The Zezaurian Guide To Good Fortune

By Mr Morose


Boy oh boy. I just can't seem to get a break. Alongside being born with banana shaped feet and inside-out internal organs, God kindly took the liberty of giving me the face of a professional boxing glove tester. I've been hit by cars, walked into glass doors, been shanghaied in a religious cult, lived in a tent for six months and continuously been a victim of crime. Money is repelled from me. Skin cream brings me out in hives. Paracetamol gives me migraines. What I'm driving at is that I have always suffered chronically with bad luck, which I'm presently trying to remedy.

My friend Richard once told me that you make your own luck. Anyway, since he's only a figment of my imagination I probably shouldn't listen to him. Instead, I paid a visit to Zezaurian temptress/mystic Joy De Vivre for some of her sage advice and voodoo mumbo-jumbo. After kicking me in the gonads, she proceeded to read my palm. "Milk, bread, lentils, coffee, pile cream" she cooed. I'd forgotten to wash off the shopping list I scrawled on my hand, so we tried reading tea leaves instead. It didn't sound good. According to those leaves I don't have long left, and it won't be fun. Whatever, I had enough of her superstitious tripe and sought out a more realistic solution and called my Grandpa.

Well, I might as well have phoned Jesus, the use that did me. He told me that I have a negative attitude and that the idea of blaming things on bad luck is a way I avoid taking personal responsibility for what happens in my life blablabla. He should stick to playing scrabble.

So, just when I thought I'd never get to the bottom of my problem, the answer presented itself to me this afternoon while I was sitting on the number 43 bus. There he was, hiding behind the pink-hued pages of the Financial Times, occasionally glancing over at me with a knowing glint in his eye. It was a bloody great ostrich wearing a porkpie hat and a waistcoat. You may recall me telling you about the rhino and the eagle who control hangovers and emotional pain. Well, this crafty bugger seems to be in cahoots with old lady luck. I still haven't figured out a way of getting him off my back, but when I do, you'll be the first to know.

Vaseline

By Jonny Pineapple

Can someone please remind me to pay more attention to my balls next time we cycle forty miles in the baking summer heat? Jesus. They started off fine, but after an hour it felt like I had underpants filled with frogspawn before they slowly dried out and turned into something resembling three week old falafel.

It hurts. The entire ball-to-ass region actually hurts.

Planes, Trains and Myocardial Infarctions

By Drib Drab

First, John Candy's heart exploded, then Steve Martin stopped being funny and now John Hughes' heart has exploded.

Bummer.

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".