Tag Archives: space

Conclusive Proof that the Earth is Flat

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Everything we ever believed about the world, the universe and our place within it has now changed inalterably. We stand on the brink of a new age of understanding, knowledge and enlightenment that makes our first enlightenment look like an en-shite-enment. It’s hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago most of us monkeyish dunces were still labouring under the frankly absurd notion that the world was round. Round? Really? Our home is the same shape as a tomato, is it? Or a kumquat? The same shape as Gary Lineker’s left testicle? Christ, we were stupid.

2D or not 2D, that was the question… but it isn’t the question anymore, so just stop asking, OK? The truth is out: the earth is flat. Most of the best things in life are flat anyway: snooker tables, hedgehogs, Theresa May’s enduring emotional state. So see you around, round! Get out of here, sphere! Fuck off… em, parabolas?

This giant leap for mankind is all thanks to the dogged determination of a crack team of late-night talk-radio presenters who unilaterally decided to come off their meds; a nightclub dancer who once snorted coke off of Peter Andre’s back in the 90s, and millions of misinformed people who spend the duration of every shit casually yet angrily flicking through niche interest groups on Facebook.

These brave souls, our intrepid Flat Earthers – or just ‘absolute bloody geniuses’ as they’ll now be known – didn’t need fancy books, an education or a grounding in one of the major sciences to work out the true shape of the earth. They didn’t need ‘facts’, ‘evidence’, ‘corroboration’, or any other forms of Jewish conspiracy. They just had to open their eyes and look aflat. They pointed at the horizon and said, ‘That’s flat’. Then they pointed at the sole of their left shoe, and said, ‘THAT’s flat, too’. Thanks for lying to us all of these years, Stephen Hawking. You knew the truth the minute you realised your wheelchair wasn’t whooshing around the world at 6000 mph every time you took the hand-brake off. But at least you got some books out of it and an appearance on The Simpsons, you treacherous cunt.

He’ll be the first against the wall.

Think about it, morons. If the earth really was round, and spinning really quickly like the reptilian death-barons at ‘NASA’ say it is, then every time a little boy kicked a football it would end up in France – unless he was a French boy in France, in which case we wouldn’t care what he did anyway. If you lived on this unfeasible, magically-round earth and wanted to go on holiday to Australia, you wouldn’t need to fly. You’d simply get on a plane as normal, but instead of it taking off, a bunch of guys in roller-skates would lift the plane six feet off the ground, and then simply wait for the earth to spin round to Australia – like they were inside some planet-sized slot machine – before gently lowering you to the tarmac. Look out for that kangaroo, mate! Kangaroos, of course, if they timed it just right, would be able to jump from Australia to Scotland, so long as they took care to avoid all of those little boys’ footballs flying towards France.

It doesn’t really matter if you don’t understand the science that underpins the truth of the earth’s flatness, because you’ve no choice but to accept it. Clinging to a belief in a round earth is now a form of social suicide, and preaching belief in planetary roundness is now illegal, and punishable by death. Death by steam-roller, since you’re asking. That’ll fucking teach you.

The pioneering flat-earthers should be happy. They should be rejoicing. But they’re not: they’re angry. They’re angry that the global conspiracy took so long to smash; angry that their revolution took so long to happen. And they’re absolutely livid at having to use sphere-centric words like ‘global’ and ‘revolution’ to explain and contexualise their anger. So now, because I don’t want to go to jail for the next 500 years, I’d better start this paragraph again.

The pioneering flat-earthers should be happy. They should be rejoicing. But they’re not: they’re angry. They’re angry that the really long way across conspiracy took so long to smash; angry that their long journey across a flat surface that eventually doubled back on itself took so long to happen.

The movement’s most vocal supporters have been quick to heap scorn on those who worked to keep us in the dark for most of human history. “We were lied to, man, all these years we were lied to,” says former Big Brother contestant Dizzy G. McMastaBlasta, who now juggles his time between rapping and sciencing. “For years now, NASA has gotten up and down to the moon using a ladder, yeah? The rockets were fake, they was all CSI. Space, real space, is like a platform game, innit. Like Super Mario, but there aint no space turtles and shit, yeah? Actually I dunno, does space have turtles? Don’t quote me on the turtles thing, bro.”

Dizzy G. McMastaBlasta wrote a song about the round-earth conspiracy, which he recorded and released under his stage name ‘James Donaldson the Rapper’. It went straight to number 1, and will soon be adopted as the UK’s new national anthem. The song’s called ‘Big Flat Bitch‘.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s flat, it’s so flat, baby, yeah yeah. Don’t you be thinking it aint flat, it flat, baby, ooooh, you know it. It’s flat. Is it flat? Yes. Yes it is. Aint no doubt. Oooo, girl, da earth be flat. Maybe you didn’t hear me, girl, I said it’s flat, so flat, so flat it hurts, baby, oooooooooo flat, oooooooooo so so flat. I’m reasonably satisfied that the pattern of repetition in this song has left absolutely no doubt in your mind as to the flatness of the earth, girl.”

Judge Judge Judgeton (he’s a judge called Judge who comes from a long line of Judges) has released a list of people who are now effectively barred from serving in public office or from having a public platform of any kind. “East 17. Been around the world and there’s no place like home? No you haven’t, and yes there is, you disgusting liars. They’ll do life if I catch them. Ben Fogle. He’ll do 10 – 15 years. Nothing to do with the flat earth thing, just can’t stand the cunt. Who’s that wee guy who looks a bit like Simon Anstell and bangs on about astro-physics while wearing a succession of hideous jumpers? He’s off to the gulag, too. Zippy, Bungle. They’re dead. Dora the Explorer? Hung, drawn and quartered, the shameless fucker.”

A heavy sense of relief has rocketed throughout the world. Conditions even seem ripe for pushing the boundaries of discovery yet further. Rex Coltingham of the Democratic Americans for the Furtherance of Truth In the Eastern States (DAFTIES) is hosting a conference in Rhode Island next week in which he will set forth a new scientific agenda for the US. “Flat earth’s the first hurdle. We’re over it now. Next we talk comedy acronyms. That shit aint funny no more. It’s time they stopped. Then we move on to gravity. What is gravity? How does it really work? I’ll tell you how it works. The ghosts of tiny aliens, that’ how. And that’s a FACT. We’ve gotta be nicer to these guys. Wherever we go, they’re holding on to us, pulling down on our legs so we don’t float away. Asleep in bed? Twelve of these guys are on your chest. You go for a piss? They’re holding your cock so you don’t piss in your mouth. Without them, we’d all float off into space. That’s bad, because you can’t breathe in space, right? Wrong buddy. Your lungs work fine in space. It’s the space turtles that’ll get you, those hangry bitches.”

Good day, folks. And please remember. The future’s bright: the future’s a rectangle.

Space: The Final Cashier (or ‘An Old Man Sells Star Wars’)

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Harold Shipman’s at it again!

News of Lucasfilm’s purchase by Disney, and the prospect of a new trilogy of Disney-produced Star Wars’ sequels, was met with the anger and reprobation of a bunch of people who really shouldn’t give this much of a shit about the creative direction of a space-based fairy-tale movie franchise for small children. An enormous 48-year-old fat geek, who only got his hole once in his life and only then completely by accident, told us: ‘I feel like Lucas has sold my soul for corporate gang-rape. All six Star Wars movies were pure art, like Wim Wenders’ films set in space, and this cheapens it. I’m so angry I could trash everything in my house, and I probably would, if I didn’t live here with my mum and dad.’

The Death Star – A deadly giant bollock hovering in space.

The twitto-verse, the realm of Twittingdom, the Twitanium steel wordosphere, Dick Twittington and his knapsack filled with fucking tweets – or whatever bullshit marketing-speak is currently being used to describe the short sentences that people type into a wee box on a social networking site – is aflame with the erm… burning… fire of… passion of people getting all… hot and ignited… and… ach, blast this ineffective flame-based metaphor all the way to roaring fucking Hell: a lot of people are talking about the future of Star Wars, okay? That’s what I wanted to say. In a non-flaming nutshell, that’s about the crux of it. Right? Just leave it. OK?? Anyway, there are millions of people who seem to care more about Disney’s Death Star taking aim at Planet Geek than they do about the devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy, global disease and poverty combined. A starving Ethiopian was asked for his reaction to the Star Wars news, but he was too busy dying of thirst to comment.

So what do we know about Disney’s plans for Star Wars?

‘Motherchucker, get this spaceship in the air or I’ll horn your young ass.’

Well, we know for sure that there will be some major character changes in the new trilogy. R2-D2 will be replaced by a wise-cracking, talking goat with attitude, voiced by Chris Rock. This ‘new’ character, Gh-oato Superstar, will forever be admonishing C-3PO with lines like, ‘No way I’m getting’ on no space ship wich yoo, you uptight, John Inman motherfucker. This goat ‘aint gonna be the butt of some three-eyed, six-titted motherfucker’s jokes. Find me a field an’ leave me there, honky.’ Changes to C-3PO won’t be quite so all-encompassing, but they will be radical. Although his personality will remain the same his appearance will change some 2000 times over the course of the three sequels.

‘C-3PO always struck me as a little, well, dull and samey,’ said some guy at Disney whose name we forgot to write down, ‘So that’s why, in the new films, he’s going to have the ability to change his colour and armour at will, instantly, and as often as he likes.’

How could you not warm to the adventures of a sexually confused, metal English butler and his wee pal, the Tesco Value pedal bin on wheels.

When we insinuated that this new change might have more to do with the ability to issue a wider and more profitable selection of C-3PO action figures, and less to do with what’s best for the plot, the Disney man stabbed an Ewok in the throat, and then ran down the street laughing like a crazy bastard. Filled with panic and horror we rushed to help the adorably cute and choking creature, but once we remembered that Ewoks aren’t real and that it was probably just a dwarf in a costume, we went for a coffee instead. Don’t worry, though, dwarves are immortal. Aren’t they? Or they’ve got special powers or some shit.

Changes abound for Han Solo’s hairy side-kick, due to the long-standing fear of Disney executives that Chewbacca’s name could be viewed as subliminal advertising for chewing tobacco. ‘We don’t want America’s children hawking into spittoons like it’s the Wild West, getting mouth cancer and then keeling over like victims of Vader’s telekinetic throat-choke,’ said Disney CEO, Dave Jewstein. ‘Or even getting Chew-baculosis! HAHAHAHA! Oh, I crack myself up, I really do. Anyway, that’s why, in the new films, we’re renaming him: Chewba-cocacola.’

Jar Jar Binks: in a world gone bat-shit crazy, this animated fictional character is despised more than Hitler.

Building on the universal popularity of Jar Jar Binks, Disney have outlined a new character called ‘Ting-Ting Kablammo’, whose slitty eyes and hilarious catchprase – ‘Me no rikey these raser guns’ – will go down a storm with the ‘0-3yrs’, ‘heavily brain damaged’ and ‘people from Greenock’ demographics.

Harrison Ford will return, this time playing Indiana Jones, and Mark Hamill will be back, as an extra in one of the bar scenes.

Sneak Peak

Star Wars VII will be set on the planet of Toy, with the action focussing on Luke’s children, who are eking out a meagre, miserable existence under the tyrannical rule of Toy’s evil dictator, the Grand Merchandiser. With his army of dreaded Action Figures, and uncompromising brutality, the Grand Merchandiser looks set to make Vader and the Emperor look like a pair of bum-fingering space pussies. Audiences will be treated to some stunning set-pieces as rebel forces, led by Luke’s youngest sons, Pluto and Goofy Skywalker, battle the Action Figure army through the giant roller-coaster theme park that borders The Grand Merchandiser’s impregnable Disneyland Fortress.

Rivals

Fuggedaboutit, Vader.

HBO also fought for control of Lucasfilm, and only just missed out on the bid. Executives at the cable network had already outlined their vision for the franchise, which would have kicked off with Star Wars 7: Motherf***ing C**ts in Space, starring James Gandolfini and the late David Carradine.

STAY TUNED: We’ve been privileged to see a promo poster for Star Wars VII, which features a fat, middle-aged man in a Yoda T-shirt feeding £600 and his dignity  into a shredding machine.

(And, yes, geeks, I know the title of this ‘report’ references Star Trek before it’s pointed out to me with geek-like glee. Or gleek. And how do I know this? BECAUSE I’M ONE OF YOU!!! I just don’t like Star Wars that much.) 

Toast tae the Lassies

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This is the full text of a ‘To the Lassies’ speech I wrote and read out for a Burns’ Night my friend held at his house two years ago. Most of the assembled laughed, and understood it was all in the name of tomfoolery; one middle-aged woman sat and stared at me in the hope that she could make me die with the power of her mind. 

Toast Tae the Lassies

Women. Pffttt…

That’s all I’ve got. 

‘Does my thought-pattern look fat in this?’

That certainly won’t shock you, because traditionally men are more taciturn than women. That’s a polite way of saying that they never fucking shut up. A woman can talk for three days without getting a dry throat, without threat of an empty mouth, and on subjects as diverse as ‘blah blah blah’ and ‘shoes’.

Women don’t transmit on our frequency. That’s when they bother to speak in our language in the first place. Science has proved this. A study was done comparing communication and language between the sexes, looking at what we say, how we say it and how we are received and perceived, and it found that what a woman says, the content of their speech, isn’t NEARLY as important… as the size of her tits.

‘Do you know how hard it is to get four comfortable pairs of Jimmy Choos?’

Women project their voices like missiles. Let’s put it this way: if the female black widow could talk, it wouldn’t need to murder its mate after sex. In fact the human female’s recourse to conversation appears, to the black widow, an unspeakably savage act. A woman won’t so much argue that black is white, but that both of these are wrong, and who do they think they’re talking to?

It wasn’t always like this. We never used to have to listen to women speak. It used to be legal to hit them with a frying pan, or water-board them in a vat of warm piss. We miss those days.

For some enlightenment on the subject we have to journey back to pre-Enlightenment times, and to a man named Institoris who wrote a medieval guide to identifying and prosecuting witches. I’ll quote the preface in the Malleus Maleficarum, which reads:

Wooooooooooooooo Bo-dy Fo-horm, Body Form for yoooooooooooooo!

“Why is the treachery which leads to the practice of harmful magic and all that entails found more frequently in women than in men? Institoris lists women’s usual weaknesses – they are backbiting, vengeful, lascivious, impressionable and intellectually inferior (those are the GOOD ones) – before saying that wicked women (the qualification is important) are particularly ruled by three moral failings (just three?): infidelitas (defined as a lack of adherence to the probable truth of the reality of things invisible – you know, like men’s faults) ostentation and lust.” 

I don’t think there are many here tonight who would disagree with those sentiments. Most of this can probably be attributed to hormones, with the emphasis on moans. Yes, hormones, and the dreaded ‘P’ word, that only five men in the history of the planet have been brave enough to utter. 

Periods are like the Kaiser Soze of biological processes. The greatest trick that women ever pulled was in trying to convince the male world that periods didn’t exist. So when a woman, light and electric from blood loss and mood imbalance has stabbed you through the heart, ripped it out and fed it to you – recognise this, men: it’s your fault. 

‘Flesh, chocolate. It’s all the same to me! Nomnomnomnom!’

Anyone who’s ever worked with a group of women knows that, as a group, they’re a deadly force to be reckoned with. Throw a puppy into their midst, and get ready to make dog soup with the bones. Women working in packs are like piranhas, but with better shoes.

And then there’s the connected danger and mystical horror that is cycle synchronisation. Like when the planets align and some evil wizard uses the formation to open a Gateway to Hell. Cycle synchronisation is like a Mexican wave of hatred.

‘All this fuss over a few fucking shepherds?’

Western culture has fooled us about women. We’re raised with the image of the nurturing, peaceful mother. The kind with big loving bingo wings that would make a flying squirrel grey with envy, and a pendulous, blobby bosom that could double as a wrecking ball. A lot of people, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, believe that if women were to rule the world it would be a happy, fluffy, lovey-dovey place with no war, struggle or strife. Then along came Margaret Thatcher. Lacking a heart, Thatcher was all cunt, and the monthly blood flow was suitably redirected. The Belgrano was torpedoed, in a metaphorical sense of course, by Thatcher’s tampon. 

Women cry. This has also fooled men, who equate crying with caring, and also see crying as a last resort, like suicide, or films starring Renee Zellwegger. But crying does not equal caring, because women, rather alarmingly, cry when they’re confused, startled, hopeful, ambivalent, guilty, ticked off, jealous, happy, furious, clumsy, dopey, sneezy and horny. Maybe that last one’s just me. They never actually cry when they’re sad. No, that’s what shouting’s for.

So how did women become so powerful? What went wrong? Women’s faces not being as soft as the hands that do their dishes? Women NOT doing the Shake and Vac to put the freshness back? 

John McCririck’s favourite wanking picture.

We can trace alot of it back to the suffragette movement. Back at the turn of the twentieth century, one woman’s desire to be heard was so strong that she hurled herself under a horse. If only more women would follow this example.

They burned their bras. Why? Didn’t they realise that their resulting bad back would have to be treated by a male chiropractor?

They started to play sports! The cheek. A little tip: stick to gymnastics, or naked jelly wrestling, or we’re not fucking interested.

And now there are women in the military. Great. Whose smart idea was it to teach them how to kill? And will somebody please ask Gordon Brown much it costs to produce Kevlar vests that can accommodate pairs of breasts? Not to mention the expense of military-issue tampons. No wonder they can’t afford any fucking helicopters over there. 

‘Want to see my big vessel, Punk Space Whore?’

They’ve been in space, too. How long before we see a fatal accident due to a woman shuttle-pilot trying to reverse park behind the Mir space station? Women have no business being in space, unless it’s to get shagged by Captain Kirk.

A lot of people say that women are just good for cooking, cleaning, shagging and gestating young. This isn’t true. They’re quite good with curtains, too. But it is true that the new power that women hold, especially in employment, is dangerous.

Allow me to expand.

  • A chick Doctor in Harrogate lost a false fingernail in a man’s lower intestine, causing his bowel to fall out.
  • A female bus driver in Darlington caused a twelve-car pile-up reading Woman’s Own while negotiating a roundabout. The drivers of the twelve cars hadn’t the time to react, as they were all doing their make-up at the time.
  • A female pilot lost control of a Boeing 747 because she was crying about a hungry cat she’d seen in her garden that morning.
  • A female soldier shot half of her own battalion as she stumbled across hostile terrain wearing stilettos.
  • In France, a bint can kill you if she can prove to the court she was on her dabs.

Sobering stuff.

I hope you don’t think I’ve been chauvinist or misogynistic tonight. This is not misogyny. It’s self-defence. Because although we love women – those deliciously mad, sexually-sociopathic Hell-dogs with tits – we must handle them carefully – like bombs, or rabid ferrets. We must love them like blow-up dolls filled with sixty per cent cotton wool to forty per cent sharp but rusty potato peelers.

Let’s raise a glass to the fairer sex.

Here’s tae ye!