Sinzine

For the first few days it came as a relief.  But when a week had passed, and still the complaints department at SinZine HQ lay silent, it became obvious something was up.  Or rather down  See, our bearer of bad taste, Sex0r, had gone AWOL, and a painstaking search eventually located him in the deepest pits of Hell.  By then, week had gone by without a complaint - nor column, or single cry of 'cunt' from the potty-mouthed scribe himself, leading some to ask just what Sex0r had been doing all this time?  We soon wished they hadn't asked, as he launched into a terrible tale of murder, messy break-ups and grave misunderstandings...


Hello, cuntmongers. A lot of shit's gone on since my last column - The News of the World has closed down, Cheryl Cole is risking her heart (and her sexual health) by rekindling her relationship with Ashley and Ryan Dunn ironically died in a car accident after being famous for shoving a toy car up his backside. Some people have called it tragic, I call it karma. You disrespect the cars, the cars'll fucking disrespect you. Anyway, it's been ages since I've written a column because life has been raping me harder than a boxer rapes his sister, so instead of writing I've been busy trying not to kill myself. I know that 90% of you would love nothing more than to see me dangling lifelessly from my shower rail and I'm all about pleasing the fans, so that's what I did. You'll be pleased to know I'm currently typing this from Hell. The climate's nice, feels good on my scales, but I don't enjoy the company. It's full of journalists and Jehovah's Witnesses and they hate me. I like to play practical jokes so I wait for the Jehovah's Witnesses to begin their daily ritual of being complete cunts and interrupt with a ring of the doorbell. When they answer the door, looking bemused and disgruntled, I throw water balloons filled with the blood transfusion they denied their crippled, rotting child at their head and scream "THEY'RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!" I thought it was pretty funny the first few times but they've lodged an antisocial behaviour complaint against me so I don't think it'll be long before I get kicked out of Hell again and have to hitch a ride to England on Joan Rivers' back as she makes her monthly escape.

 
 So, what led up to this tragic state of affairs? Well, firstly my micropenis-toting boyfriend ditched me and moved out because he woke up while I was trying to harvest his kidneys. I need the money for prescription painkillers and don't have any children to steal from so he was the next best thing, naturally. He took a different stance on it and accused me of being all kinds of ridiculous stuff - a monster, a psychopath, all of that sentimental bollocks, so he packed his collection of female lingerie and left.

I spent the first fortnight of being single again doing the usual shit - I'd stay up until 3am listening to Celine Dion records and crying into a glass of red wine, whining to my friends (that's such a lie, I don't have any) and carving "LOVE ME" into my buttocks with a scalpel, sitting on a piece of paper and posting it to his new address in an effort to win him back. To start off with it looked like it was working, he'd send the police round to tell me to stop it and eventually even sent me my very own psychiatric nurse who injected me in the face with Valium, so I was feeling pretty good. He obviously cared for my well being and it wouldn't be long before he was back here, shackled to my toilet, patiently waiting for me to lay a brick in his mouth like the good old days. I was wrong. He actually slapped me with a restraining order and sent his beast ex girlfriend to come to my house and stab me in the face with a shoe.

Secondly, I got arrested for prostitution. Allow me to tell the story. After recovering from the initial shock of single life, I went on the prowl for some new cock, which seems a perfectly acceptable thing to do, right? I got my asshole bleached, shaved my balls and gave my bowels a good cleaning out with a funnel and a bottle of white spirit - the obligatory 'shit, shower and shave' routine is a must. Turns out it's like riding a bike - I visited all my old haunts just like old times. I checked out the local gay club, the toilets in the park and Michael Barrymore's swimming pool, all of them teeming with big veiny dick. I managed to land myself a few half decent shags which made me feel better about myself (I didn't make them wear a condom so they'd like me more) and one bloke even asked me for my number, which I gave him. My phone rang a few days later and it was him! My tummy did a little somersault, which it hasn't done since I went quadbiking on acid. So I answered in my best sexy voice and asked him what he was wearing which turned out to be a really bad thing to do because it was his wife on the phone. Busted. She started crying and screaming and saying I'd ruined her marriage which I felt was reasonably unfair as clearly she hadn't been putting out enough if he was off shagging people like me. People don't like to accept responsibility for their own problems, do they? I'm sick of being the scapegoat.
   Twenty minutes into her drooling incomprehensibly down the phone she informed me that her husband professed to have been lured into paying me for sex by one of his single friends and was prepared to testify in a court of law if it would prove how sorry he was. Brilliant. I tried to correct her but in true deluded housewife fashion the dumb bitch wasn't having any of it, so I gave up and told her I'd look forward to seeing her husband and his inflatable butt plug in court. I quite like going to court, it gives me a fabulous excuse to bust out the Chanel suit and practice crying on cue, which is a handy skill for when your whore Grandma dies and everyone expects you to be upset.

Next thing I know I'm walking my alligators around the park and the filth jump out of a meat wagon, batter me in the spine with an asp and cuff me - it was all very sexy but totally uncalled for. I had to spend 8 hours in a cell with no cigarettes until I was given the opportunity to make a statement, which I was happy to do, but the policeman didn't write anything I said and instead drew a picture of a moose eating its own placenta. I guess he was too tired after a long day of shooting Brazilians on the tube to do any real work, which is fair enough. I get pretty sleepy after a long day of taking my spite out on black people too. So, with the minimal help from the police and my solicitor refusing to talk to me after he caught herpes from sharing a straw with me (he was sucking another bloke's spunk out of my asshole with it, dirty beggar) I actually began to panic a little bit. What would happen if I got convicted and sent to prison? I'd have to quickly assert myself as a living glory hole who can't perform his desired function when he's being chained to a stove while it's on, which would hopefully prevent systematic rape and torture. But what if it didn't work? I couldn't face it. Radical action needed to be taken.

So, I crosschecked his phone number with his address and donned a black balaclava and a crowbar, planning on battering his head in until he agreed to tell the truth. Guess what? That went fucking wrong too. I broke in through the back door and his German shepherd bit my leg so I instinctively rammed the crowbar through its jaw, spraying its brains all over the walls and sending me flying backwards into a mirror. Upon hearing the mirror smash his teenage son came to investigate, and when he found me picking dog brains out of my eyelashes came flying at me with a baseball bat. Now, I can do things with a baseball bat you don't even have names for, so this wouldn't usually be a problem, only it's not normally my throat the baseball bat is being aimed at so I had to react in a bit of a different way this time. So, I dodged out of the way, punched him in the nipple which winded him, and stamped on his face as he hit the floor. He began to cry and beg for his life which gets me so horny it's ridiculous, so I just had to take the opportunity to tie him up and wank in his mouth. Problem is I ejaculate like a stallion so he drowned. Bummer. Realizing that shit was getting more real than I'd ever intended I began to freak out a bit, which was bad timing as now the man himself was flying down the staircase having heard the kerfuffle. When he clocked it was me his open mouth and raised eyebrows indicated he was excited to see me which was pretty sweet given the circumstances. Nice really... would have been good to see where that could have gone... whatever. So, he starts screaming and saying he was going to phone the police and I just couldn't stand the thought of MORE police in such a short time frame, so naturally, he had to die too. I won't go into graphic detail about it but I will say that it involved a biro to the jugular, hydrochloric acid and a cement mixer. I ditched the dog and the kid as well (took one last face shot on the kid, looked like a plasterer's radio with rigor mortis) and waited for the bitch wife to come home and finish her off too. Thing is, she crept through the door a few hours later with a Prince Albert ring hanging out of her vagoo and a half drunk bottle of Tequila in her handbag and upon realizing that I'd broken in and offed her brood, threw her arms around me and thanked me. Turns out the bloke was into little boys and used her son to lure them back to her house and make them put their tiny child fists in his rectum while he spat in their eyes and the guilt of harbouring him had been destroying her inside for ten years. She told me that, had it not been for my massive fuck up resulting in the entire family's massacre, she was going to send the photo albums of said child molestation to the police then slash her wrists on his next birthday anyway. So I may have ended a few lives, but clearly liberated another, so my conscience is actually reasonably unscathed. She promised to stick to the story we came up with (black kids from the local estate - standard) and left to start a new life with Juan, the Mexican flamenco instructor who likes to put jalapeno peppers in her pussy before she goes to work.

As for me, I've decided to lay off trying to find a new boyfriend for now. I'm going to use the time I have alone down here in Hell to really reflect and grow as a person. Perhaps I'll volunteer at a homeless shelter, or go and work with endangered animals. I really feel I've learned a lot from this ridiculous series of events.
    Being single isn't so bad. My Uncle might have touched me when I was a child, my Mum wanted to swap me for the afterbirth and I spent my whole school life being throttled with my own tie and this has made me a needy, attention seeking moron who relies entirely on the adoration of another person to feel important, happy and secure, but maybe if I learned to tolerate myself before I expect someone else to do it, the experience might be all the more rewarding in the end? Maybe it's about how I feel for myself, not how someone else does, and I shouldn't inflict my sickening co-dependency on some innocent mug who just wanted to spend time with me? Who knows internet, who knows.