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.

FYI...

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Hello,

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.

M.

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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 Art Department: Happy Birthday, Steve

Zezaurian Art Department: ianalphone

Saying sorry to a dog

Our amusing (and slightly posh) friend Jamie doing stand up. Who knew?

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.