♥ shhexycorin ♥

Miraculous piece of modern sculpture

After 5olly’s experiment to prove that Dave Gorman is a fraud, style ninja vork has recently taken on the shyster Gorman, with his daredevil creation, Glass, that has taken the modern art world by storm.

Gorman’s infamous rock balancing shenanigans have been shown to be nothing but a SHAM, as vork has clearly proven that he can balance things, on things that aren’t a rock. Fucking genius! The National Lottery should give him a grant. Or a new dobber.

Then shove his oily body in your laundry basket, wheel him down to the launderette and chuck him in the tumble-dryer. Add a box of caustic soda, three litres of coke and put him on HOT for an hour and a half. Safe and hygienic body disposal for about a tenner. Bargain.

Look at those shhexy bitches!

My uncle Roger fancies himself as a bit of a fashion designer and he’s always out to make a quick buck, so I wasn’t surprised when he came to me with this fantastic idea, a whole range of high fashion items, inspired by yours truly.

Eric took my past as a world-champion crocodile wrestler, for his basic inspiration, he added some pointy boots, a whole heap of shhexiness and KABOOM! The hottest oufits of the year!

It’s the talk of the town, everyone wants to look like little old me. You just wait, you’ll be seeing shonky sweathouse versions for a tenner, in Top Shop by the week.

I don’t have to wait though, Eric had a special outfit done for me:- a real crocodile head, proper fuck-me-boots and the Tshirt and hot-pants are lined with polar bear fur to keep me warm. I look a fucking treat when I walk round Waitrose.

It’s taken me a while to perfect the design, but I decided that I’d done enough procrastinating - it was time to bite the bullet and get it done!

It’s not that dissimilar to a tattoo my nan had.

The tattoo’s subject is something very close to my heart - cunt-punching has been a hobby of mine for many years now, ever since my mother first punched my cunt when I was five.

If you’re interested in learning about this exciting hobby, then contact your local Cunt Punchers’ Society, and they’ll happily lend you a hand!

Finally, the sad git has managed to convince a woman to spend more than five minutes with him, get naked with him and god knows what the fuck else, but they’re getting married!

Wonderful news, mainly because she’s a Brit, so he’ll be able to get a visa and move over here, and I need a bloke around to help me with the little things around the house.

Now, I do love my brother, but he is frightfully dull. So hopefully they’ll just live in Haslemere (where she’s from) and stay the fuck out of my life. If they try and move within spitting distance of me, I’ll call the Foreign Office and tell them he’s a member of the Tamil Tigers, I don’t want that sad cunt interfering in my happy little life!

One day I hope to be this shhexy…

Shhexycorin’s Pork Soup recipe has been a worldwide success since it hit the internet back in November. Now some cunts have stolen the recipe and made their own tinned version. You can see for yourself how disgracefully they are interpreting my creation!

The pigs they use are about twenty times older than the maximum recommended age for Pork Soup and the meat:stock ratio is about 1% of what it should be. Don’t get me started on the hygiene aspect of preparing soup like this… I’m all for a hands-on approach to cooking, but wading around in it is a step TOO FAR.

Dirty pikey cunts making Pork Soup the wrong way. They will pay.

Now the very worst of this is that people are serving this tinned crap at dinner parties and claiming that it’s a Shhexycorin Original! Their guests assume that the decomposing pile of vomit in front of them is actually how it’s supposed to be cooked and, when they get the squits the next day, my good name goes down even further.

Butch Kev, not gay.

If I find out that you’ve lied to your dinner guests about Pork Soup, I will spang you in the face with a very pointy shovel. Or I’ll send my mate Kev round to cleave you in two with his Axe of Pain. He’s dead butch, so you’ll probably shit your pants when he comes knocking at your door and die in a puddle of your own faeces. Ask yourself, is it really worth it?

You have been warned: DON’T EAT SHITTY PROCESSED FOOD AND DO NOT LIE ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE HAVING FOR YOUR DINNER.

An annual gala event, the Pole Idol competition, in Brighton, is open to any member of the public who wishes brave ridicule, in an attempt to seduce the notoriously picky panel of judges with their pole-dancing skills. And it seems that at least some people in this town respect my opinion, as I was asked to chair the panel and have the casting vote!

The organisers told me that, in recent years, the competition had got a little too sleazy, with old men in macs wanking over the contestants. This year they decided they needed a female to take the judges in hand and ensure things went off with a more wholesome feel. They couldn’t have asked a more suitable person!

Pole idol rejects: ugly cunts

I was utterly impartial in my judging, it was merely coincidence that all the girls were so shit at it they got chucked out in the first round. As were the fat men, the old men and the ugly men.

After a few more rounds of whittling down the remaining gorgeous young contestants from 100 to 11, I was stumped - I’d grown so close to the boys since the start of the competition, how could I say any one of them was the best?

So I decided to screw the rules of the competition and declared them all to be winners! Their prize? They each win a date with their beloved shhexycorin, with the explicit promise of some dancing round their own poles.

I am one lucky girl!

The winners - Couldn’t you just eat them all up? I did.

I’m a big fan of date-rape, Well, let’s be honest, who isn’t? After knitting (which is just fucking sick and should not be joked about), it’s the fastest growing hobby in the UK - it doesn’t cost much and is fun for all the family!

I love how people are being so inventive with it, this chap is clearly a genius. If he weren’t such an ugly cunt, I’d probably hunt him down and make him my love slave.

As it is, I’ll have to make do with raping myself. Again.

Wouldn’t you agree, baby you and me, got a shhexy kind of rape?

I’d spent weeks in the bush, following this tiger, when finally I got the shot I wanted. National Geographic offered me a six figure sum for it and I was about to go home, but my journalistic curiosity got the better of me, as ever!

The tiger had been acting funny, fluttering his eyes and twirling his whiskers at Clive, my native guide. Clive just laughed it off, but I knew there was more to it. That last night, I was swatting the mosquitos off my mimsy, when I heard curious groaning noises coming from the tent next door!

As I peaked my head into Clive’s tent, I couldn’t believe my eyes… There they were, eating pussy like there was no tomorrow, with a young cub watching, encouraging them… You might say he served as a fluffer.

It was all I could do to take a photo before having a good hard wank in the African darkness.

I could barely open my front door this morning for the pile of cards and presents that the postman had delivered. Luckily I had my miniature snow-plough ready for just this sort of occasion.

After ploughing through the trash from my millions of stalkers, I found something that touched me deeply… this piece of embroidery was clearly designed to melt my heart and render me naked with desire.

I’m not sure who it’s from…, I have my suspicions… but I daren’t get my hopes up too much!