Are you struggling to find the perfect present for that special person in your life? That special person who may or may not know that you were in their back garden last night? Why not give them a unique, personalised gift that will last a lifetime? The gift of a god.
There are quite literally dozens of gods. From the sprightly flute-playing deities of joy and peace to mighty abominations hell-bent on the destruction of the entire universe (including your face), there is a god to suit every taste and for any occasion.
From just £20 you can name a god of your choice from a variety of religions, creating a timeless and quite unique keepsake that can be cherished forever.
Each god comes in its own beautiful hand-crafted gift box featuring your chosen name, a framed pictorial representation of your supreme being and a luxury leather-bound booklet detailing the god’s history and divine powers.
Here are some gods named by our previous clients:
MELMOHR, the god of weather (K.M., Salisbury)
RANU, overlord of public transport (Jenny Smeethes, Aldershot)
LINDSEY THE UNSPEAKABLE (Mr B Strom, Glasgow)
TARBUCK the meat god (celebrity Jade Goody!)
What are you waiting for? Order today. Our staff are poised like ravenous hyenas to take your call.
Please note that while naming a god as a gift or goodwill gesture will almost certainly win you favour with the recipient, it is unlikely to be recognised by any faith of merit and does not imply or infer any legal rights in respect of your chosen god.
Surely I can’t be the only one who, when bombarded by a seeming endless string of adverts for gocompare.com, finds themselves screaming the words “go fuck yourself dot com” back at the television through gritted teeth, fists clenched and eyes bulging in a fit of murderous rage?
(Those speculatively checking the existence of gofuckyourself.com may wish to avoid doing so at work, as it appears to be an pornography)
I have lots of ideas. Lots of them. Sometimes these ideas are good ideas, but more often than not they’re terrible ideas. Most of these ideas are of the variety that most people would keep to themselves for fear of being branded a sickening fiend and consequently excommunicated from society as a whole.
I write down all of these ideas.
Recently my list of ideas has got a little overlong, and realising that I’m never going to do anything with any of them I thought I’d do a little spring cleaning, get them out in the open, and ultimately out of my notebook.
Here goes.
Phlegmange
It’s a pudding made of phlegm. There’s not really any more to it than that. I’m not sure exactly how the phlegm would be set into the shape of a pudding, nor where such large quantities of phlegm could be sourced, but I like the sound of it enough to write it down for posterity. I briefly contemplated rendering a phlegmange in Photoshop before realising that such a thing was not only beyond my capabilities as a graphic manipulator but almost certainly more than I could stomach on any given day. Continue reading ‘Thoughtpuke’
As a decidedly questionable method of ‘big upping’ the blogs of my peers, I hereby dedicate this, the internet’s first ‘blog stab‘ to a hapless Welshman and his bawling idiocy:
The Electric Interfunt has blog stabbed poor, defenceless Res Ipsa Loquitur, the personal weblog of Simon J James. Taking one look at the vast quantities of blood spurting from its severed jugular, Res Ipsa Loquitur desperately tries to scramble away, but The Electric Interfunt gives chase, pinning Res Ipsa Loquitur to the ground and plunging the blade into its soft abdomen again and again and again.
After burying Res Ipsa Loquitur in a shallow grave, The Electric Interfunt lights a cigarette in the darkness and laughs a terrible, hollow laugh.
Res Ipsa Loquitur is dead.
Res Ipsa Loquitur has completed 0.05% of the internet.
I am very angry with Virgin Media. Very angry indeed.
Dear sir/madam,
I write regarding [nameless drone]'s reply dated the 1st of December 2008, attached below.
What would have perhaps helped redeem your company in my eyes - eyes which have seen it as naught but a bewildering mass of shambolic incompetence since my very first day as a customer - would be if the £100 refunded installation charge promised to me had ever been applied to my account. Since it has mysteriously failed to materialise I now find late payment charges popping up on my account, and fully expect to have my service disconnected for the third time in as many months of service. I certainly have no intention of exposing my bank account to any Direct Debits while I am allegedly 'in credit', and had hoped as any sound-minded individual would that my credit would pay for two or three months of Top Gear repeats. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be.
Could you please have a quick look for my missing credit, perhaps down the back of your desk, remove that pesky late payment fee and then spend ten minutes thinking up a really whizzy reason why I shouldn't cancel my service, write a series of particularly scathing critiques of Virgin Media and publish them below a picture of Richard Branson with a pair of silly glasses and a moustache drawn on in marker pen.
Actually I needn't do the moustache.
I look forward to your prompt reply.
Idiots. I’m just glad I didn’t also take their broadband, telephone or life support services.
Two Chinese men have been given the death penalty for their role in the contamination of milk which led to the deaths of six babies and which made 300,000 others ill.
I do hope they’re going to be milked to death.
By Sean Penn.
You don’t rent the or buy the Zohan either. You don’t ever watch the Zohan under any circumstances. You do not allow others to watch the Zohan. You do not speak of the Zohan.
Now I like racism as much as the next man*, but someone needs to tell Adam Sandler that there’s only so much comedy material to be found in parodying stereotypes of Jews and Arabs, and certainly not enough to fill one hour and fifty six minutes.
ONE HOUR AND FIFTY SIX MINUTES OF MY FUCKING LIFE THAT I’LL NEVER GET BACK.
Wouldn’t it be funny if I was Arab, and declared a fatwa on Adam Sandler? Because he’s probably, like, a Jew and stuff? And Arabs are just mental and declare fatwas all the time! Hah! That’s comedy fucking gold, right there.
* A funny joke. Take note, Sandler.
While biting into my brie, basil and tomato poncewich today I noticed that luncheon whores Pret A Manger are now giving away their secret magic recipes on the back of their conscientiously recycled paper bags. The economy has spazzed out so badly that now even the most shamelessly overpriced high street eateries are advising us to make our own fucking lunch.
What next? Will Woolworths plaster the windows of their rapidly emptying retail outlets with placards recommending that each member of the general public open their own shitty knock-down tat store in their garage? Could Clarks simply give up selling shoes overnight and start handing out leaflets detailing how to entice magical shoemaking elves into our homes? Will B&Q shut up shop and recommend that next time you need a hammer you just pop round to Peter Sutcliffe’s house?
These truly are the end days.
