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.)

Regards,

Drib Drab.

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Here is a map.

Battersea Cog Home

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

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

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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.

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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”.

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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.

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

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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.

Regards,

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".

broken balls, exposed balls: cycle practice goes wrong

Hello testicles!

It's been a strange few weeks for the Zezaurian Cycling Dept. and things have been getting pretty painful out on the busy roads of London's Famous London. I'm struggling to keep up with the number of accidents people keep getting themselves into, but let's take look at some of my favourites ever since we said we'd do that silly race around Battersea Park.

1. "Invisible Stack"

Is there anything in life better than seeing Tim Howard hit an "invisible obstacle" in the middle of a busy road and camply flying over his handlebars, crashing face first into the tarmac like a rubbish twat? I've been playing that one on repeat in my head for weeks.

Total distance covered: 2.3 metres
Total time: 0.7 seconds
Shame level: getting caught out with an erection in maths class
Pain level: advanced vaginal thrush

2. "Stationary Stack"

Oh, the sweet, sweet shame of stacking it so comprehensively on your bicycle whilst going a whopping 2 miles-per-hour on one of the busiest streets in London. My dear friend, Tom, what the fuck happened? I think the bit that made us wee ourselves with laughter the most was the fact that you had foolishly hung a 4kg bike lock around your neck, ensuring a swift uppercut to your beautiful nose moments before you slumped to the ground. Thank you so much for this gift to us.

Total distance covered: 0.5 metres
Total time: (including the street of people laughing at you) 4 days, 17 hours
Shame level: soiling your pants in maths class
Pain level: the same as getting dumped by this.

3. "Riding to Brighton"

Drib Drab and Mr Morose did it last year, so why couldn't they do it this year?

Mr Morose: "C'mon ya handsome devil, let'sh ride to Brighton."

Drib Drab: "I dunno, man. It's, like, 5am and I'm pretty wasted."

Mr Morose: "Sho? What are you? A cock or a fanny?"

Drib Drab: "...I'm a massive, massive cock."

Ten minutes later Mr Morose was lying in the middle of the road mumbling about the bleeping sounds in his head (a pedestrian crossing). Ten minutes after that he was lying in the middle of the road again holding his ball-bag and asking why anyone in their right mind would stick a fucking illuminous bollard in the middle of an intersection. Brighton remained a long, long way away.

Total distance covered: 3.1km
Total time: 34 minutes
Shame level: soiling your pants and getting an erection about it in maths class
Pain level: listening to Mr Morose talk about his hobbies

4. "Balls out"

Special Brew and Ouzo are a pleasant mix, right? So much so, they make boys strip to their cock and balls and ride down what is perhaps the most densely packed road in London on a Saturday night and head home wondering how they're going to retrieve their penises from inside their stomachs. They should call this homoerotic game "Shrimp Saddle".

I think some of the naked riders were imagining that all the girls would whoop and throw their knickers at them, but all that really happened was that people shouted "fucking queer homo gays" and spat on their backs. Nice work revellers!

Total distance covered: 1km
Total time: 12 awful minutes
Shame level: telling people that you thought Terminator Salvation was a "pretty good" film
Pain level: sitting through all 115 minutes of Terminator Salvation

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See you on the 11th,

Miss Vacant Eyes

Zezaurian Summer Cycle Race

UPDATE: We've moved this to 11 July, Battersea Park – first race 1pm.

Three fast-as-you-can laps dodging orange-faced rich people walking their cats on velvet leashes. I can’t think of anything more fun than that. If your bike has gears, then you must pick one and stick with it as there are lots of fixed gear poser types competing, so we're insisting on one gear for everyone.

6 riders per race, 4 stages. Frolicking by the river afterwards and Northern Soul from 10pm-4am.

The winner gets a Zezaurian Headband - the hip new look for the summer.

Regards,

Miss Vacant Eyes

Four Days of Pain

***Updated because two of the people in these pictures are hot-shot lawyers and pulled a bed-wetting strop about it***

I Just spent four very long days exhausting myself with some nice rich people in what was, I think, the Land of Narnia. It was more fun than I've had in the last four years combined, despite being told that Narnia is shit-hole because it's full of Christians and paedophiles.

On one day I jumped off the top of a waterfall so high that all the skin was ripped off my shins from hitting the water so hard. I was also shot in the face, left kidney, buttocks, hands and shoulder by a real-life marine, fresh from Afghanistan, in a game of underpants-only paintball. Joy.

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I found this on the kitchen table of my cottage one morning. It was the only black person I saw in the country side. Her name was Sammy.

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This man came into my room every night and took the covers from me. He also made me answer questions such as: "Who would you rather skin alive and eat, your mum or your dad? If you say your dad, you're a gay."

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This is me wishing that I'd laid off all the free stuff they gave out.

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I know this looks kinda racist, but that was just a slug that I found and everyone was saying, "do something hilarious with it". The little fucker excreted this horrible jelly that took over an hour to fully remove. (Side note: slugs don't smell of anything.)

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My friend Tom took this picture. Seriously, how fucking shit can you make an image? Ooh, ooh, look, it's like we're in a saloon bar in the wild west. What a fucking drip. The worst part is, when he reads this he'll get all moody because he'll actually think it's a "good picture". When I took this off the camera it was one of eleven shots of the same thing - this being the only one in focus. Some days I hate Tom.

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This is Tom. Ladies, he's single and has these big square man-boob things because he works out the whole time and drinks four litres of milk a day. He's got the personality of cancer though.

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It's hard to tell from just looking at this picture, but that speaker was playing Hiretsukan at full-fucking-whack and it was such a great moment I thought I should capture it on film and post it on the Internet.

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This guy was called Henry. He was so chilled out and confident about his life that he slept like that all afternoon and all evening whilst everyone else got fucked up. I kept laughing saying that we should draw on his face and burn his pubes off, but everyone else just shrugged their shoulders and said that Tupac wouldn't do that, so maybe we shouldn't either.