A Pleasant Enough Ride

Join us on Facebook!

Murder On The Orient Express tells the story of a large moustache as it's forced to participate in a murder investigation by its detective owner. Hercule Poirot is everybody's favourite Belgian detective after Tintin's dog, with this film telling the story of his inability to travel from one point to another without tripping over another corpse. Even when the fucker is off duty he manages to find himself in the company of a murder victim and for some reason the police never seem to even suspect that he might be the killer. I mean, even the simple villagers only believed the boy who cried wolf a couple of times... Poirot, it seems, could literally be unloading his balls onto a corpse and the police seemingly wouldn't even question him. Anyway, the story begins here when Poirot boards a train in which a sinister chap played by Johnny Depp is murdered. Although considering that we now live in a post-Weinstein world, the story could almost have skipped the murder altogether and simply had him try to work out which of the A-List cast wasn't a sexual predator. As Poirot prowls the train he claims to be the worlds greatest detective and yet this is a case that seems to stump him. I don't mean to brag but it doesn't take the worlds greatest detective to solve the case of the dead Johnny Depp. Just check who might still be the beneficiary of his life insurance and then point the fucking train in the direction of Amber Heard's house.

Against The Odds?

Join us on Facebook!

Life begins with us being dragged, kicking and screaming from our mothers vagina, and then it's all downhill from there. Some people are born stupid and will spend most of their lives shoving junk food into their mouths and trying not to bump into any obstacles that don't have the corresponding genitals. For those of you who weren't blessed with stupidity then there are some magical herbs that will help to defend you from your own piece of shit mind. I won't name them but they're famously available in Amsterdam, parts of America, and from a bloke in Liverpool called Billy Baggy. I'm an over-thinker, which means that as soon as it gets dark, my brain likes to torment me to the point that if I worked in a motel, I'd probably be dressing up as it and killing people as they shower. With the magical herbs however, the world is a beautiful place to behold. There's no stress, everything tastes nicer, and things are incredibly entertaining to simply stare at. I once spent about fifteen minutes looking at a door handle because it was just so god-damn fucking shiny and white.