♥ shhexycorin ♥

Especially when you have all manner of freaky bastards following you round and trying to get into your tiny pants.

I don’t have so much of a problem with my many of my loyal and obedient fans, but this guy just totally got on my tits. Not literally, you understand, I wouldn’t let him near my delicate little buds.

No, this cunt was so lazy, he was wheeling himself round in a chair, no wonder he was such a fucking porker! He’d hardly be the most attentive of lovers, if he couldn’t even be arsed to walk, would he now? I need a man with vim and vigour. Plenty of spunk in him, you know?

You won’t read much in the Evening Argus about Brighton’s lemur population, but that’s because the editorial team are a bunch of racist fucks who only care about Brighton & Hove Albion’s determination to destroy the local habitat with their new football stadium.

The lemurs moved here after being driven out of their home because the natives disapproved of their shhexual proclivities and burned all the little lemur babies in a gross display of discrimination. They’d heard that Brighton was rather liberal and open to deviant sexual practices, and they weren’t wrong! They’re also notorious performance artists and, knowing of my skill in the field, asked yours truly to take some photos of their latest piece, the Super Shhexy Lemur Gangbang.

What a day! The lemurs were going at it hammer and tong for hours, taking each other in every possible orifice, but mainly up the arse. I think at the climax of the event there were twenty of them, sucking, licking and poking… I never thought I’d wish I was a lemur, but damn I wish I had a stripy tail and some wild stary yellow eyes…

Lemurs fucking each other senseless, the shhexiest sight I’ve ever seen

They were so pleased with my photographic work that, once they were done, the furry little buggers gave me some special attention of my own. God. I tell you, there’s nothing like a team of tiny primates nibbling at your cunt and tweaking your nipples. Best day’s work in months, ROCK ON!

My cocking family can be such fucking morons some times. Just because I’m doing alright here in England, they think they can muscle in on the action and offload some of their shit onto my shhexy little shoulders.

I thought cousin Bernard had gotten rid of most of his family to pay for his car, but it seems the cunt can’t keep his cock in his trousers - his missus just keeps dropping the little shits and they are finding it impossible to keep up the monthly repayments to the loan shark.

So they packed the oldest three into an envelope and sent them half way around the world to their favourite Aunty Corin! THREE KIDS? What the fuck was Bernard thinking? He can just cunt off, as far as I’m concerned.

They’d be perfect for working down the mines, or in a brothel.

Will someone please buy them off me? I haven’t got the space or the inclination to look after the bastards. They’re hard working, well behaved and perfectly house-trained. Well, except for the one on the left, she does have a pissy stench about her - but give her a quick spray of Febreze every hour or so and you’ll hardly notice!

Sold as seen.

The endless torrent of abuse pouring out of your mouth makes me fucking sick, you cunt. Your language is appalling.

Maybe you need to go to Twat Mangler’s School for Fucking Cunts.

I knew it. I just FUCKING KNEW IT. Those fat fucking sluts who set up a brothel up my street have been creating havoc in Brighton’s happy world of vice.

Never mind the mountain of litter, the condom shortage and the subsidence they’ve caused, these cheap heifers have declared war on one of the city’s most reputable establishments, The Playpen. This notable brothel has been plying its wares for many a year now and have won countless awards for impeccable service, including the Sussex Guild’s Business of the Year for five years in a row.

The fat slags have found it hard setting up their business with such stiff competition and so decided to mount an offensive against these kindly whores. They went to the Playpen the other day, armed up to the eyeballs and just started shooting. Luckily our favourite ladies-of-the night are always prepared and were packing their own pistols.

I tell you, it was like fucking Reservoir Dogs or something, bullets flying, no-one knew who the fuck was shooting who! Dead whores all over the place! The undertakers have been doing a roaring trade since, bodies keep turning up and they all want the most lavish coffins to be buried in.

Slut show-down - two whores about to shoot the fuck out of each other.

Not to mention that there’s now a fucking huge gaping hole in the market for prossies in Brighton, applications to the usual address please. No experience required.

The following is an excerpt from Clicky Clicky Gang-bang; The Autobiography of a Fucking Great Photographer by Clicky McPhotographer, to be published by Faber and Faber in Autumn 2007.

Mungo Clacton-Jackson
Official biographer of Clicky McPhotographer and editor of The Clicky McPhotographer Diaries

“Monday 4th May 1970, Kent State University, Ohio, USA

I stayed in America for the rest of May 1970 (getting fucking raped at the Indianapolis 500, no less) before returning to cover the General Election.”

My mate Theodore has been going out with this lovely girl for over a year now and I thought they were very happy together. Lately, however, he’s been making noises about how she doesn’t really make him happy in the “right way”. He’s also been saying that she really could do with losing some weight and that maybe taking her out for walks would solve the problem.

I thought this was all just a little glitch in an otherwise happy relationship, but I was horribly wrong. The other week he came out for drinks with us in The Essex. We had a great afternoon, talking shite, coming up with silly plans to cause mischief…

When he disappeared for a while, we thought he’d gone for a big shit, but it transpired that Ted had other things on his mind - he had his perverted eyes on the landlord’s mutt Megan and had decided to seduce her!

Theodore shoves his rancid tongue down Megan’s throat.

The landlord caught them at it and chucked us all out of the pub. I don’t know what to do now, Theodore’s one of my best friends, but I don’t want to see his bird get hurt by his philandering ways? What’s a girl to do?!

My mate, Dr Christopher Boueix, got his wrist broken when some drunken twat tried to beat him up. He’s getting between £1,000 to £4,000 compensation from the Victims of Violent Crime slush fund. Not bad going for a night on the town.

Chris was saying that you get compo for any violent crime, as long as you can prove that it has significantly injured you in some way. It is much harder to do this if the damage is merely psychological. Rape will, as often as not, fall into this category.

So, if you find yourself at the wrong end of a rapist, my advice to you is this: ask him nicely to make sure he gives you a broken bone or two - your nose, your ears, some ribs - anything really. If you’re very lucky, you’ll get a particularly well-endowed rapist who’ll break your pelvis in the natural course of things!

Just something to keep in mind.
:)

I received a missive from one of my readers this morning, asking for advice with their particular situation and I thought I’d share my response with you, in case you find my guidance useful yourself!

“Dear Shexxy,

Anonymous,
1454 Columbus street.
White Plains, Kansas”

Well, Anonymous, I’d suggest that you go and get your fucking head checked out. You talk to your cat? “She” grows drugs? Sounds like a classic case of projection to me, you twat.

I bet your neighbour has things like a girlfriend, mates and some semblance of social life? Pull yourself together, get a haircut, some Issey Miyake and maybe leave your house once in a while.

If you really want to fuck you neighbour over though, marijuana really isn’t going to get them put in the slammer for long. Why not invite a niece or nephew over and get them to accuse him of touching them in their special places? Why not? Because your family won’t let you near them, that’s why.

Good fucking Christ, you’re pathetic.

Artist’s impression of “Anonymous”

If you have a problem, if no-one else can help, and if I can be bothered, maybe you can Ask Corin.

The ongoing campaign to prove that Dave Gorman is a fraud took some exciting steps forward today, firstly, it went international and, for the first time, used LIVE things to do the balancing with!

My mate Arnold has always been a bit of a revolutionary, as a child his mother threw in front of numerous tanks during the Tianamen Square incident. It was only the fact that he’s always been a chubby cunt that saved his shit-stained life. Now he never goes anywhere without a kilo of lard in his back-pocket.

After he read all about Dave Gorman and his shitty balancing act on my blog, he decided to go the extra mile and try balancing his cat Phyllis on his own back. Ingenious! I have rarely seen such poise and skill when it comes to putting things on top of other things!

Arnold is a fucking clever cunt

The only trouble is he’s balanced it so well, now he can’t get the fucking pussy off him again! He’s been like that for a fortnight now, it was only because his cleaner found him trapped there that he managed to get his photo taken. You’d think that would be the reason behind his miserable countenance, but it isn’t.

Arnold is a fucking miserable cunt.