Pretty soon: Bad things happen to unremarkable people. Lizard-smoke is exhaled into a berk, and berks are called as such (berks, not lizards). Dirigibles and astral elixirs are in this season. Being cohesive, as usual, is out of fashion. Fashion is stupid as three and a quarter fucks fucking.
later on, after that shit: Three hombres mosey on into a quit town and trouble starts. Beer can almost be tasted through the water. Feathers are ruffled, necks are roughed, amounts of money that are less than trivial today are paid for goods services that cost ten to twenty times as much. Someone gets shot.
Much later: 1342 (a serial story redacted from this blog) is concluded. It makes much less sense than anything written here. An explanation and sample interpretations follow the final installation, to help people make up their minds about which part they like based on how clever they now think it is. Trick dice are used and the dungeon master knows all about it.
About a year later: Lizz Windsor, that slapper on England's throne (yeah, I said it. What're you gonna do, send me to the colonies?) gets sick of me talking smack about her, and commands that a new colony be founded, and that I'm to be sent there. Nobody can understand her writing, though, because the paper has been digested by a corgi. Later, it turns out that she was bathing in the blood of virgins. She is crushed whilst attempting to mount a horse. Prince Charles is royally chuffed that his wife killed his mother, and dies in that manner, aged 173. The bastard child of Diana, the people's princess (a ridiculous concept) takes the throne, because the other one is really boring. The media tells everyone this is exciting, and a bunch of people try to make money from it. Since the affair is televised, people assume it must be a good thing. North Korea's god-king becomes enraged because his cult of personality isn't as big or pompous.
After that shit: I start advertising. All content is removed from Regicide because the biggest advertisers (bogus diet plans and dick pills) don't want to be associated with word soup and berks. A berk shows up at my door with some free dick pills and I pay him with a can of word soup. The Pope calls me, but he used my old mobile number, and I can't hear the old phone going off because it has been buried in Darwin, and the battery is also flat. And, it has been stolen by a group of children who think they're tough. They use it to text lewd pictures of themselves and one accidentally sends a picture to the Pope. He is amused. He shows some of the other dudes in the Vatican, and they have a circlejerk in the Pantheon the next day.
2016: Front page news worldwide: When Eddie Murphy impersonates a white guy, that's what Tiger Woods sounds like. Everyone apart from my grandfather laughs.
Soon after that: Alan Jones dies from a fatal epiphany after he looks at a thermometer and realises it's really fucking hot. He is exhumed and the missing link is found. He dies a second time, in Hell, and goes to Double Hell. Alan Jones is still a dick in Double Hell. Love you, AJ.
2020: everyone realises that Will Smith is really shitty. He is stolen from his interdimensional-house-cube and thrown into a lagoon. His family leaps in to save him, but a lagoon monster drags them off. The Willenium ends. Carlton Banks dances for six days, and rests on the seventh day.
2025-2036: England attempts to sue me for libel over what I said in this very post. Since all that shit is true, I'm found innocent. However, since it would be inappropriate for someone derived from convict stock to win a case against the crown, I am sentenced to a very hard slap on the wrist and a stern talking to, equivalent to the punishment one would receive for committing murder in Perth.
2070: Resources war. Everyone dies. Except for businessmen, who have two brains, and can apparently survive in severely irradiated conditions. They assign arbitrary values to things, then try to hoard these things, going so far as to maim and kill one-another for them.
2072: Everyone dies, again. Properly this time, no slimebags slimin' their way out of shit. A skeleton smiles and feels fuzzy. He calls his skeleton ladyfriend to go not get dinner, but she's busy. Lonely skeleton listens to a Man's Gin record five times and stares at his wall. He can no longer drink because his throat rotted away. It is very sad. Skeleton ghost terrorists (the ghosts of the skeletons which belonged to terrorists) rise from their terrorist burial camp and blow up the universe.
2073: I edit all the typos out of Regicide.