See, this is the problem with today's press. Just because some woman has killed her husband, saw his head off, hacked through the spinal cord, stuck it on the end of a pitchfork and then danced around a field does that make her 'evil'? Or a 'devil'? Talk about jumping to conclusions. WE DON'T KNOW THE FACTS.
And whoever did the photoshop could at least have stuck the head on the (for some reason glowing) pitchfork, just so we could see. Then perhaps we could have a 'cut out and keep' model inside, which you could attach string to, and make dance around the office.
Actually, that might be in bad taste.
If she'd read any of the other headlines on this site, she'd realise that doesn't necessarily work out the way she'd planned, and perhaps think twice about this course of action.
From the press release from 'Channel Five':
"This young lady went from alive to dead in just a few days, thanks to our crack team of 'corpse trainers'; actors who have appeared in countless episodes of 'The Bill' and 'Casualty' on anything from a morgue slab to a hospital trolley. She worked for week to eventually make it through to a final where she had to lie down alongside four real corpses, then a group of celebrity mortuary attendants had to guess which one was the faker. We don't want to spoil the surprise about who won, but let's just say that all those hours training a hand-picked group of flies to swarm out of her mouth on cue wasn't wasted". Presented by Richard Blackwood.
So *she* can’t stop having orgasms and gets to pull ‘sad-face’ on the front cover of a magazine, yet *my* near-constant masturbation is frowned upon?
It was bad enough when it got me sacked from the cheese counter at Tesco, then it ruined my budding career as a lollipop man. Some people just don’t see it as an illness, that’s the problem.
Still, I’ve got an interview next week for a job at the Daily Mail, which I’m pretty hopeful about as someone told me that everyone who works there is a hopeless wanker.
When they're not shitting in your rose bush or sticking claws in your toes when you're in bed, they're dragging your husband to an other-wordly spirit paradise. No wonder they're getting shoved in bins.
Oh, those pesky phantoms, and their never-ending jealousy. Why won't they just let the living, live? It's nothing to do with you looking like a startled thumb in a hat, driving what appears to be a 1920's jalopy.
I've a jealous phantom too. It's always stopping me becoming a success in my life, and is only happy when I'm staring into space in my dressing gown, crying into a Pot Noodle. It's stopped me doing so many things. So many.
Oh, hang on, I can do this.
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That's made everything better.
See, if *I* were having problems getting my wife pregnant, I'm not entirely sure that I'd suggest getting my mother-in-law round, sticking a cape on her, and have her say one of her spells. In fact, if you were the type to even mention to your mother that she might want to contact Satan in order to make me more fertile I'm not convinced we'd be dating. I've seen Rosemary's Baby, I know the score.
"OH NO IT DIDN'T".
On an unrelated note, I do wish that the spare change which I carry in my pocket would stop teleporting to a spot just down the side of the sofa. It's getting ridiculous.
By the way, I know the idea of coins teleporting spontaneously from my pocket of their own accord and without any visible energy source, intelligence, or means of transportation *may* seem like highly unlikely, but I can't think of any other possible way that the change could end up down there. As Sherlock Holmes says, 'Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth'.
