It’s been a while since I exposed a mythical creature. And although I’d like to share reasons for my absence from the truth-train, I’m afraid the consequences of such information would be catastrophic—detrimental to the cause!
Still, I come armed with information of a little-understood wonder:
I bear news of their secretive, and somewhat tragic (yet humbling), rise and fall.
Ever since Zeus and Hera had their first tiff, these half-man half-horse heroes have been trotting the plains of the earth.
If you feel inclined to scrawl through ancient texts, don’t bother trying to find ‘Centaur’ as a reference point. It’ll only get you so far. If you’d like t to know more, try looking up Quattuar Predibus Cervus Bubulcus instead. Or, as we-in-the-know understand the translation to mean: Four-Legged Cervix Smasher.
I know, I know, whoever named centaurs should have their mouth and mind scrubbed with bleach. But before you declare said person as a gutter-dwelling degenerate, it’s important to remember that context is key.
When Zeus created centaurs, he managed to forge both sexes. The fine fillies were proud, smart, and resourceful… maybe a little testy at times. But, cross a man with a big-balled-beast, and what do you get?
Rather than get poked in the uterus by their annoying lust-filled monkey-minded moron counterparts, female centaurs developed an effective method to deter their amorous pursuers: a swift, sharp back-kick to the gonads.
Male centaurs didn’t need to be told twice. Rejection was irrefutable, final and excruciating.
As female centaurs slipped into a quiet and sedate peaceful-life—never to be seen again—the male centaurs struck out into the big wide world to find themselves… to carve a path that didn’t end with their nether-regions the size of watermelons.
Pride in tatters, spurred from female contact, and with a constant raging horn, centaurs were primed for one thing: fighting.
Able to take a wallop to the walnuts and not give up, they quickly earned warrior status—with their flowing locks and chiselled features, embellished stories of their tenacity and resilience were embedded into fantasy, legend, and myth. They quickly became the quintessential essence of right over wrong.
But nothing lasts forever.
Being scrotum-steered studs with a need to be wanted, they deviated onto a career path paved with potholes.
The shear perfection of centaur abs, coupled with their long silky tresses, turned them into an overnight success during the nineteen-eighties. Sought after for their upper-body brilliance—their wind-blustered, tanned image could be found in every bookshop, newsagents, and on Mothers’ nightstands across the globe.
That’s right, these heartthrob hunks cantered from one genre of fantasy into another. They became cover models for eighties romance novels.
But when the gold-rush for Fabio-esque images dried-up in the late nineteen-nineties, so did the centaurs’ popularity. With no battles to fight, and few skills to fall back on, they were forced to find work elsewhere.
That’s when it got a little dark—when they started to pose for magazines that objectified them for their hoof and hocks…
When they started to model for ‘Horse Weekly’ and ‘Pretty Ponies.’
Full-page spreads of them galloping through open fields was one thing. But when they were made to wear the latest in saddle fashion as stocky, ruddy-faced human riders patted them on the rump?
They finally broke.
Centaurs shied in their droves, headed back into the wilderness, and disappeared into obscurity.
It is suspected that they found their female counterparts in the hills, far away from human habitation. But with the lessons they’d learned, their giant-genitaled womb whacking days were over.
If you venture into the wilderness, close your eyes and listen carefully, you can sometimes hear the distant mating-call of a male centaur.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll hear a contented, well-rehearsed reply… “Not tonight, love. I’ve got a headache.”
Illustration by A. Gristwood. You can find her on: https://www.facebook.com/A.Gristwood.Art/
Following my Vampire exposé a few weeks ago, it was brought to my attention that the fishy folk of the sea (aka ‘Mermaids’) have been mobilising forces. Battalions of these enigmatic water walkers have been gathering presence on the internet. And people are worried.
I have taken on the task to reassure you… to help settle down those needless and unsubstantiated concerns.
Remember people: fishes are friends. Flippers, fins or feet… discrimination will not be tolerated.
Truth from Tale...
Pre-political correctness, mermaids were more commonly known as Clamantes Acerbus (that’s Latin for ‘Tannoy Tart’). I know, what an awful classification! But this isn’t my doing. I’m here to spread facts, not fiction.
‘Tannoy Tart’ was likely coined by the seafaring men (and their wives) to warn naïve sailors of the seemingly dangerous beauties donning the coastline, with nothing but shell brassieres to protect their scandalous bosoms.
Half fish/half human, speculation has dogged the origin of mermaids since they were first spotted.
Were they a product of magic? Did they evolve from an amphibious lizard-like-fish that crawled out of the sea four million years ago? Or, had a fisherman taken a different kind of interest in his ‘catch of the day?’
No one knows for sure where these slithery seductresses appeared from; one thing we do know: they are real and some have adapted to life on land.
‘Why?’ I hear you ask. ‘If I were a mermaid, I’d never leave the sea.’
Well, if you’re straight and looking for love, then you might not have much choice.
Mermaid’s aesthetic beauty is world renowned; however, there’s much to be said for their male counterparts…
Or, as they are more commonly known: Squamea Convolvens Limus (that’s Latin for ‘Scaly Slobs’).
These Jabba The Hutts of the sea spend most of the day sleeping, scratching their genitalia and farting (ever smelled a merman’s fart? Trust me, you’ll never breathe properly again afterward!).
Mother Nature is a cruel beast—for every twenty mermaids, there is only one merman. Imagine!
With their male genetic pool dwindling, mermaids turned to humans for help.
What Went Wrong...
Rumour spread that mermaids tempted sailors into the sea with their beautiful song for the sole purpose of drowning them. And this is simply not true.
Yes, mermaids have had a number of ‘run-ins’ with sailors over the past few hundred years, but this is due, in part, to a long built-up frustration within the mermaids pitiful and stressful circumstances with the mermen.
The sailors had an answer.
These sirens of the sea weren’t luring anyone to their death. How were they to know that most sailors couldn’t swim? I mean, come on. Who travels across oceans and can’t even produce a doggy paddle if they fall in?
Mermaids were simply trying to get their hands on the bottles of rum sailors had stashed in their ships. They were looking for a little bit of alcohol-induced escape.
We’ve all been there, right? Absent fathers, screaming kids. Well, mermaids needed an outlet too. And they found their solace at the bottom of the bottle.
It’s been a while since the last confirmed mermaid sighting, but, if you know where to look, you’ll find them (I saw one last week and had a nice cup of tea with her. I can’t tell you where, though, I pinky-finned a promise to keep shtum).
What I can divulge is that some do come ashore. They possess the ability to shed their tails (a secret process even I’m not privy too) to spend time with us walkers.
Ever seen those Instagram pics? You know the ones, just a pair of legs sunbathing by a pool or the sea. You guessed it, they’re a secret nod between mermaids. Next time you see one floating about on the internet, take a closer look… you might catch a glimpse of a sparkly scale or two.
Illustration by A. Gristwood. You can find her on: https://www.facebook.com/A.Gristwood.Art/
It’s a well-known fact that mythical creatures have appropriated grandiose notoriety and stories to fair better in today’s media-led society. And vampires are the kings and queens of the propaganda ferris wheel; so, today I’m going to pull the breaks at the funfair and set the record straight about these pale-skinned, lily-livered, blood fiends— once and for all.
‘Geminae Dente Virgo Fututorum’ (that’s the technical Latin name for 'vampire') roughly translates to ‘Twin Fanged Virgin Fucker.’ (Apologies for the crass language. But if you’ve read this far, you clearly wanted the truth. And truth is never pretty). However, as I don’t want to offend, and seeing that typing Twin Fanged Virgin Fucker gets a little repetitive, from here onwards I will use TFVF instead.
Disseminating TFVF: Fact from fiction...
Inability to walk in the daylight: now, contrary to popular belief, the TFVF won’t spontaneously combust into a fiery inferno if exposed to sunlight. Shocker, right? I know. Like you and I, they can happily stroll in the sun without even a hint of a singed hair. Not only that, they can, in fact, accomplish a nice sun-kissed glow.
How do I know this?
Because an expert, anonvamptruthhunter69, uploaded videos on YouTube about them from his Mum and Dad's garage.
TFVFs were documented on the beach, soaking up the very rays that are meant to turn them into hideous human fireworks. Not only that, they were filmed in the park, playing frisbee with their BFFs, the Hounds of Hell (there’ll be another expose about these dodgy dog impersonators soon). TFVFs have been lying to us all along about their inability to walk in the sun. But. Sightings of these neck-sucking-toothy-terrors walking about in daytime are rare.
Yep, our iron-deficient dudes and dudettes fear wrinkles.
There’s no getting away from sun damage, and these pasty people know the harsh reality of UV rays. The flame bursting myth was concocted to propagate a bad-arse fable about these precious narcissists. Reputation is everything. Propaganda, people—pure spin.
Excess nail growth and lack of body hair: this, like most hair-rific problems regular people incur, is a hormone imbalance.
But it doesn’t stop there.
Why do you think western society promotes hairless bodies and acrylic nails? Ever wondered who ‘really’ owns all those nail bars? Because they are EVERYWHERE. Ever questioned why hair-removal products are so expensive? Yeah, that’s right, TFVFs have their talon-fingers in this, people. They are the Illuminati of the beauty industry. Don’t blame the beauticians or laser removal technicians, though. They are merely pawns.
Fangs/blood drinking: Whilst these two points are very much rooted in fact (bad pun very much intended), their origins have been skewed to cover up a rather embarrassing reality.
TFVF are lactose and gluten intolerant, suffer from irritable bowel syndrome and have a genetic inability to absorb nutrients properly (namely iron and B vitamins). They get the shits if they drink dairy and break out in a nasty case of hives if they eat flour-based cake; so, they adapted with a spot of blood-supping. Sustenance straight from the tap. Easily digestible and packed full of all the stuff needed to sustain these pastel-faced bandits.
Much like the lack of wisdom teeth in many, and the useless appendix in us all, TFVF evolved pronounced canines. As blunted fangs make for poor skin penetration (and gone are the days where they could get away with tearing out throats without consequence) natural selection did its work, and survival of the pointy-toothed-fittest won. The law maybe an ass, but it’s saved us from all the inadequately fanged—since ripping out throats generally leads to death and murder is a crime.
Immortality: there’s a lot of speculation about the longevity of a TFVF. Truth is, no one knows. It’s been confirmed that a stake through the heart or decapitation will end them, but those kinds of methods are likely to kill anything.
Sexual appeal: one word... HYPNOSIS. Mind-manipulators are not benign cabaret acts. Beware the man who whips out a pocket watch. He's likely of the vampire persuasion.
Now you know the truth. Do with it what you will.