After spending 17 Fu**ing hours in the Fu**ing car I was still no close to the Fu**ing moon.
The only option I had left was to fly





The problem with this was that the jet pack hadn’t been used for years.

Not since that fateful day when Grandpa Syndrome had stopped off at the slaughtered lamb and had one whiskey to many.

So the story goes he decided to give the local parishioners a fright and in a drunken haze he got dressed as one of the horsemen of the apocalypse (pestilence I believe). Setting off towards the church where he proceeded to fly round the bell tower cackling and wailing at the top of his voice. Throwing the bird with one hand and supping Famous Grouse with the other.
Needless to say the god fearing Christian pensioner shat them selves and by this I mean literally the place was awash with the sh*** of a 1000 coffee mornings and cup cakes
the stench was unbelievable.
One poor old ba**ards colon went into overdrive filling his colostamy bag until it exploded in the face of his screaming wife and 3 obese midget daughters.
The Fu**ing retards believed it was judgement day.

All was going swimmingly until the local vicar appeared bearing arms

Taking aim

And firing 2 rounds

Got the poor old ba**ard straight between the thighs.

A modern day Fu**ing Castrati


The tw*t never flew again
But he had a fu*k of a good singing voice, made him a fortune it did.

The Italians love that sort of shit


And as for the moon

Fu*K it

I’m off for a wa*k