make a difference, cull a seal

as humble football wakes every morning it peers through opaque eyes to discover that the myling have left a glass of nerpa milk next to its bed. every morning humble football vows to repay this kindness by culling as many seals as the season provides. at humble football we serve the myling in their attempts to expand their control over the entire FA. the greatest threat to this necessary historical process are mutant seal-footballer offspring from a displaced seal camp on the Moray Firth - one of the few regions of the country which lies beyond myling control.

resistance is widespread. the norwegians seem particularly confused as to how to counter the appearance of seal-human hybrids and reasonably so - i mean, how do you take the ball away from someone who's bouncing it on his head? as ever, the proud brazilian servants of the myling crown have found an inventive culling method - if he's bouncing it on his head, drop kick him as close to his head as you possibly can and then fall to the ground feigning mere collision. observe:




so remember, if you see a seal, kill it with a hook, then drain it's milk as it dies, present the majority of it at the nearest myling shrine and take a few drops for yourself. and as you glance furtively around and suck the milk from your greedy fingers, remember the eternal maxim: you may be bad, but your enemy is worse than you. this beachmaster wants your women.

currrrsed hammer

I know why West Ham are so fukked. There can be no argument. They are cursed. Every time they sign a mid-table level player for an inflated price he gets injured within the hour. The answer lies back in the wind blasted wastes of the Icelandic interior where successful biscuit-magnate Eggert Magnusson used to take his landrover defender for sinister summer trips.

When one thinks of Eggert Magnusson, one thinks of one thing... how can a man make this much money from biscuits? The answer? Magnusson's biscuits had a special ingredient: pieces of myling souls. These souls of unbaptised or murdered children were collected in Magnusson's Egg-wagon, chained together with pieces of elf-hair and then carted to an abandoned fish-processing factory in Seyðisfjörður where they were diced by Polish workers and used as creamy centres. The Icelandic people, desperate for their lost children and driven by a settler mentality obsessed with (pro)creating a human presence in their desolate land, ate them by the thousand.


the Icelandic interior - a myling haunt

However, should there be one (or two) lesson(s) you take from this story let it be this, do not mess with forces you don't understand and do not think yourself above the consequences of your actions. The mylings are hungry ghosts and they only want to be buried in hallowed ground. They chase people and climb on their backs so they can be carried to the cemetary, however, as they spend more time on the person's back they grow heavier and heavier, making that person sink into the soil. This explains why all the West Ham injuries have been foot or ankle related - as the players try and move the extraordinary weight upsets their balance and they injure themselves. Mystery solved. Who thought it was a gypsy curse? How ridiculous!


Eggert Magnusson - put dead childrens' souls into biscuits

Don't get me started on the troll.