The ocean. With my housemates leaving for Fiji recently (to throw coconuts at the natives or some shit, I don't care) I've been bombarded with ocean adoration expressions like "can't wait for those warm, crystal clear waters". What do you think a bath is for, fuckhead? Unless you usually fill it up with tepid milk I can't see why you wouldn't just blob around in that - at least no-one will see your hand-woven pubes creeping out from under your fat-bag bathers, except if you've invited them in with you (and are wearing bathers in the bath for some reason). And a bath is shark free, which is great for me since I'm described on the "Maritime Species" list as "Bite Sized, Tastes Like Alf". I estimate that scientists estimate that the sea is 90% urine - if I wanted wee waves slapping me in the face I would have taken Zac Efron's role in The Paperboy and had Nicole Kidman piss on me instead (we're quite close after co-starring in "Australia" - I'm sheep #24, the junkie one with the limp). And don't get me started on the sand, every time I step out of the water I look like a spiced q-tip that someone used to mop their garden. No stars.
Tinned Oysters. The best thing the ocean ever did was let these mucoid vaginas suck on its floor. After initially being greeted by a waft of sweet dolphin breath each bite reveals a complex palate of salted loins, seahorse mane, velvet spermwhale milk and a cheeky dash of entrails, encapsulated in a pickled fetus wonderball just like mum used to make. They say that oysters are an aphrodisiac, but this actually comes from the brine - a smear of this viscous oil on your face and beard tells any bitch that you're keen to go deep and hard, and your moist smirk exudes a strong waft of yesteryear's ocean, displaying your free spirit and sending a message that you want to run away to the beach with her and fuck her on a crab. 5 stars.
|L-R: Neil, The Other One, Harry, Zayn, Louis|
Smoking. Fucking cool. Trust me, this is the one hobby that you will never regret taking up. All the fun of being a dragon with none of the scales (unless you get complications from diabetes but I'm pretty sure that only happens to other people). Lean on something while you've got a cigarette and all of a sudden you're the most dangerous cunt to ever be on a slant (unless you're leaning on your mum's bosom enjoying that classic smoke-and-breastfeed combination). Carry around pictures of everyone you're likely to run into and when you see them, burn out their eyes in the photo with the cigarette. BAM! Intimidation. "I'm sorry sir, but these presents are for the poor!" (melt her polaroid eyeballs and growl like Clint Eastwood having a gargle) "I guess you could have a couple." If you forget to brush your teeth before a job interview, buy a packet of menthol cigarettes and chew a few on your way in. Spit the wad at the receptionist and let her know who's in charge - hopefully she'll tell her boss that you have a natural authority about you, along with a fine fragrance of a mint plant in a smouldering napalm forest. If she doesn't, write your number on a menthol, chew it and spit it at her on the way out, then fuck her like she's the clown game at a funfair and you're trying to get your balls wedged in the number 5 slot - a headjob's still a job and one worth bragging to your parents about, maybe while sharing some delicious John West Smoked Oysters. 4 stars (so expensive these days, I've had to start selling my other holes).
When she's not absorbing things through her vagina, Fizz enjoys grunting like a seal pirate, having an underbite and staring at trees. If you would like her to review something, please leave a comment below, or write it on a menthol cigarette, chew it and spit it at her.