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.