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.

Everyone Hates Tom: Finance

Since Tom’s revenues from allowing himself to be fisted by total strangers have more than quadrupled over the past year, he’s decided that he’ll get his finances in order. He’ll open a bank account, track his incomings and outgoings and hopefully make a handsome profit from saving his money wisely. However, as you can probably imagine, Tom isn’t that clever.

His first start is opening a bank account. No bank in town wants to deal with him, as he’s got a face like a geriatric’s ballbag and a smell to match. One particularly nasty group took the time to remove the sign from the outside of their branch and insert it into him, after several fraught seconds of discussion as to whether they should politely decline him or simply gravely injure his lower intestine. This is obviously hard for Tom; as with sex, fun and acceptance, he’ll have to go onto the Internet and open a bank account there. Even this is hard, as after years of constantly having to feel his fingers, his keyboard has learned to despise him and is now content with releasing ever increasing amounts of mustard gas right into his pitted and pussy face.

Tom’s got an account now, though, with the only bank that’ll take him without demanding photo ID; the Aldershot and Ballbag Bank. Of course, there’s one small snag, because they don’t like him enough to open an account properly, so he gives them a ring. But sadly, this is the last phone call he’ll ever make. The call centre rep recognises Tom’s voice and takes swift and immediate action. He reaches through the phone and drags Tom kicking and screaming into the call centre, which in his honour has been converted into a fully fledged torture arena, filled with clubs, burly neo-Nazis, chemical weapons and, of course, very sharp objects. After being thrown onto an initial conveyor belt, Tom spends four hours being gored with gigantic bits of broken glass, having tear gas injected into his bloodstream, being smacked repeatedly in the crotch with boards with nails in them until the killing blow is dealt: a gigantic man, at least 7 feet tall, throws Tom to the floor, squats on his man-titted chest and punches his disgusting head clean through the Earth’s crust.

Epilogue: Two thousand years later, scientists with no knowledge of today unearth Tom’s long since buried head. Through a bizarre form of racial memory, they do not recall who it is, but they do know that they should despise them and destroy them, leading to them using Tom’s skull (in no particular order) as a football, a chamber pot and an object for testing the smashing power of heavy duty electric hammers.

Valuntyne

Tom is unbearably ugly and fat, but even the ugliest and fattest of us (and that is actually Tom) needs to have someone to love and who loves him. Tom also believes that the fact that he’s entirely obnoxious, and enrages even shop assistants whose entire dealings with him have lasted 20 seconds into forming vigilante anti-Tom groups, should be no impediment to a long-term relationship. But he’s not stupid – or at least not fucking thick enough to think he’ll get anywhere with anyone face to face, at least not until he’s made them drink two litres of methylated spirit and eat an entire field of skunk plants. He’s going to try Internet dating, which suits him right down to the ground because he doesn’t like leaving his computer except to find a Kleenex after he’s blown his load over yet another new download of Japanese lolita manga pictures.

After inputting all the details he can about himself, including stating, whimsically, that he’s “large and in charge”, he gets to searching all of the available females in the surrounding area for age, interests and willingness to let a fat spotty retard into their vadge within 20 seconds of meeting up. This doesn’t take him long, considering that nobody shares his interests (which are limited almost entirely to things that everyone else in the world considers dull or actually nauseating). He therefore aims to just find anyone who’s single and wants to fuck someone who looks, on a good day, like a sweating pink Michelin man with a miniscule erection. This succeeds; Tom has found his prey, and he cuts straight to the chase; subscribes to the site, asks for her address, gets it and rings his local taxi firm. Right, he thinks, tonight will be the night I finally get the chance to inject my fetid tartare sauce of love into the soft, wet womanly passage of someone who is neither canine nor unwilling. He gets into the taxi, tips the driver with a crisp new £10 note and knocks on the door of his exciting new paramour…

To be greeted by a stocky, bald Popeye lookalike wearing nothing but a tattoo of a swastika and a manic facial expression roughly similar to the one you might expect Peter Sutcliffe to wear after opening a particularly large gas bill. The unnamed man, who for no reason whatsoever is named Barry, wastes no time in turning Tom into a squealing, vastly oversized teacosy-alike for his cock, pausing every 20 seconds to beat the rotund little twat with a splintery plank of wood. Finally, finished and satiated, Barry turns around and kicks Tom hard up the arse, sending him flying out of a first floor window into a skip filled with HIV-infected medical sharps, 6 inch long oriental cockroaches and rusty nails, where he stays for a full four days until anyone can ship in the huge crane required to lift him; not that they do, of course, preferring simply to stand back and throw bricks at him out of the first floor window, causing him untold cranial damage and making Barry a millionaire from his new tourist attraction, which he eloquently names as “Cunt In A Skip.”

A Very Special Christmas

It’s Christmas time in Tom’s house; even his parents don’t like him so he hasn’t got any gifts, and the last time someone lit up a roaring fire in the household it was to Tom’s clothes while he was wearing them, but nonetheless Tom is full of Christmas spirit. And, if his mum finally carries out her plan of poisoning the little fucker to save everyone else in the world the trouble, methylated spirit. He’s bought everyone expensive presents (to get the money for which he had to sell his loose flabby bottomring to travelling gypsies) and written everyone handmade Christmas cards. But still, nobody likes him, because he’s just such a total twat, and no amount of cards or shinies will make up for that.

Finally, the centrepiece of Tom’s three-prong Christmassy attempt to make someone, anyone in the whole world think he’s anything other than a pointless  cockgobbling piece of shat out bollock; he’ll create a delightful Flash video of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”, featuring Santa Claus, dancing snowmen and finally a tap-dancing Tiny Tim, performing astonishing stunts with his crutch. Tom spends a good sixteen hours recording audio, making cartoons and tweening motions. All to make someone like him. Finally, after finishing his masterpiece, he uploads his finished work to YouTube. Rudolph is there, Santa is present, the snowmen are dancing and Tiny Tim is somehow doing the splits. It will be sure to draw a crowd.

But, alas: Tom’s fat fucking fingers can’t draw, and in making the subtitles for the song, he’s managed to make it about “Adolph The Big Black N****r”. Almost inevitably, it takes roughly 20 seconds before, seizing the next available chance to teach the stupid twat a lesson (the lesson always being “don’t breathe, die in a fire please”, a horde of angry people storms up to his front door and sets about making this a Christmas the obese racist dickhead will never forget. The handmade Christmas cards are rolled up and forcefed to him, the expensive gifts inserted one by one into his urethra, and finally the entire 6 foot Christmas tree shoved up his planetesque bum, decorations and all. One of the assembled villagers then realises; the local poor children still have nothing to eat! Eschewing the traditional ASDA SmartPrice turkey, tinned carrots and stuffing, they grab the nearest piece of fatty, tasteless meat they can find; the one that is by now crying in agony in the corner with an iPod down his penis, bits of chewed up cardboard between his teeth and a tree in his rectum. After hours of roasting, preparation, basting and seasoning, Tom’s cooked carcass is taken to the nearby council estate, where it is paraded around and provides ample food for the suffering men, women or children of the town, who tuck in quickly and hungrily. Finally, someone likes Tom… if only with roast potatoes and cranberry sauce. MERRY XMAS!!!1111

Everyone Hates Tom: Job Interview

Tom is hopped up and happy; he’s been offered an interview at the local discount cosmetics store, and he’s determined not to fuck up like he did the last time. He has it set in stone that this time, he won’t molest anyone’s children and if he gets told they’ll get in touch he won’t burn the shop down for a laugh while masturbating in the high street.

He’s not that thick (OK, perhaps he is that thick, and maybe a little more so, yes that’s it) so he’s picked out some decent clothes from his wardrobe. He’s made particularly sure that he chooses the clothes that haven’t previously been used as jizzrags, and that he wears a strong deodorant and aftershave to cover his usual odour of pig shit and overripe Brie, once famously mistaken for an early warning of an overflowing sewer. This time, he tells himself, he’ll get a job. A well paying job, that doesn’t involve sexual favours or much degradation.

Early on the morning of the interview, Tom wakes up, bathes in the requisite 400 gallons of cologne and prepares himself for a conversation that might well change his life. He walks into the shop, and comes out an hour later… employed! Happy with his newfound success, Tom is immediately set upon by a gang of drunken, psychotic neo-Nazis who especially like violence, who spend a good three hours ripping every single soft piece of tissue on Tom’s massive stinking body into ribbons, every so often pausing to take a pneumatic drill to where his balls would be if they were visible to the naked eye. Not entirely content with this level of beating, they take the still conscious Tom over to their newly built torture centre, where they make him swim for fifteen days solid in a gigantic vat full of broken glass, TCP and lemon juice, only allowing him to stop so as to give him his only allowed form of sustenance; fresh piss delivered right into his mouth by a man with chronic cystitis and herpes. After this fifteen days, Tom is allowed out of the torture center, where he is buggered senseless by a deranged junkie with a fifteen inch penis, who even in his addled state hates Tom; he’s only too happy to give the by now grotesquely dismembered little cunt speed AIDS, causing his immune system to fail over a period of 25 seconds. Finally, as his last 25 seconds passes, a feral cat scratches the little shit’s eyes out, leaving him alone, blind and bleeding in an alleyway; a fitting way to die, and the way he should have been born, really.

Everyone Hates Tom: Rickrolled

In the next episode; Tom is busy going shopping, when he discovers to his dismay that a group of forum users, annoyed at such a sack of shit’s continual existence, have decided to make his life even worse by Rickrolling him; Rick Astley is now following Tom around, singing his massive 80s hit “Never Gonna Give You Up” constantly until the hateful little prick dies. Astley does this pro bono (i.e. for free, for the benefit of the whole human race – which, make no mistake, is what Tom killing himself would be), and all of the people who have to suffer Tom’s nauseating presence day in day out willingly collaborate, even allowing Astley’s energetic dancing and singing into his college classroom. His classmates, although deterred by the crooning, are willing to put up with a couple of days of aural discomfort if it means that they don’t have to hear Tom, a complete wanker so fat and ugly his dad was convinced his wife had fucked a warthog nine months prior to his birth, incessantly droning on about some anime he saw last night which only four people in the world have seen, three of which only watched it on the offchance that a Japanese schoolgirl would get fucked up the arse by a giant octopus with cocks for tentacles (and one of those was Tom). Even shop assistants consider the ongoing Rickroll to be far less irritating than Tom alone.

Finally, after several days of enduring a ginger Northerner singing at him, Tom flips. Frothing at the mouth, he dances naked on top of the college building singing a rendition of Never Gonna Give You Up that’s all his own, rendering it tuneless and somehow fat. Then, several hundred incidents of people looking upwards and being incurably blinded by the sight of everyone’s least favourite blubster later, a firearms unit is called in to snipe him off the roof – four members of which are left blinded with post traumatic stress disorder. Although they’d witnessed the horrors of riots, Fallujah and a street shoot out, nothing had prepared them for the sight of Tom with no clothes on. Finally, after the steeliest member of the team is called in, Tom is knocked dead with a headshot, falling off of the roof directly onto a working sculpture of a giant food processor made by a third year art student, turning his lumpen body into a bloody, greasy geyser for all to see – a sign of both hope and justice for all concerned.

Everyone Hates Tom: The Holiday

It’s summer, and Tom has saved up enough pennies from his day job of masturbating frantically on webcam to hordes of absolute perverts (as noone else will employ him for fear of catching AIDS) to afford a two day break in the West Country, where he hopes to finally find someone thick enough to actually want to sleep with him. After surviving the train journey down, where he is almost thrown off the side of the train while it is moving at 100mph for no other reason than that he’s a cunt, Tom immediately sets out to have it off with as many cross-eyed fleshwastes as his puny, undersized penis will accommodate. To this end, he enters the first pub he sees, The Cock and Harp, and attempts to chat up as many nubile young women as he can in the space of half an hour, earning him no shags and plenty of kicks into his medically-irrelevant ballbag. Finally, down on his luck, he tries the only girl left in the pub, and succeeds! Hopped up on the revelation that he will, for once, get a shag, he eagerly follows the girl back to her flat… but alas; the girl turns out to be a burly sailor in drag with forearms the size of cinderblocks, who is into making young, inexperienced boys from the Home Counties endure violent, incessant buggery until they die.

Dazed, violated and dripping blood from every available orifice, Tom makes his way back to the train station, where he is immediately set upon by a horde of unionised railwaymen, who take the opportunity to throw him underneath a passing express train on the grounds that having to transport such a pointless waste of chromosomes for any period of time constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, constructive dismissal and, if nothing else, a really fucking annoying pain in the arse. Although surviving , Tom’s last hours are spent nasally ingesting the liquidised shit, piss and used bog roll spurted out the bottom of every through train until, having enough of this cruel and pitiful life, he stands up defiantly and is sliced clean in two by a special promotional train sponsored by the Nev-R-Blunt Kitchen Knife, Razor and Buzzsaw company fashioned in the shape of a gigantic razor blade. Even in the afterlife, not content with already making everyone’s life a misery, his assorted fat globules are spread far and wide over the tracks, necessitating a three months decontamination and cleanup by Network Rail in which five people needlessly perish – all in the name of one fat cunt.