“Burt is dead, now refuse to be led!” exclaimed J on the plane to the dismay of the other un-rocking passengers. He was balancing a huge brandy on his now well-developed gut and had grown a scraggly beard. His arse half-hung out of his faded denims. He took a piss on the head of the guy in front of him, who complained about the air-conditioning and then committed suicide. Chaos followed The Jizzbuckets wherever they went.

  The rehearsal was an abject failure. Not only had they forgotten their instruments, they had nowhere to rehearse. They turned up at a freak bar, delicately murdered the members of the band playing at the time and assumed their positions.
  “Choose Mono, then end your life, because I went and fucked your wife!” screamed J as The Jizzbuckets blasted away into their first track titled ‘Live and Let Dyke.’ The Jizzbuckets were renowned for being the worst band ever, and they were fucking well damned proud of the fact. They quickly belted through some ol’ tunes such as ‘Fuck Me I Am Environmentally Minded,’ ‘Disco Nausea,’ and their only semi-hit (sold thirty four copies) ‘I Wanna Fuck the Olsen Twins With a Staple Remover.’ By the time they reached the seminal classic ‘Christian Punks Fuck Off,’ the freak bar was virtually empty, except for three tone-deaf autistic triplets who were being chatted up by Keef (who had stopped playing as he just couldn’t give a fuck). To J, the music was pure and beautiful. To everyone else, it was worse than an entire episode of ‘The Monkees.’
  Suddenly J had a revelation: To gain advantage over your enemies is to give them the one thang they could not possibly have.
  J knew that Germy was in fundamental need of cool. And there was no way he would ever get it as he was intrinsically flawed. His DNA spelled GEEK. So J decided he could invite Germy (currently the celebrated prisoner of Mad Abdul) as the winner of a breakfast cereal competition to hang out with The Jizzbuckets, he would then be in J’s all conquering hands. Inspired, he began an improvisational piece. The Jizzbuckets fell into a dissonant, lumbering rhythm behind him.

     I’m gonna shake your foundations (ooh ooh)
     I’m gonna shake your foundations (ooh ooh)
     Your soul is a black hole of infinite mass
     And as it collapses I’m gonna shove it up your ass

     Dead Hall City Dawged motherfucker
     Pat on the back Muttley (shh shh shh shh)
     Get the phone you obnoxious prat
     Or I’ll serve your head to prolapse

     I’m searchin’ for fuck
     I’m on my way
     Searchin’ for a waterfall and a maze
     To be drowned in a dead sea of marzipan
     Searchin’ for fuck

  The gathering crowd was hushed as The Jizzbuckets ground to a shuddering halt. Feedback from J’s guitar being the last remaining sound other than a drunken retch from Taxy.

  The next morning, J crawled out of what seemed to be a primordial slime. The hotel room looked like it had been nuked by lepers and was strewn with naked dead groupies, syringes, vomit, leftovers, and many broken hockey sticks. Somehow they had ended up in an astropod and crashed into the lobby of the Hotel La Spaz on a space station revolving around The Garbage Planet and drunkenly booked the most eloquent, fantastic room in the stars for a non-stop orgy of marijuana, nicotine, heroin, hockey, vodka, bathtub amphetamine, and wanton sex. Halfway through the night, J had run naked (except for the salmon he was using as a contraceptive) into a crowded bar and declared: “I am the Gizzard Thing. I can pooh anything” (editors note: this was to be found on the T-Shirts of many a rebellious and completely misled teenagers for years to come) and covered numerous patrons with projectile diarrhoea. He had no fucking idea how he had escaped from the long arm of the law and ended up in a twenty-four hour toy store.
  “Oh wow, look at this! Pederasty: The Board Game! Kids just have so much choice these days,” J commented to Taxy, who was spellbound by the wide variety of hardcore sex toy lines that stocked the seemingly endless shelves.
  “J, I think The Jizzbuckets could do really well if we created action figures of ourselves. Y’know, we could create a doll based on Jimmy and Plato that constantly dribbled everywhere they went. No matter what you did, more and more dribble came out of their mouths.”
  Taxy (as he was affectionately known by in rock n’ roll sections) was quite excited by the idea.
  “Yeah,” replied J sarcastically, “we could have one for you that constantly vomited and crapped everywhere.”
  “That would be a good idea but this GG doll is already out and does all that and more. Look, if you piss into his mouth he enjoys it and then vomits.”
  After looking around the toy store, J began to envision yet another evil and insidiously stupid plot for the destruction of Germy. However for a rare brief moment in the life of J, the logic centre of his drug addled brain seized control and ceased this pointless train of thought.