The unlucky gangster comes downstairs, not very urbanely, carrying a black case that might look a bit like a machine-gun case. His family are conversing noisily at the breakfast table. He passes them and greets them, but they don’t take too much notice of him. He bids them farewell and walks to the front door, where the camera is positioned, then he suddenly looks into the camera and confides:

“Boy, so lemme tell you what happened last night… I caught my, uh, how-do-you-do in the trouser press. But hey, let’s hope things go a little better today.”

What’s that I see reflected in your eyes, Daddy? Is it the falling mists of yesterday… no, it’s an un-ending string of Mother’s younger and more virile lovers.

Subject: re: New Message from your bank manager
On 31 May 2016, at 14:12, Alfonso Briceno wrote:
From: Alfonso Briceno <BricenoAlfonso77@best-pipe.ru>You have 1 new message from bank manager.
To read it, please open the attachment down below.

Thank you Mr Briceno.
You know, I’d completely forgotten that I banked with best-pipe! It had completely slipped my mind that the prestigious and accommodating best-pipe bank, based handily in warm and welcoming Russia, had attracted my custom. It must, you know, have got overlooked in the blizzard of correspondence that accompanies my many off-shore investments and hedge funds. Or maybe, indeed, it got overlooked in the blizzard of junk emails that I receive daily from crappy fraudulent twats such as yourself, most of which my email programme manages to intercept and quietly massacre. I get the impression, though, that now and again my email programme likes me to have a good laugh. “Hey”, it says, “you’ll like this one. You could do that
thing about, what is it, them fucking off and dying in a swamp!”. So I do.

Kind regards, grifgraf

Welcome to today’s daily “thing of the month club title”; exclusively for all members with a pulse. To sway gently, click here.

Today’s title, by courtesy of the Cullompton Fire Brigade, is “Concussion of the month“.
For more advice, or if you are on fire, contact your local fire station. See you tomorrow for another exciting “thing of the month club title” episode.

See a pin, pick it up,
All day long you can annoy people.

Chuckle brothers, might split. Kids outgrown, hence free to good home.
£25 or may p/x Christina Aguilera. Tel 90435380

Golf shoes brown beige size 8 wooden studs steel uppers hurt feet oh
used only once wrong size paid £75 went back wouldn’t swap will accept
£35, see? 607F-5H035, eves

Electric type OUCH! writer, totally safe OUCH! £25 OUCH! £15 ono
Also solar powered pencil, gas biro. Phone OUCH! 57163816

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Unless it’s a Fugu, in which case, ha ha, painful death.

Please welcome – Lars Strorr, The Intrepid Swedish Journalist, with his thirst for the empirical reporting of extreme activities:
“…end zer exhaust pipe here, this is very hot? …oooooooooOOOWWWwww!”

Rare creatures of the Print World

Every month Supercopiers (not their real name) would phone us up to
see how many copies we’ve done on our super deluxe printer. Naturally
this is far too boring for me to address in a sensible human manner…
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
From: copygirl@supercopiers.com
Hi grifgraf,
Please can you send your meter readings to us. Thank you for your help.
Kind regards, copygirl
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
From: grifgraf@superprinters.com
Hi copygirl
Our readings are as follows:
Black – 176,629
Colour – 338,838
Total – 515,468
Magic Rainbow Unicorns – 23
Hope that helps – let me know of any queries.
grifgraf
To be continued…

Hi Lucia
Thanks for signing off the covers.
First query.
Chackton Wigs, page 14.
It’s on the page plan as a quarter page.
But there’s only a half page landscape ad.
And it’s still only Monday morning.
Please reply in Haiku form if possible.
grifgraf

The halogen light on the designer’s desk was beginning to scour his eyes. Without taking his gaze from the laptop screen, he reached up to push the light away from his head. As usual, the casing of the bulb had attained a temperature normally experienced within scientific crucibles and minor suns, thus scorching his fingers without prevarication.

“Jesus pigging shitty bastard fucking fuckholes” the designer announced, less quietly than was absolutely necessary.

As if passing comment, the laptop chirruped its ‘new mail’ chirrup. Sucking his stinging fingers, the designer used his other hand to pull up the new communication. He frowned. It was from some yokel doughnut wanting a free poster for a local Americana festival. How, mused the designer, the fuck could it be Americana if it was set in the heart of Olde England?

The sender had requested inclusion of a logo which was attached. Through narrowed eyes the logo seemed clear enough, but when those eyes were widened, it became clear that the file was made up of a few dozen pixels at most, and would come out on the final job looking like a retarded child’s grubby fingerprint.

“Cunty bastard twatty shitbag wankpots” the designer commented, more quietly this time.

He frowned again as he realised that this would provoke a delay in the damn thing making a suitably swift exit from his in-tray, as he would now have to wait for the cock-bucketed whimpering knob-headed festival organiser to make contact with the basket-tossing pig-faced troll of a logo-creator in order to get the matter sorted.

“Jismy buggering turdbuckets” he whispered.

Clamping his teeth together with suffi cient force to make them squeak, he began to type, each finger jabbing with a force that he felt would be more appropriately directed into the leprous eyes of the venal festival organisers. Less than two minutes of this frenzy, though, seemed to advance the matter to his satisfaction.

“That would be totally cool. Can you get hold of a higher-res version of the logo, though Matey? That one will look a bit pants”

He pressed ‘send’, sat back, and belched.