mind's Eye.


Please, could you get any more pathetic? "Oooh, I'm so old and tired! Oooh, won't you give me a help up?" You should be on fire.
I'm 30 in a few weeks and one thing I've noticed about getting old is that you care a lot less about your outfit and a lot more about making things easier for yourself. I like having my camera on my belt; it's practical.
I like how Wess has his big fat Ph.D., but Bill, still living with his mother, just has 42 regrettable years accumulating dork knowledge and a chronic addition to hentai.
Nice shoes, dickface. Do they make them for men?
This is what happens when you get old; your skin falls off and you do really lame things, like write a blog about it.
 On further consideration, you do look about fifteen -- which I'm not sure is good or bad.
Nice. Eight old people had to die just so you could sit down. 
It was still better than 'Avatar'.

I think the best part of this is that he's not even high.
There is something immensely satisfying about pissing on to someone else's turd. It's the way you can break it apart and make it roll in the water like a dying whale. I think it harks back to our hunting days or something.
Hitting women always turns out amazing in photos.


Abortion Clinic: the best band that never existed

A few years ago I started a scream-core band called Abortion Clinic, which is the best name for any band ever. Try now to think of a better name. You can't, partly because you're a dolt, but mostly because it's unbeatable. Unfortunately I can't play any instruments, so we didn't even get to the practice stage, but I did just stumble upon some sample lyrics I had stored in my 'awful and embarrassing ideas' folder. Here, immortalised forever on a blog that three people read, the political venom of the greatest band to never have existed. 


Blood on your thighs
Lies lies lies.

A pain in your cunt
But what do you want?

Vacuum it out!
Vacuum it out!

Twisting metal of destruction
Crushing bones of hate
Three weeks with no bleeding
Your period was too late

Now you have

Blood on your thighs
Lies lies lies

Blood on your thighs
Lies lies lies

Forceps of evil
Clamp open your womb
Of death!

Of death!

Of Death!

Mutant Twins of pain
Rip open your womb

Fists punch through into light
Put up the fight!

Blood on your thighs
Lies lies lies

Blood on your thighs
Lies lies lies


I know. I'm wasted working in retail. 


Zezaurian Art Dept. feeling rough

Zezaurian Rock Climbing Dept. admits failings

Not that anyone I tell about this cares, but I've taken to rock climbing over the past few months. I finally feel as though I’ve found my sport, but, as I mentioned a while back, it's a sport reserved for a very special brand of humourless dork, so I don't feel I really fit in at the local climbing club.

One example of this was a few weeks back when I remarked to a fellow climber how much one of the climbing 'volumes' on the wall looked like a giant Picasso-esque vagina, but he just stared at me as if he’d caught me licking his dog.

I also never understood why these nerds have to spend thirty minutes doing ridiculous warm-up exercises. Do you see He-Man doing some homo squat thrusts before kicking Twistoid in the ball-sack?


Anyways, my climbing skills have progressed enough for me to try stuff outside of the club, away from the nerds.

If you live in London you might have seen the Shoreditch Boulder? If you haven't, it's basically a big rock in the middle of a park that you can climb on. I turned up last weekend, got my pot belly out for the bitches ladies, and started to climb it in the most masculine way possible, but I was suddenly thwarted by these mesmerising idiots:

"John, John. Listen: this part is literally teaming with negative energy."

"You're right, Valerie, but Ken picked up on some POSITIVE energy on the other side of the boulder, so we're dealing with something pret-ty major here."

If the rock could actually talk, I can only assume it would tell them that sixty-two year-old virgins are Nature’s way of saying “give up.”

So, after Ken suggested they all go back to his to listen to his collection of yawns, I got to climbing.

Ho-ly Shit.

After ten minutes my hands looked as if they had been dipped into a bucket of cold sores. And my arms. Jesus God, my arms. I actually woke later that night in spasms of pain. I thought I was having a double heart attack. I’ve never paid any attention to “Sport Scientists” before, simply because that is what stupid people that manage to get into university become, but they might have a point about stretching before rigorous exercise.

So, this evening I will return to the local climbing club. I won’t make any fanny jokes and I will take my warm up session very seriously. I will not moan when the colony of herpes on my hands begins to bleed and I will go home and do any crying into the muffled humility of my pillow.



Knob in a pot

Our good buddy Michael, who always seems to contact us out of the blue with disgusting penis related stories, has just contacted us out of the blue with a disgusting penis related story.




I went for a cystoscopy yesterday. For Drib Drab’s benefit, this is where they stick a camera up your winkie and look in your bladder. I couldn't eat for 6 hours before the op so they took my order for food for when I came around from the anaesthetic. It was from a list of sandwiches, so of course I couldn't eat any. I explained to the assistant 'I'm vegan, I can't eat any'. She replied 'well if I read them out to you, you can tell me what you want'. I nearly shouted 'I'm vegan, not fucking illiterate!'

They gave me some operation pants to wear which would have covered more if the were made from a thinning hairnet. On entering the operating theatre the operating assistant introduced himself as Adrian, but noted that it wasn't important that I remember this. The surgeon of all things had a stammer, so could hardly get his words out, which hardly instilled c..c...c...c...confidence.

The general anaesthetic knocked me out pretty much instantly. When I awoke I was in a strange room and quite disorientated, I saw a man standing next to me and for some reason I still don't understand called out in desperate and pathetic voice 'Adrian...!' The man just said 'no'. I had to piss like crazy so this man, who wasn't Adrian, put my knob in a pot and I just laid back and pissed. When I looked down my thighs were smeared with blood. My knob kept dripping blood so I just left it in the pot of piss, not knowing that the fit nurse would be the one who'd have to remove it back on the ward. At least all that trauma makes the old fella swell up.

Only trouble is that now when I piss it feels like I'm passing burning hot shards of glass, it actually makes me cry out. My boxers are so bloody it looks like I've had a miscarriage. And they didn't even find anything so it was all for naught! Best guess now is that the kidney pain I had was a small stone that I passed. I now have a dilemma, do I drink more and dilute the piss but have to break the blood seal more often, or do I drink less, so piss less, but have it more acidic so it stings more? If I drink too little there's a chance my knob will heal too well and seal off completely, resulting in a return journey and the forceful reopening of my already battered urethra.



P.s. This is what they stuck down his cock.


Being a Zezaurian makes you popular

Oh, wait. No it doesn't. I'm at work and I go out for, like, five minutes and someone does this to my banana.

(That first line reads: "Good morning, Mr Pidgeon. The results from your trip to the GUM clinic are ready for collection...")

This is not the sort of badly spelt disrespect I thought I'd encounter after I become a member of the Zezaurian Society. I thought we'd get the same respect people with tattoos get.

In light of this, I think we're probably going to have to change "The Zezaurian Society" to just "The Zs" or somin'. Maybe we need to turn it into a gang like the scary kids have on the estate behind our new HQ. We could start doing gang related things like having MySpace profiles and wearing REALLY big trousers.

And, for the record, I only had chlamydia and they got rid of it ages ago.


Zezaurian HQ relocates, loses all dignity

Avid losers,

Stop logging in every day to see if there’s been an update. We’re fucking busy! Plus we had the internet confiscated after my mother saw what happened to the bandwidth during “lights out”.

We’ve also been busy relocating the Z HQ to an even crummier block of flats. We’re now in a new neighbourhood that appears to be run, Lord of the Flies style, by a gang of incredibly intimidating eleven year olds. Word to the wise: don’t refuse to buy these children cigarettes from the shop. I had so much spit on my jacket afterwards I had to throw it in the bin as if it didn’t cost me £170.

Anyways, the move, thanks for asking, went quite well. Only one minor hiccup: getting people shown around the flat we were moving out from turned into a minor headache. We had this slut of an estate agent walking prospective tennants in at all sorts of funny hours. The worst was a Saturday morning after I had managed to get rid of the world’s most annoying friend, Duncan, after an extremely heavy night on the alcopops. I finally got him off the sofa and out the door (after pouring yoghurt into his suitcase as punishment for being such a painful asshole) and surveyed the damage.

I felt fucking awful and started sweating really badly. I stripped to my underpants and felt like crying but figured that having a poo and a shower would make me feel better.

My hangover poo was pretty tremendous. It was a strange mixture; somewhere between a gas, liquid and solid and smelled much more sour than usual. Fucker was huge too; like a giant yellow-brown conger eel. Anyways, half way through the poo I heard the door buzzer go and I started laughing that Duncan had obviously found the yoghurt. It kept buzzing but I decided to just sit there and cackle to myself. The buzzing eventually stopped and I finished the turd, satisfied that I was the victor in my ongoing prank battle.

Then, to my horror, the front door started to unlock. I listened, wondering who the heck it could be and then heard the unmistakable, nasal whine of the estate agent.

"Helllloooo, Davvvvid…are you home? ...It’s empty, come on in."

I quickly flushed and started frantically fanning the air as if the building was on fire.

"Davvvvvid? Are you in the toiiiiilet?"

My whole body had gone light. The bathroom door is about 3 foot from the front door and I could hear sheepish footsteps piling into the hall. I don’t really remember asking my hand to open the door, but it did so anyway, the betraying fucker.

I walked out in my underpants, sucking my stomach in as the acrid smell of shit followed me like an embarrassing dog. I looked at the estate agent, smiled and then saw the two attractive young ladies she had with her.

“Good morning” I croaked, watching them actually wince as the smell hit them.

The estate agent quickly ushered them into the living room like a concerned mother, with me slowly following. Then I realised, standing there almost naked, that I didn’t really have anywhere to go. One girl had already started looking around my bedroom, the other heading for the kitchen which left me in the middle of the flat. So I just stood there, arms awkwardly crossed and my little penis poking against the light grey cotton of my M&S underpants.

It was at that moment a little droplet of urine helpfully chose to leave the end of my penis and make a nice, fifty-pence-piece size dark patch.

To be fair, the hangover was now completely cured by fear and shame.

I received sympathetic smiles from the two girls, as if I was mentally handicapped, but living life as best I could. They chose not to even look in the toilet. Far as I can tell they didn’t move in.


Politics yeah!

Heh heh. Jellyfish man certainly got me all hard.


I hate these cunts. So, the most cost effective option for me is Wait. OK; I'll post it to Mexico and get it there. Wait, wait. I'll just pick it up on the door. Woah -- hold on. What was I thinking? I'll just post it to my mum's house in Peterborough. No, no. I'll print it out at home, using my own ink and paper. Right. I'll go with that one then. Thanks.


Chinese Love

A small excerpt from the latest piece of correspondence received from Professor Peelhead, who is presently seeking his fortune in China…

what is my news, well in my desperation of not having a girlfriend I decided to go with a prostitute, so off i went on my bicycle in search of love for money, down the alleys and back alleys i went, spotting mimgers left and right, then i saw one i thought was not too bad, for the grand sum of three pounds i stripped off into my finest, she then proceeded to snot on my shoes, she fired a bogey-flob out of her nose from a standing position onto the floor in the direction of my shoes - I daren't think or check, it put me off my game completely, after the rise and fall in an anti-climatic failure, and three pounds lighter I looked for further ado, I found , I negotiated, I was ready, this one , not to be outdone, told me to go over to the bed, then proceeded to take a piss in a kitchen bowl, which she put on a shelf , and then proceeded, for seven pounds i got a floppy f-ck and a wank, but look on the bright side - we all had a cheap evenings entertainment, actually it wasn't cheap, when i got home i found i had lost 20 quid, which in my little dumpling restaurant is 66 portions of bloody dumplings.


"It's the best thing to do"

A conversation with the wonderful Hercules Beefcake...

From: Thomas
Sent: 01 April 2010 09:29
To: David 

So it looks like someone forgot to extend my contract. Couldn't get into the building today and there's no one in to add me to the system. Looks like I might not get paid today or until it's sorted. Typical.

From: David
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:03
To: Thomas
Subject: RE:

Dude, that sucks. You still looking for a new job?

Listen, Madame came over for a reason last night… this is sort of mind numbing, but she’s pregnant and probably won’t keep it. I’m not gonna come out tonight and will leave work at lunch time.

From: Thomas
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:07
To: David 

Subject: RE:

You're kidding me? I assumed you were still bagging up to keep it safe?

From: David
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:09
To: Thomas
Subject: RE:

I know, but we did it, drunkenly without one like ONCE, what seems like forever ago. She was actually ok about it. I don’t really know how I feel about it to be honest.

From: Thomas
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:13
To: David 

Subject: RE:

At least you know it works.

Dude she seemed pretty calm when she was talking to us last night. I guess it's different for both of you. I mean, she's still young and not long out of uni and getting a career going whereas you're almost 30 and have mentioned kids before. Think it's the best thing to do though.

From: David
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:16
To: Thomas
Subject: RE:

April Fools, you donkey.


Special report: Mexico

...And by "special" I mean "special", like a spaz. As in; "spedchialll."

Spedchialll dog eye

Just look at that fucking eyeball. This picture was taken in my beachside kitchen and the malignant blob actually leaked on the floor as I was eating dinner. I have not eaten anything made with plum tomatoes since.


Quite impressed Picasa's anti-red eye function picked this up though.

Spedchialll words

I found this in the local paper beneath a picture of a girl sunbathing with her top off. I don't think the girl had any idea that the "bi-lingual" editor had commissioned this discreet photoshoot. Still, I felt like I learned a thing or two after reading that.

Spedchialll bum wipes

I think the cleaner was hankering for a tip. Quite impressive really. Not as impressive as what the bogs in Mexico do with your turds though. It's strange, I think how a society deals with its poos tells you something about its people. For instance, here, in England we have quite small toilet bowls with very little water at the bottom. This means a) your poo only shows its head with its long body half-way round the U-bend and b) after you've done your poo, wiped your anus and covered the brown mess with toilet paper you can't even see the turd. THIS IS BAD. It means we, the English people, are ashamed of being human.

It's very different in Mexico though. These people are PROUD of their turds.

Firstly, they have so much water in the bowl of the toilet that you practically dip your balls in it when you sit down. And, as you are not allowed to put toilet paper in the bowl, when you stand up to flush you are confronted with a huge brown coil of shit languishing up at the brim, like "Hi ya! It's Meeeeee! Timothy Turd!"

The best part is when you flush though. At first the water doesn't really do anything, as if the poo is just getting ready for its big song and dance exit. Then it starts to slowly spin around, gently gaining momentum and after a short while you're actually hypnotised by its sensual water dance. Then Glusghghhg! It's gone. Just like that it gets sucked away at supersonic speeds. It's like the curtain suddenly falling on the most thrilling show on earth, leaving you breathless with wonder.

That is how you should say good-bye to a shit.


Hello 2010

"2010 is going to be my year," is what my very charming and excellent friend "John" told me last week. "I'm going to take the bull by the gonads and milk its prostate dry. Yes, fuck-nudger; it's the year of my success."

That's the spirit, "John".

And, after securing a promotion at work (and getting rid of that weird lump) he certainly took to milking the bull's innards; "Hey," he told me, "Do you remember that chick, Paola? From Camden? Like, forever ago?" I didn't actually remember a girl called Paola from like forever ago, but on he rambled: "Well, over a year ago I met her in some bar, pulled her, got her number and promised her I would call her and take her out for a good time."

The Big Point he eventually got to was that he never called her up because before he could he went and met somebody else and embarked on a quest for Love with her instead. That lasted for quite a while, but, like most young love, sadly ended. So, skip to last week and "John" is now telling me that he finally text this Paola girl back - more than a year later. I scoffed at this move of painful desperation but was shown two fingers and told that he had actually secured a date. The silly bitch had actually agreed to meet him. She must have really liked him.

Anyways, I wished him luck, ensured he'd remembered to wash behind his ball sack and off he went on his Hot Date.

This is the email I got from him the next day: 

Well, the lovely miss Paola stood me up. I have to take my rug off to her though, it was pretty funny. I'm standing at Camden station at half seven (the arranged time) and no sign of her. Perfectly natural to be a few minutes late so no panic. I wait for another 45 minutes and she still doesn't show so I'm feeling like a twat. Try calling, no answer. Text her to see what's happening…a few minutes later 'Oh.. you meant THIS year. I thought you wanted to meet next year, sorry! I'm busy this year.' 

Witty bitch.


Leave me alone!

I don't know what my neighbour here thinks she's doing, but whatever it is, IT'S NOT WORKING.