Shit Kicker's Dying Wish To Kick More Shit

Katie Garner, daughter of Brian and Mary Garner, died in her home on Iandra Street, Concord, NSW, Thursday morning, May 26. The deceased leaves behind absolutely no one to mourn her untimely death. 

An inside source reported "Katie requested a photocopy machine be set up at the foot of her bed so that she could continue to perform her subordinate tasks whilst we flicked through our many leather-bound books, and remained looking terribly important". 

Katie's funeral service will be held at St Ambrose Church at 2 o'clock Saturday afternoon.   

Filed under :   obviously made up: reception:  brutal:  potentially going 'postal'
why don't these tags work

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The Cat

A fucking short story


Once upon a time there was a cat who was locked indoors all day. My sister was like "Bobbeeeeey, come here and watch this scary movie with me", but the cat was like "OMG, that shit is lame". So my sister pulled rank and made him. At first the cat just sat there, psychotically staring into the distance, wide eyed and hissing... till my sister screamed "Seriously Bobby, shut the fuck up, what's wrong with you"? So I wasn't particularly surprised when the cat flipped out and called upon his ghost friends to teach her a lesson. Just then a family of floating white sheets came down the stairs, making eerie 'woooooooooooooooooooooooo' sounds. Then they just stood there and hovered all ghost-like. But it was a fucking short story, with barely an ending, so that was it.

Commuter Waits Silently For Racist Taxi Driver to Get a Grip

Wish-list Item #1

When I was young, people were always giving me dolls... the beautiful-optimistic-roll-model type. Not the multifaceted-personality-plus-stab-you-in-your-sleep type. Shame. They're way cooler. 

Filed under: who the fuck takes photos of this shit:   still, where can I get me one:

this is totally retarded but I still kinda like it:    why don't these tags work

The Student

A short story


Discontent with the standard three hour allocated Clay Construction class at ACU, I abandon my trowl and chicken wire and endevour to hit up the infamous Burwog (Burwood) for a refreshing beverage and perhaps the odd piece of 'razzle-dazz' to boost ones fair fugz saturday night ganga attire.
Mulling round the centre, stroking items one couldnt afford...depression on the rise...I turn to exit that oh so generally mundane shop that claimed to sell pants, feeling somewhat confused as I zig zagged my way through a sea of pleather and what seemed like a Texan's dream tassle explosion. To my sheer delight the entrance was blocked by my good friend Claire... striking a pose like she was auditioning for the Madonna film clip VOGUE with her Maybeline sporting pals, Kristie and Sarah. Managing to keep the mass of masticated fruit and yogurt down, I proceeded to greet this woman whilst she simultaneous stroked her shadow... consumed in the awe and narcissism that was her. Minutes passed as the three combed my appearance with their beady unforgiving eyes, frequently persing their laquered lips whilst attempting to maintain some sort of obligatory verbal exchange. Now, I am aware that this day, like most, I had taken all of fifteen minutes to shove my three wisps of hair into some sort of doo...slammed some powder on my beak and left the house satisfied I wasn't entered Australia's Next Top Model... thinking my 'natural' look would suffice. Perhaps I was wrong.  Perhaps I should have emptied a bottle of ivory tinted coloured cement on my head and spent two hours perfectly structuring my lashes into symetrical  black fans resembling that of a theme park gateway entrance. But alas, it was too late. Kristie ritualistical stroked her fringe ever so methodically over the circular pigmentation on her cheek. Her eyes darting side to side as she checked no one had spotted it. Sarah carried the forced conversation as Claire, closely followed by her fucked up tuff of a pony tail and her beloved shadow made their way to any sort of reflective surface for a prep talk, a motivational speech or an affirmation, no doubt. I left in a spot of bother as I recalled memories of these girls from their youths and wondered what fleecy, tasty chop-like animal had become of them.

5 WTF Friends You Wish You Had

Anti-Brush Rhyme

Have you ever been BRUSHED?

Brushed so hard that you can’t believe it?

A brush so brut, baby I aint deceivin’

BRUSHED!

Man, don’t make me crash tackle you to the ground

BRUSHED!

Let me break it down

Don’t be scared brushy

I know that you’re busy

I'ma give you some options

Just listen a minute

When you need to send a message

And you don’t have the time

Remember the words to this anti-brush rhyme

Have you ever been BRUSHED?

Brushed so hard that you can’t believe it?

A brush so brut, baby I aint deceivin’

BRUSHED!

Man, don’t tell me your fingers have frostbite

BRUSHED!

Let me break it down

We could use my trusted carrier pigeon

Yeah I’ve trained him good

He hardly poos at all

Coz I feed him bullshit for food

Have you ever been BRUSHED?

Brushed so hard that you can’t believe it?

A brush so brut, baby I aint deceivin’

BRUSHED!

Man, throw a paper airplane at my head

BRUSHED!

Let me break it down

If you’re a verbal kinda guy

Lets connect via cups & string

Service coverage aint a problem

Plus you could always hear me sing

Have you ever been BRUSHED?

Brushed so hard that you can’t believe it?

A brush so brut, baby I aint deceivin’

BRUSHED!

Man, don’t tell me your tonsil fell out

BRUSHED!

Oh yeah, brushed

By the big Brushtacular

BRUSHED

Wass happenin’ Brushy

Emo Balances Out Nickname With Optimistic Drawing

Judging a Book by it's Phone Voice

Disclaimer: The above image is not Brad Sayers. However, I'm sure he'd look somewhat similar...judging by his low, guttural phone growl.