The Thursday Vote-o gone Mad, on Acid

The Thursday Vote-o gone Mad, on Acid

Another Thursday swings round like a big swingy thing, with nothing to show for it but a nose-bleed and a craving for coffee so strong you can stand a spoon in it. To illustrate the level of boredom that my week has descended to (the highlight being a huge gash on my leg falling off a ladder whilst hanging our chav-tastic Christmas lights), I bring you no less than eight Scary Stories for your voting pleasure:

Standard disclaimer, because some of you still don't get it: The quotes have absolutely nothing to do with the actual story. They are, because of the manky humour gland gear-changes involved, the hardest thing to write on the whole site.

* The Operator: It was only months later that Professor Hawking realised what he had witnessed was, in fact, the Duke of Edinburgh as viewed from up Her Majesty's bottom. It was all the proof he needed to confirm his "Brown Universe" theory.

* Dazed and Confused: Gordon loved being Chancellor of the Exchequer, because he could get his revenge on a hateful society whenever he felt like it. For example, nobody ever asked him questions about the petty cash tin, so the three million pounds he had pissed up the wall on the Crazy Frog Christmas single went completely unnoticed.

* Potman: "I'm sorry Miss Widdecombe," the official with the clipboard said, sounding almost, but not quite sincere in his business suit topped with a builder's hard hat, "But the form does say we're not to leave the premises until you get your anal fisting. It's all here in writing, if you care to look. Don't blame me. It's regulations."

* Outhouse: He had read somewhere that you could make it grow by hanging heavy weights from the end. All well and good, but difficult to hide at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon when you're leading the line for Manchester United.

* Now, that's Magic!: As the cellar door slammed shut behind him, he knew full well he was trapped with a monster. A creature of unspeakable evil, the destroyer of worlds, the eater of souls. In short: Ainsley Harriot.

* Chimney o' Doom: Professor Hillingdon-Smythe spent months observing his subjects. Lying low, keeping out of trouble, he could observe their every move, every little nuance that the group made. He made copious notes on their behaviour, language patterns and mating rituals, hoping that one day, soon, we might understand what it is to be a "Chav".

* Dibs: It was the most amazing scam. Frank had managed to get hold of two thousand gallons of baby oil, a paddling pool and the services of some of television's most nubile female celebrities, just by using the words "I'm making a documentary for Channel Four". But now a clingfilm-wrapped Allsopp was asking difficult questions, and his brother still hadn't turned up with the camera.

* Pickle: It was a revelation that would rock the Christian church to its very core. There had been no five loaves and two fish. But why, thought Cardinal M'Buyo, why entrust the secret of The Lord's trip to the Galilee Happy Eater to Dan Brown, of all people?

I'm not going anywhere today, so I'll just stand here and urge you to vote, whilst simultaneously (and at the same time) invoking a mental image of Condi Rice getting it on back-door style with an only partially-aroused David Blunkett. It's the least I can do, and I will only stop if you pay me.

Update-o!: My referrer logs cannot lie. Which of you bastards googled this? As a gentleman and a loving husband, I'm not telling. Not for any money.