Drugs

Tom is sick of this work-a-day world, full of people spitting at him and calling him nasty names, like “cuntfyuck Jones”, “tool bag” and “shit eating cum-ponce”. It makes him sad, even though usually his emotions are limited to things like “I want more food” and “Deodorant is not worth the money”. His decision therefore is to go out and find a drug dealer and take a large amount of drugs, in order to either escape from reality or just die in the process (although sadly for the world at large, the latter is impossible due to his large body mass.)

Tom goes out to find his source of drugs, which is always a bad idea (for him) because he’s universally reviled. He asks around in pubs, but the people who don’t get gassed by his fragrant halitosis instead glass him. Finally he stumbles upon someone so already fucked that he doesn’t recognise him; he is introduced to the local dealer, who offers him a tab of LSD and out of sheer spite tells him to take it while sitting in a noisy, unfamiliar environment with lots of sharp objects to hand.

Tom, being a gullible cunt, follows the dealer’s advice to the letter and takes his newly purchased acid tab. The hallucination is quick and frightening: Tom is suddenly transported into a fantasy world where he is a hamburger, voraciously devoured by his own smirking spotty head. This is the first time Tom has seen his own face, as it has shattered all mirrors it has confronted; he is scared thoroughly shitless by this new revelation of just how plug ugly he is, and additionally by the fact that his spots appear to be spewing maggots. By now, in real life, Tom is running around in little circles screaming like a banshee with horrific piles; in his addled state, he believes that he is being chased by a 20-foot kangaroo with a gigantic erection, who catches up with him (Tom can’t run, or even walk really) and proceeds to rape him senseless. In reality, the rape is Tom inserting a rolling pin into himself, causing himself untold internal bleeding.

After somewhat recovering from this, Tom is compelled to climb into his own head and view his past memories, as projected into his skull. The people in these memories however become real, climbing out of the projected image to punch, kick and generally frighten him. The burly neo-Nazi he was thrown out of a window by has his way with him again, this time punctuating his thrusts with the stab of a knife; the buggering man in Cornwall does the same, only this time sawing his penis off with a butter knife. Finally, the whole of his college, the audience for his terrific speech, pile out of the “screen” and give him a sound beating with sticks, knives and a large number of cat o’ nine tails’.

This is it, though! In his hallucination, Tom sees a giant pill marked “GET ME OUT OF HERE”, and like so many other things he’s only known about for a few seconds wolfs it down, to his cost; in real life, he’s actually swallowing a bayonet, which punctures just about every part of him. As he falls dying to the floor, spewing blood like a large round fountain, he falls through the floor of the block of flats he’s in, crushing untold people and eventually leading to the entire block crashing on top of him, sending his body hurtling through the Earth’s crust and out the side, propelling him out into space to float for billions of years, forgotten and unmissed by everyone.

Everyone Hates Tom: Haircut

Tom’s hair is unique, in that it is so filthy and scraggly that even head lice refuse to go anywhere near it (his pubic hair has much the same problem, although the aversion of living creatures to Tom’s privates is well documented elsewhere.) But, just the other day, Tom looked in a mirror both big enough to fit his gigantic, heaving face and unlikely to refuse to reflect its image – in other words, a bravely stupid and incredibly rare mirror – and decided, after vomiting copiously for four hours (even Tom doesn’t like Tom) that he needs a haircut. He washes his hair with the requisite four gallons of Head and Shoulders to stop half his scalp flaking off all the time and to make it smell less like a dog’s cunt and runs down to the nearest barber – inasmuch as a bloated, waddling shitsack can run.

This alone is fraught with difficulty. First of all, no barber’s chairs will fit him; the ones that do bend backwards under his weight, crushing innocent barbers to death. This is solved after the ordering of a special reinforced chair, kept by Tom’s mum in the loft since his first birthday came around and he broke all the high chairs. Secondly, even after being washed his hair is so caked with dirt that each strand is roughly the same strength as a steel pole; this too is fixed by the barber simply using a power sander to strip the hair away. Thirdly, from more of a philosophical point of view, the barber has to be tipped two thousand pounds to even touch any part of Tom, such is his general level of filth.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Tom’s pitiful yet unpitied life, his college newspaper has been receiving regular unsolicited articles from him, intended for publication. Predictably, these consist of lengthy reviews of Japanese cartoons featuring underage girls being raped up the bum, as well as interminable paeans to power-prog metal albums which he thinks are awesome (“5 and a half stars”, he says enthusiastically yet entirely wrongly) but everyone else thinks are shit in the extreme. The editorial staff are getting tired of these unwanted, unreadable contributions to their already painful job; they find it hard enough to write cheerfully about the prices in the canteen going up, let alone having to read through a poorly spelt and thoroughly tasteless review of Super Love Octopus Gurgling Girl IV every bloody week.

They have come up with a solution. They will arrange for him to have a televised speech in the college’s gigantic auditorium. While his literary contributions are dull and incoherent, he can help them anyway by giving them something exciting to write about – with any luck, his screaming death at the hands of everyone who has ever needed any kind of contact with him. They telephone him and inform him of the speech and its time, and he promises to dress up a bit (i.e. wear clean clothes and not piss stained rags) and prepare the best speech he possibly can (a very shit one, basically). That evening he writes said speech; it covers all of his favourite subjects, which of course are Japanese schoolgirls, tentacles and sodomy.

His big day comes. His epic speech, all twelve hours of it, has been written down on index cards for him, enabling him to not have to tax his feeble brain to any great degree. He mounts the podium, clears his throat and begins… to be greeted with raucous laughter. Unsure of precisely why, he continues nervously, until the laughter becomes too loud to ignore. “What?”, he exclaims loudly, frantically searching around for the source of the audience’s merriment. Finally, he finds it on the Jumbotron behind him; the barber, unbeknownst to him, has shaved the word “CUNT” in his hair, a fact now being broadcast to millions of viewers as well as the hooting teens in the auditorium. Crying with shame, Tom does the only honourable thing he could ever do and shoots himself in the head on live television, an act which leads to dancing in the streets, the declaration of a new national holiday and a four day standing ovation from everybody in the fucking world.