Archive for January, 2017

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A neutron, the size of which is 1.00866491588(49) unified atomic mass units, which is still a billion times bigger than Donald Trump’s tiny penis

Remember when Trump was campaigning back in 2016, and when it looked like he was going to win everyone shrugged and talked about how his idiocy and racism was just a front, and that once he signed his name on the dotted line he’d stop acting like a whirling bucket of shit and start acting like the leader of the United States?  They were good days, weren’t they, because back then the actuality of this gibbering moron stamping his big, paint covered fists onto executive orders in lieu of signing them and then laughing in a slack jawed, unfocused way at his nearest flunky seemed like a pipedream.

Some of the saner minds have pointed out that an executive order is not enshrined in law, and that the order to build the wall is merely an option for companies to put in their bids for the costs, and that the order to re-open the Keystone XL and Dakota Access oil pipelines are merely so that the Army Corps of Engineers can finish their environmental impact statement on the areas the pipelines will be running through, but everyone knows this is merely the distraction from the proper card trick.  His actions concerning banning visitors from countries which he personally won’t profit from show clearly how his febrile, diseased, Caligulaesque mind works.  His actions since his inauguration have not been those of a considerate and thinking mind, but those of a stupid, tiny-handed gimp of a child, bawling hatred with a face covered in lard.  Trump is blundering spite, privileged whining and bigoted hyperbole made flesh, much as Farage – the puppet which aims to please – is the UK’s version, endlessly banging the high-top table until it gets the dinner it wants.

I get the feeling Trump is firing out these executive orders just to go ‘nyeh’ at the establishments which point out what a gimpy little spanner headed dick he is, with a micro-penis so small even gnats laugh at how tiny it is.  The mainstream media has courting him relentlessly when he was the comedy clown, blundering through the campaign and making his fellow nominees chuckle at his wacky antics.  Now the fucker has his hands on the button and is dead set and proving what a big boy he is and how he can poo in the grown-up’s lav.  This WILL get worse. He’s stamped down on immigration, Mexicans, the climate, sacked anyone who spoke out against him or rescinded his orders and has shoe-horned in his glassy eyed, Nazi saluting wall of Yes men to tell him how big his balls are, and this party will keep on rolling until it stamps all civil liberties into the history books.

From a UK perspective it’s pretty sickening to have May fawning over his insane actions and rhetoric, but then May’s so desperate for any trade now we’re shafting the EU up the marmite he could slap the Queen around the face with his mouldy old cock and she’d still come shuffling along behind him, tugging her forelock and asking for a few spare coins for the gas meter.  It doesn’t help that Farage has been barking and quacking away in the background, hoping for a sniff of a position in the orange twat’s Regime of Bollocks and Hate.

On the plus side the resistance has been strong, with even the more socially conscious Republicans coming out against his unconstitutional bullshit, and people in positions of power telling him to knob off, but then Trump’s response will be to fire and deselect those who stand in his way, gag the press, do a big shit on a podium and tell the world it’s gold, and then hustle in a new era of state-sponsored insanity.  Let’s hope the voices of dissension which refuse to be kowtowed grow stronger.

Incredible!  Mass protests around the world at Donald Trump’s actions and none of the toadying right wing press are covering it on their splash headline.  The nearest we get is The Torygraph and a photo of the protests, although their headline is the call from David Moffett not to neglect the elderly.

Since The Corner has nothing to report on, we’ll just print a picture of how right wing editors view the scene outside JFK:

 

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The White House Lawn reimagined by Paul Dacre

 

Cunt Papers:

The Mail: 13

The Telegraph: 12

The Express: 10

The Times: 5

The Sun: 4                                                                               

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 21

Tory Wank: 7

Foreign Aid Madness!: 4

Trump Wank: 4

Public Service Bullshit: 3

Be Scared!: 2

Anti-migrant: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 1

Anti-Labour: 1

 

 

Only one today as The Torygraph rattle the sabre for the Conservative Party and Boris Johnson in particular with ‘Boris keeps US open to Britons’, as though the Jim Henson creation himself personally went over there and put Trump in a headlock until the madman capitulated and let residents of Blighty in.  Absolute cak, of course.

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As the missus pointed out in another story from CNN which didn’t make the UK headlines, if the US Customs require, as they’re talking about, visitors to release details of all the social networks they’ve visited before gaining entrance to the US, then me and her and completely fucked, as one look at Dispatches From Donald Trump’s Arse will convince them we’re ‘undesirables’ (an ‘undesirable’ being anyone who thinks Trump is an arse and his glove puppet Farage is a tiny, diseased penis).

Anyway, one point for Tory Wank.

Cunt Papers:

The Mail: 13

The Telegraph: 12

The Express: 10

The Times: 5

The Sun: 4

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 21

Tory Wank: 7

Foreign Aid Madness!: 4

Trump Wank: 4

Public Service Bullshit: 3

Be Scared!: 2

Anti-migrant: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 1

Anti-Labour: 1

 

 

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Aussie Park Boyz – an actual film.

A man walks into frame dressed in leather trousers.  He looks left.  He looks right.  Then he grabs his balls.  Welcome to the world of Aussie Park Boyz.

Aussie Park Boyz – the plot.  Um, well, lots of muscled men have fights.  Then they rip off The Warriors.  Then they rip off Then Wanderers.  Then they shout a lot.  Then they look left and right a bit.  Then they grab their balls (their own, not someone else’s).  There is also a lot of walking up and down stairs and in and out of doors.  We see this.

We see people – well, hands anyway – playing cards.  This goes on for 40 seconds uninterrupted.  Within two minutes the main character is grabbing his balls.  This happens quite a lot.  Then he punches a tree, because trees are shit.  Well, not even a tree – just a branch, because trees can be pretty tasty when they get angry.  Then they look left and right several more times.  We see this again.  Life is too short.

It’s essentially about gang culture in Australia and the prejudice of the Australian people to the Italian community, but really, it’s about an endless series of crotch shots of big, muscly men flexing their pecks and punching each other.  After a big fight where the main character, Bonzer O’Barbie (or something), stabs a man to death because he’s not grabbing his crotch enough, we cut to a long episode of big, muscly men working out in a gym (in a very macho way, darling).  This goes on FOR FUCKING EVER! After which they all go to a disco and rub oil on each other’s pecs – sorry, I mean, they go and have another fight.  The fight scenes end up looking like comedy brawls from a playground, which is half of the fun.

There follows an interminable scene where people eat.  Twenty minutes in and so far we don’t have a plot – just crotches and fists – and the first woman to appear in the film, although she’s just an extra having some food in the café.  Here we’re introduced to The Big Boss, a bloke with the acting capability of my pants on a bad day, who asks one of the main characters, Kangaroo McShrimpy, “You have quite a rep around town.  Why’s that?” to which the reply is “Maybe I’m just smarter than everyone else.”  Which is palpable nonsense.  Then they eat.  For ages.  We see this.

Then we get the major reason for Aussie Park Boyz existing, which is ENDLESS shots of people walking in and out of doorways.  This happens quite a few times throughout the film, and is excellent for stringing the running time out, otherwise we’d have a half hour film about crotch grabbing.  The point of this first major bit of walking in and out of doors is so The Big Boss can pour obviously cold coffee over an enemy with the most impressive mutton chops in cinema history just so he can “Prove a point.”  We never hear or know what the point is.  Maybe Mutton Chops hasn’t been grabbing his junk enough.

Our two main crotch-grabbing hero’s first assignment is to take part in a drug deal where they end up beating a man to death and are then promptly nicked for Crimes Against Acting.  Once in choky they immediately get down to some good old fighting, randomly punching people whilst being mocked by some of the finest mullets in the world.

I get the distinct feeling a lot of the dialogue in this film is improvised, as – whilst being transferred to their cell – the two main characters keep repeating “So, where’s the Penthouse suite.  You must have a Penthouse suit, eh?  Penthouse suit.”  Shakespeare – eat your knob off!

After an interminable ‘doing time’ montage, our heroes are told they could be out within four months, as long as they don’t get in a fight or grab their crotches, but oh no, by ordering someone to get them a drink of water, our heroes have pissed off the prison big boys and then everyone has a big fight, which takes on one of those ‘Water Margin’ style tussles which sees everyone not involved in directly getting biffed stand around, looking like they want to have a fight, but in an orderly manner.

But it matters not, because our boys are out if the clink and ready to spend a good deal of time walking about a bit with the rest of their gang, followed by a serious bit of standing around on railway platforms looking like rent boys.

This is the mid-point where Aussie Park Boyz starts ripping off The Warriors.  They walk into a hotel where a woman actually gets a speaking role.  The APB then walk up a flight of stairs.  All of them.  In a big line.  We see this.  They then enter a room.  All of them.  In a big line.  We see this as well.  They then leave.  All in a line.  WE FUCKING SEE THIS TOO!!  They’re like flocking birds, following some strange, avian instinct to move where the wind takes them, which is usually up and down staircases.

But staircase-related tomfoolery is not enough for our heroes and their gang end up playing pool, where the brother of the bloke who was killed in the opening scene decides a bit of punching is called for.  After a brief fracas, followed by the proclamation “Alright, boys, no more fighting” which immediately brings an end to the fight, Aussie P Boyz turns into Xenophon’s Anabasis as our heroes have to fight their way home through enemy territory.  A bit like The Warriors.  But with more crotch grabbing.

For no reason whatsoever we jump to a Maori street fighting initiation ritual, which involves a surfeit of punching.

Then it’s back to (guffaw, chortle) the plot.  Bloke whose brother got killed walks up some stairs and into a room looking for brother-killing-bloke.  Nothing happens.  The big bloke from prison who has the Water Margin fight with our main characters sends his girlfriend home, where she is kidnapped by the bloke whose brother was killed, whereupon she’s promptly attacked in an improbably grim rape scene completely out of character with rest of the film.

Anyway, our heroes are set up as the people who raped the woman and the big boss from the Water Margin scene vows revenge.  Cut to a railway platform where our heroes are standing around and looking constipated, when The Baseball Furies – excuse me – some blokes in hockey masks and big sticks turn up for a bit of a slap about.  Our heroes escape, lose one of their lot, and then run up some stairs.  Meanwhile, the brother of bloke-killed-in-first-scene is calling up all the bad actors who like grabbing their crotch in the neighbourhood and squealing that the Aussie Park Boyz are up for a ruck!  Exciting!

This is followed by more ‘up the fucking stairs’ acting where our heroes come across a flat full of women and drugs (bit like that scene in The Warriors where The Warriors come across a flat full of women/drugs).  Since we’ve had five minutes without a fight we have a bit of fisticuffs and some of the worst acting this side of an Adam Sandler pic, followed by MORE WALKING DOWN STAIRS!!  HAVE THESE FUCKERS NEVER HEARD OF EDITING!!??

Blimey, you know what this film needs after an hour and twenty minutes?  More fucking walking.  This time down the middle of the street, because the Aussie Park Boyz haven’t quite mastered the pavement.  There follows a fight and then the main character punches a hooker, because this film is all about moral messages, and then there’s another fight which stops halfway through when one of the character’s shout “Alright, that’s enough!”  That’s it.  The Aussie Park Boyz are let go, for no reason whatsoever.  Then we get more walking.

With a cry “Asians!  Asians!” (ironic, considering the opening monologue was about minorities not being accepted) our heroes are set upon by Molotov throwing bad guys.  There is much running, this time up a multi-story car park for a bit of variety, and then the APB are improbably rescued by an Asian gang member for no reason, who appears to be killed so the Aussie Park Boyz can escape, although it’s a bit vague.  We see a machete, and then we fade to The Boyz walking nonchalantly up some stairs as though nothing has happened, whereupon they meet The Turnball AC’s – sorry – some skinheads, who chase them for a bit before yet another fucking tedious playground fight where one of The Boyz is killed.  Followed by some punching.

The gang is whittled down to our two main characters, who express their outrage at the injustice of life by punching in the shittest way possible.  And shouting.  Let’s not forget the shouting.

Anyway, one exchange of fists later and our hero, having torn the throat out of the leader of the skinheads, celebrates by punching everyone in the area.  Tired and punched out, they head off home for a lovely cup of tea.  Or they would do, but The Water Margin boys turn up, as well as all the others gang that have been involved in punching over the last forty minutes.  More punching follows.

In the end the woman who was raped turns up, clears our heroes, points out the bad guys who really did it who have turned up to watch some punching, and everyone goes home to watch films about unicorns.

They made a sequel to this.  Gord ‘elp us!

APB is an example of what happens when a bunch of mates get together and decide to make a film.  It rips off all the gang films you can think off, adds nothing original outside of more crotch shots than nature intended, and inhabits the area of no-budget film making where the spirit of the enterprise counters the common sense in making the fucker in the first place.  But it’s the absolute conviction of the piece which makes it a special entry into The Shit Film Club.  There’s no doubting that the people behind and in front of the camera are totally certain they’re making a piece of important cinema, and that kind of commitment should be applauded, even if the results are unintentionally hilarious.

Still, it has its fans, and it would churlish of me to mock them, especially considering the fact that I rate Speed Racer and Rambo 3 over La La Land.  Those without sin, etc.

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Grantchester Grind by Tom Sharpe – Still angry after all these years

Tom Sharpe is a particularly English author, in the same way that John Le Carre or James Herbert is.  He inhabits a world of stiff upper lips, sexual awkwardness and Spitting Image parody.  Deported from South Africa for taking the piss out of apartheid, Sharpe moved to the UK and set about ripping the shit out of British mores and inadequacies.  After ripping SA a new one with Righteous Assembly and Indecent Exposure he laid into the stuffiness of the English establishment with a series of books ruthlessly mocked the UK characteristics with vicious insight.

I first came across him when I read The Throwback, an insane book about stiff upper lip types going all out to evict tenants from a row of houses which they can then sell on.  It was violent, scatological, intensely sarcastic and incredibly funny.  When I was a kid reading these books it was the over-the-top violence and parody which drew me to his works, so more subtle works like Wilt and Porterhouse Blue got swamped in my enthusiasm for the more outlandish stories he concocted.

Grantchester Grind is the sequel to Porterhouse Blue, and involves the investigation into the death of the previous Master of the house, but also involves a tangle of sub-plots and Hogarth grotesquery’s.  Tim Sharpe writes characters with a sweeping pen, where every situation is pushed to its most hysterical peak, and every person is a blustering fool or a simpering idiot or somewhere in-between.  No punches are ever pulled.  There are no compromises with Tom Sharpe, and this is one of the facts which makes his works unique.  It’s Steve Bell levels of discontent and animosity towards the ruling classes, gleefully punching holes in the self-serving sense of entitlement these positions hold.  No one comes out smelling of flowers.  It’s Sir Henry of Rawlinson End levels of sarcasm heaped upon the ruling minority and their anachronistic rules and customs.  A happy contempt for the privileged classes runs through his works, which makes them richer and more biting because of it.

The Americans gets a fair old whack in this one, as a media conglomerate seek to capitalise on the reputation of Porterhouse with a documentary studying the university, and as with all Sharpe characters the figures mocked bare very little relation to reality, but do a very good job of kicking the shit out of national stereotypes.  But then all Sharpe characters are pickled with broad brush strokes, and are all the better for it.

Written in 1995, it’s lost none of its anger and hatred for injustice.  Peppered with several rants against British colonialism and US media dumbing down, Grind kicks arse where its meant too. 

In a world where Donnie The Elephant has gone completely crazy ape barmy and the right wing newspapers have decided to ignore his loony tunes policies about stopping people from countries which don’t have big US arms deals (like Saudi Arabia and Pakistan) from coming into America, one paper stands proud by printing a story straight from the 1950s about political correctness gorn mad.

Yep, those old pig fuckers The Daily Mail have pounced on some bullshit about NHS doctors and pregnancies and the correct terms to use in regards transgender issues.  It’s a bit of a non-story, but at least it keeps their readers distracted from this large, orange psychopath with tiny hands tearing through the US and doing a big dump all over the constitution.

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This has sparked a new Cunt Category – Political Correctness Gorn Mad!, which receives its first point due to Paul Dacre just being a bit of an arse, really.  One day the Mule will move into the 21st Century and stop printing articles about gay space hoppers corrupting our nation’s youth, or something equally bizarre, but until then we have to put up with this retro bullshit.

Cunt Papers:

The Mail: 13

The Telegraph: 11

The Express: 10

The Times: 5

The Sun: 4

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 21

Tory Wank: 6

Foreign Aid Madness!: 4

Trump Wank: 4

Public Service Bullshit: 3

Be Scared!: 2

Anti-migrant: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 1

Anti-Labour: 1

 

 

The Future

Trump has disbanded the Senate and declared himself Supreme Ruler of the United States, backed by Russia.

In the UK, Parliament has been overthrown and Farage installed as Conqueror For Life.

All major cities have been walled off, and small bands of rebels fight to survive in the wastelands of the US and England.

The Story So Far: PUNCHFIST! has been sent on a voyage to America by Jeremy Corbyn to destroy the secret testicle (and fanny) punching machine created by Trump, but there is skullduggery afoot

Now read on…

As PUNCHFIST! and Spodworthy made their way through the packing crates of the make-shift dock a young ne’er do well in an oversized flatcap and coat, braces holding his trousers up, a bit of coal dust on each cheek and a cockney demenour sidled up to them in a ‘cor blimey’ manner.

“Excuse me, Mr. PUNCHFIST!, sir, strike a light and no’ mistakin’,” said the chirpy gutter snipe as he took a moment to jump up and click his heels together and nod a cheeky wink at them.  “If ain’t be moi place nor nuffink nor never cor blimey apples and stairs lumme o’crikey to say nuffink not never out of order nor etc, but I have this ‘ere message to give to you in a lovable cockney manner, dog and phone, plate of feet, and so on and so forth.”

“Of course, young stereotype!” boomed PUNCHFIST! in the quietest way possible, which caused several dogs to howl and glass to shatter in all buildings in a ten mile radius, and held out his hand.

The cockney street urchin handed a folded piece of paper over, and with a cheeky smile and another wink for good measure he scampered off into the darkness to rob an old lady.

PUNCHFIST! opened the message.  ‘TRUST NO ONE!’ it said.  Intriguing.  PUNCHFIST! would have to contemplate the meaning of this omen, as soon as he’d met with the Captain of the ship he was to sail on, The Jolly Bastard.

“Aye, we be sea-faring folk,” said the Captain as he hobbled over on one leg, the other a pegleg.  He had an eyepatch, a parrot on his shoulder which kept squawking ‘DON’T TRUST THE BASTARD’, and a hook for a hand.  “Just humble traders on the high seas, is all.  I be The Dread Captain Kill the Passengers and Chuck Them Into the Briny – er, I mean, I be Captain Susan, and this be my merry band of legitimate seafaring businessmen.  I hear tell ye want passage to the promised land, eh?”

“No!  Just America!” yelled PUNCHFIST!

“Aaaarrr,” said Susan.  “There be many rich plunderings to be ‘ad over there, there be.  Doubloons and so forth.  But not for the likes of me and my crew.”

“We must make haste,” said Spodworthy, glancing around.  “Already Farage and his micro-penised bully boys could be on their way.  Hurry!”

“All hands to the decks, ya cursed scum!” yelled Susan as he turned to the crew who gave a mighty cheer, raising cutlasses and the odd blunderbuss into the air.  The Jolly Roger was hoisted up the fore mast and they set sail for the open sea.

#

PUNCHFIST! stood on the forecastle deck, contemplating the universe and his need to punch it, when Susan hobbled over to him and ‘Aaaarrr’-ed in greeting.

“I hear tell they call you ‘PUNCHFIST!’?” enquired Susan with a contemplative leer.

“PUNCHFIST!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “Er, I mean, I am merely a traveller to foreign climes wishing to experience the free state that is America, and not overthrow the crooked regime by PUNCHING IT!  PUNCHFIST!”

“I am a wily old seadog,” said Susan.  “Me and my travelling companions, Cutthroat McSlicey, Stabbyhead O’Knifey and the rest of us know a fellow pugilist when we sees one.  That we do.”

“What is this ‘pugilist’ you speak of?” asked PUNCHFIST!

“It be someone who uses their fists,” said Susan.  “Someone who uses their fists – dramatic pause – to PUNCH!”

“PUNCHFIST!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “I mean, ‘PUNCH… NOTHING!”

“Ye be PUNCHFIST!,” said Susan.  “But ye secret be safe with us.  For, after all, don’t we all have our own secrets.  But me, Robby McStealy, Plunder O’Bastard and Pirate O’Definitely, are just salty trading sea dogs, and be but innocent in the game of treachery.”

With a throaty pirate laugh Susan hobbled off to splice a mainsail and keel haul a swab.

PUNCHFIST! watched him go.  There was something off about Susan.  Something which may require a punching remedy to sort out.

#

“I say,” said Spodworthy as he sat down beside PUNCHFIST! that evening.  “I get the strangest feeling Susan isn’t being entirely honest with us.  Last night I caught them gathered around a brazier having a cackling competition, drinking grog, and plundering a couple of passing sailboats.  I’d almost hazard that they were pirates.”

“PUNCHFIST! has seen no evidence of this!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “Susan has been most pleasant to PUNCHFIST! and invited him to sit at the Captain’s table last night.”

“Really?  What did you have?”

“Nothing!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “I punched the table and broke it before dinner could be served.  Captain Susan then asked if I was willing to wager your testicles in a fight with his Quartermaster, Jemima.”

“And you said?”

“Yes!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “PUNCHFIST! would never back down from a fight!  PUNCHFIST!”

“Of course not,” said Spodworthy.

#

That night the crew gathered with much cutlass waving and ‘ah-harrrs’ on the Main Deck as PUNCHFIST! and a large eight foot wall with arms and a concrete block for a head squared up in front of each other, Susan between them.

“Now, remember, ye scurvy seadogs, I wants no playin’ fair!” he said to the two combatants.  “As much eye gouging and dirty tricks as ye want, and remember the pirate code – the testicles are there to be gnawed on!”

“Wait a second!” yelled Spodworthy, jumping between them.  “Did you say ‘pirate code’?  Why, we were led to believe this was a legitimate trading vessel and our passage (ooer, obviously) would be safe.”

“Well, ye be wrong,” ah-harr’d Susan.  “Now out of the way, ya landlubbin’ strumpet’s four eyed twat, for there be fightin’ to be had!”

Jemima flexed his monumentally huge pecs and slammed one enormous fist into his equally enormous palm, producing a sound like a thunderclap.  He extended one finger like a tree trunk and jabbed it at PUNCHFIST!

“I WILL DESTROY Y –“

“PUNCHFIST!” yelled PUNCHFIST!, and slammed a fist into Jemima’s lantern jaw, knocking him out.

There was silence.

“Of course, when I said ‘pirate code’, I really meant ‘lovely happy bunny code,” said Susan, slinking off into the shadows, but PUNCHFIST! reached a mighty hand down and plucked him off the ground.

“PUNCHFIST! put his trust in you!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “Now all is subterfuge and skullduggery.  PUNCHFIST! feels like PUNCHING SOMETHING!”

“Yes, we be pirates, but lovely ones,” pleaded Susan.  “Anyway, we be havin’ problems with our masculinity.  We be only plundering and lootin’ to hide our own inadequacy.”

“Aye, it be true,” said Quartermaster Jemima as he stepped forward, rubbing his jaw.  “Some of us has trouble accepting our place in society.  All we wants is peace and harmony.”

“Look!” said Spodworthy, pointing behind everyone.  “A galleon full of gold!”

“PLUNDER AND LOOT IT!!” yelled Susan as the entire crew pulled out their weapons and span around to see nothing but empty sea.

“’Peace and harmony’ is it?!” yelled PUNCHFIST!, shaking Susan.  “You may be pirates, but all PUNCHFIST! wants to know is who has paid you to betray me?!”

“Betray you?” said Susan.  “Why, no one has, young PUNCHFIST!  We still be on a stable course for the United States.  We be part of the revolution, so we be.”

“Then what…?  Who…?”  PUNCHFIST! was confused.  The message said to trust no one, yet he had no evidence NOT to trust Susan and his crew.  This confused PUNCHFIST!, and when PUNCHFIST! got confused there was much fist-related tomfoolery to be had.

He punched a passing whale and felt better.

“Maybe they be talkin’ about the other side,” said Susan with a knowing nod.  “I be careful once I be over there.  That’s all I be sayin’.  Aaarrrr.”  He hobbled off to  plunder a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

“He may be right,” said Spodworthy.  “After all, what do we know about this so called ‘General Ironballs’?  Nothing.  We must be careful.”

“CAREFUL!” yelled PUNCHFIST!, and carefully punched a passing shipmate for emphasis.

COULD THERE BE BETRAYEL IN THE FUTURE OF PUNCHFIST!?  WILL IRONBALL TURN OUT TO BE LEGIT!?  DOES RICHARD SPENSER HAVE A REALLY SMALL PENIS (YES)?

Tune in next week folks for episode four of

PUNCHFIST!