It may seem bizarre to the majority of people. It may seem funny to some. It may seem to be some kind of hysterical conspiracy theory borne of a warped, squishy mind with far too much time on its hands to others. It may seem like the scent and feeling of the colour blue to yet others.
It may appear, to a very small minority, to be a Dachshund washing his stained, polka dot pants in a fishbowl while performing extreme ironing, on the seventh highest peak of the Himalaya, on a Wednesday at about half two.
It may seem like all of these things simultaneously to Kevin Palmer from Basingstoke, but he’s a bit of a dick and his opinion isn’t worth anything.
Despite being born and resident to the United Kingdom, Kevin Palmer from Basingstoke somehow managed to vote for Donald ‘Are Those My Feet?’ Trump.
Twice.
And he still thinks it was a good idea.
It matters not what your opinion of it is, this is a discussion that needs to take place.
This problem needs to be out in the open. It needs to slip out of the shadows that surround it. Those shadows created by nefarious individuals who believe wholeheartedly in the status quo. Those shadows that cloud every aspect of modern life. Those shadows that smell faintly of turnips and believe that Nikki ‘Tuna Casserole with Cheese Strings’ Minaj is an extremely talented singer songwriter.
There is a danger among us. It threatens not just our way of life but our very existence. It has been shielded from us by the powers that be for the sake of greed and the influence that can be gained from letting it run wild.
This is an uncomfortable truth that may very well perform the metaphorical and philosophical equivalent of quietly following you home one night, putting a chlorophyll soaked rag over your mouth and nose, dragging your unconscious body into a dark alley, stabbing you in the face and doing unspeakable things to your corpse while it slowly cools in the frigid midwinter air.
Hulkamania.
Hulkamania is a huge problem and a massive threat to humanoid life on this planet. We desperately need to educate all the people of Earth to the dangers and threat of Hulkamania and destroy the conspiracy surrounding it. We need to burn down the mainstream media who are, at this point, merely toadies, lackies and lickspittles of the dark New World Order who wish Hulkamania to thrive for their own evil benefit.
We need to destroy our complacent governments and get all the politicians in the world together in one place and pelt them with custard pies and used, stinky, second-hand wellington boots until they start crying for their Mummies.
We, as a global nation, sorely need to put aside our petty differences and small-minded arguments which defeat the possibility of a true Utopia at every turn. We need to either forget or, indeed, celebrate our differences rather than fixate on them and use them to create imagined superiority.
We need to unite as one world rather than focus on imaginary lines drawn on a spinning ball of rock somewhere in an outer spiral arm of an insignificant galaxy floating aimlessly in an infinite universe.
We need to become one mind and solve the big problems that affect us all instead of individually making our selfish demands and squabbling over the minutiae that, in the great scheme of things, seldom really matter.
Our primary target should be the scourge of humanity. The slayer of civilisation. The dead, shrivelled, black, beetle corpse hidden in our bag of dried currants. The Lego brick on the darkened floor of life:
Hulkamania.
This terrible disease has inflicted so much pain and damage and infected many millions of people throughout history. It continues to do so, unchecked, because many people treat it as a joke. A little bit of whimsy and nothing more than a single, tasteless, white sprinkle on the strawberry Pop Tart of life. Those people left untouched by its stinky, little tendrils generally live in a state of ignorance, choosing to believe that Hulkamania simply does not exist.
Hulkamania is a highly infectious, highly contagious disease spread by the microparasite known as Chromadoria Monhysterida Hulkus, an aggressive nematode that loves to cause pain, hates ‘The A-Team’ and attends random funerals dressed as a scary clown for shits and giggles.
Monhysterida Hulkas is transmitted from human to human via bodily fluids such as sneezing, coughing and sharting, much like the common cold, influenza or our old friend, Covid 19.
It is highly transmissible 3 days after first infection but symptoms routinely take 14-21 days to appear so carriers can contaminate many others before being aware they are infected.
Symptoms:
- Initial fever which settles down after a few days.
- Extreme aversion to razors.
- Confusion.
- Excessive salivary secretion.
- Hallucinations.
- Disrupted sleep.
- Hyperactivity.
- Headache
- Nausea.
- Vomiting.
- Massive orangeness.
- Imaginary relationships (believing everyone is your brother).
- The complete inability to remove clothing without ripping it off while screaming.
- Compulsion to grow a huge handlebar moustache.
- Addiction to vitamins.
- A liking for feather boas.
- Swelling of the upper arms and chest.
- Male pattern baldness with a predilection to grow the remaining hair long in a bald/mullet combination. Like a fluorescent version of Bill Bailey circa 2005.
The time between infection and inevitable death varies but can be as long as many decades.
Those people unfortunate enough to give birth while carrying the infection unwittingly create insane creatures of pure evil, born already bedecked in garish red and yellow clothing and complete with bandana and mullet.
These crazy little maniacs rampage willy nilly around, infecting everyone they meet as they lack even the most basic hygiene habits. They usually do not live for long, exploding into a shower of gristly sausages and small, balsa wood models of the Eiffel Tower before reaching the age of eight. Nobody knows why.
There is currently no cure.
There is no help available.
Once infected there is nothing anyone can do.
You WILL die. Probably while wearing giant lemony Y-fronts and bright yellow wellington boots. It’s just a matter of time.
If you are infected, the best thing you can do, for the sake of your loved ones and all of humanity, is go out into the wilderness and shoot yourself in the face.
Preferably twice, although I do understand that, after the first shot, it might be kinda difficult to concentrate on the second.
Every one of us is at risk.
There are many among us already infected. You probably encounter them every day without realising.
I have personally felt the pain caused by this terrible affliction and felt the aftermath of Hulkamania. This may go a long way to explain my personal mission to destroy this terrible virus and live in a Hulkamania free world.
Both my brother and my grandfather sadly contracted Hulkamania during a live screening of ‘WrestleMania VI’ in the Pig’s Greasy Flaps public house in Scarcliffe, Derbyshire.
The pub was packed, many drinks were drunk and merriment was aplenty. It was just another ordinary evening. Kinky Jake and Phil-Phil the Monkey Pill were arguing over a darts match. Old Canker Sore and his brothers were partaking in their regular game of ‘Wibble the Fish’.
The late evening, summer sun was warm, and a pleasant, lavender scented breeze gently swayed the branches of the elms and oaks outside. Everything was peace and idyll.
Suddenly, my brother and grandfather stood up slowly. They were shaking and unsteady on their feet, their heads bowed. They stared vacantly at the floor, their eyes half closed. The room fell silent except for a muffled voice in the far corner which simply stated,
“Fuckin’ ‘ell!”
We watched in horror as some kind of spirit seemed to engulf them like flood waters with turds and used tampons floating on the surface. I reached out gingerly to touch my grandfather. As soon as I touched his skin, both he and my brother started shaking their heads violently.
They suddenly began shaking their fists up and down like they were milking a particularly vicious, imaginary cow. Their heads continued to shake, and they began stamping around the pub. People reached out to help them but as soon as physical contact was made, they both seemed to snap out of their trance.
They stood motionless back-to-back in the middle of the room and just stared. Then they each reached out an arm and pointed at random people before wagging the aforementioned finger under those unlucky soul’s noses.
In a blur they were both ripping their clothes off to reveal that their very skin had changed. Rather than the pallid, almost blue skin of a native Derbyshirian, the skin of their upper torso had changed into a lurid yellow. The skin on their legs had turned bright red and instead of the regulation hob nailed boots, they wore bright yellow, plastic wellingtons!
Worse than all this were the massive, yellow Y-fronts. The sight of which haunt my dreams to this very day.
I watched in shock, unable to tear my gaze away from the evil exhibition unfolding before me. As I looked on, gibbering and drooling in fear, the hair on the top of their heads began to fall out, revealing bright orange skin beneath. The hair on the rear of their scalps began to grow to shoulder length and turned to a bleach-blonde colour.
Each man began to simultaneously manifest a thick, handlebar moustache.
After that, it was all a blur. Furniture was thrown around the room. All the windows were smashed. Giant, yellow, wellington clad feet flew in every direction. It was chaos and carnage.
The last thing I saw was my grandfather grabbing the landlady, Grubby Doris, in a headlock and flipping her over his shoulder onto the ground. She landed heavily with a sickening thud before my grandfather leapt into the air and lifted both his legs into a kind of flying seated position before landing, arse first on Doris’ face, all the time laughing manically.
Somewhere behind me I heard my brother’s voice screaming,
“Whatcha gonna do, brother, whatcha gonna do when it rolls over you?”
Then something heavy hit me from the right-hand side and I slipped, mercifully, into the deep, velvety black void of unconsciousness.
When I awoke, several hours later, it was all over. There were seventeen fatalities and a host of injured people. Four others would spend the rest of their lives in a psychiatric hospital, never able to recover from the sight of huge, yellow buttocks coming towards their faces at great velocity.
The army had been called, and a firefight had broken out. My brother and grandfather had both been killed. We couldn’t even find enough remains to bury them.
My family were shunned by the community. The shame was too much to bear and I left the country and never went back.
I know this is hard to believe.
I know some of you just nose laughed and shook your head at this information.
I know some of you just spat out your tea and fell on the floor laughing, slapping your thigh and attempting to dab your tears of mirth with a Jaffa Cake you found under the table.
I know that one of you was reading this and began to almost believe it just before your hot water tank inexplicably burst in the loft and a sudden torrent of tepid water cascaded down your staircase forcing you to abandon this article and run around the room screaming and flapping your hands about.
I know that, in your panic, you tripped over the dog, who was innocently lying in front of the fire on a comfy rug savaging a turtle he had found in the back yard only moments before.
I know that the turtle had escaped from next door via a convoluted and hilarious, turtle-based, ‘Mission Impossible’ type scenario involving exciting aerial manoeuvres attached to his Dad’s braces, amazing car chases and several shoot outs with shady government agents. At least that’s what happened in the turtle’s mind. In reality, someone left his cage door open, the turtle made a very slow break for freedom, fell down the stairs and rolled right out of the door.
I know that the dog, terrified by your ignorantly placed size 9 croc shoe (you sick, sick man) shot out of the room at full speed, clattered through the dog flap in the back door, legged it across the back yard and leapt the garden fence in one amazing bound. I know he ran, his horror making him oblivious to any form of personal safety and causing him to slightly wet himself and leave a trail of cauliflower scented wee wee in his wake, right over the road outside.
I know that a car on that road swerved to avoid the hysterical dog and crashed, humorously, into a postman who was about to deliver a letter to Greg Dyckles. Due to his collision, the postman never delivered that letter and poor, old Greg never knew his college sweetheart actually did love him and didn’t mind at all that Greg had a peculiar medical problem causing him to sweat beetroot juice and excrete lamb chops.
I know that, after spending three days cowering in fear under a large rhododendron bush, the dog decided to change his life and stowed away on a cargo boat out of Portsmouth, travelled the world extensively and eventually became the president of Guatemala.
I know that, after colliding with the dog, you fell headfirst into the fireplace and severely singed your prized beard. I know that the subsequent depression at the loss of your beard, which had taken several years to cultivate, forced you to give up on life and descend into a dark madness which culminated in you delving into the dark arts. I know that, after much research in dusty, old tomes, you eventually found the rites that allowed you to open a portal into hell itself. I know that you stepped through that swirling, eggy, purple vortex of light into the fiery pit. I know that you sought out the devil and poked him in the arse with a large fork and then said, in a voice that could crack iron and melt steel;
‘How do YOU like it you red, pointy bugger?’
I know that Lucifer didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. Not even a little. I know that he clicked his gnarled, blistered fingers and you exploded into a cloud of hairy molluscs.
I know that old Greg Dyckles shrugged his shoulders at the loss of his love, got on with his life and opened a milliner’s shop in Bournemouth.
I know all of this.
I know that all of this is quite specific.
I have a confession to make.
I found a magical lamp deep in a cave in deepest Peru. I rubbed that lamp with a page torn out of ‘The Deep Things God Didn’t Tell Us About’ by Frank Moses and freed the ancient Jinn that dwelt deep within. That Jinn told me his entire life story. It was very deep but also very, very boring, mostly concerning various people rubbing his lamp. The Jinn granted me one wish (just one, not three, the tight fucker!), with a warning to think deeply about what I wished for.
I thought deeply for a while. Then I had a deep think. Then I had a theep dink. Then I went for a quick pee and came back decided. (The ‘long drop’ toilet hole was really quite deep!)
My decision made, I uttered my wish aloud.
That Jinn screwed me over!
When I said I wanted to be telepathic and know what people are thinking, I kinda meant ALL people, not just the canine ruler of Guatemala, some old guy called Greg and Kevin fucking Palmer from Basingstoke who is always tripping over shit, causing butterfly effects all over the damn place and getting on everyone’s tits.
As a super power it’s a little bit on the pointless side.
I still have no idea how, exactly, that dodgy Jinn misconstrued my words to get that!
But, I digress.
Hulkamania.
It proper sucks.
FACT: Hulkamania kills more than 18 billion people every day.
FACT: At current levels of infection, experts have calculated that every single person on the planet will have either died from Hulkamania or be infected by it by lunch time on the 27th of March 2026.
FACT: The vast majority of people do not believe that Hulkamania is a real issue outside the promotion and hype surrounding a large, sweaty, lightly barbecued wrestler in a pair of massive, yellow pants and his in-ring antics lying on top of other sweaty, lightly barbecued, semi-naked men.
FACT: The government and media corporations of the world have a joint interest in covering up the lethal existence of Hulkamania as it vastly increases the sales of T-shirts.
T-shirt and tank top sales accounts for the largest percentage of governmental income worldwide via T-shirt taxes and tank top levees. The governments of the world prosper from this because one of the most obvious symptoms of Hulkamania is that both carriers and sufferers feel an overwhelming desire to suddenly rip their shirt off and stomp around pointing and pretending not to hear people.
FACT: There are several exo-planets already discovered by scientists whose entire humanoid population has been wiped out long ago by Hulkamania. Those planets themselves have become infected by the huge levels of Hulkamania molecules in the atmosphere. Those worlds are now completely brown with no recognisable topographical features except a huge, continent sized, blonde, handlebar moustache.
FACT: Piers Morgan is a massive prick. While this information has no relevance at all to this article, it still requires stating.
It is not difficult to find mentions of Hulkamania throughout history. While the evil blokes behind the silence tried to erase all mentions of Hulkamania in the history books, they actually missed quite a lot. They were probably too busy assassinating world leaders or trying to install lizards on the top of rockets or filling volcanoes with Pop Rocks for some weird reason or whatever it is they do. I don’t know why they are so obsessed with that sort of thing.
Look, I don’t know everything about them. They’re a secret society. They wouldn’t be doing a very good job if some knob head from Bolsover could figure out all their shit would they? It’s all just guesswork, Nigel.
Anyway, there are many mentions of Hulkamania victims in scripture and writings from the past. The evil disease has been wandering this globe for eons.
Scientists believe that the only reason the population of Earth didn’t succumb completely to the plague many thousands of years ago is simply because it was somewhat centralised in specific pockets. It was naturally quarantined by the sparseness of population and the distances between those pockets.
Now, as our world gets smaller and smaller, due to affordable mass transit systems, and our population continues to grow, the danger of an extinction level Hulkamania event grows in parallel.
Need proof? Here are some examples proving that Hulkamania has been around forever.
In 2011 a mural dating back to the 4th Century was found under the plaster floor of a kebab shop in Pistoria, Italy. The mural clearly depicts a quartet of Roman nobles obviously in the late stages of Hulkamania.
A 4th Century fresco found in a buried cellar in Iraq during ‘Operation Nick Their Oil’ in 1992 shows some unnamed men displaying the classic signs of infection.
A portrait of Theodore Roosevelt from 1903 shows the then President wearing a huge, handlebar moustache. No other image of him with facial hair exists and it is thought he was advised to shave the tash off to quell the fears the American public had of him suddenly ripping his shirt asunder and kicking off.
Indeed, it is well recorded that Roosevelt religiously shaved every thirteen minutes. It has long been believed that this was simply some form of good luck ritual he had picked up during his time as a badger in Connecticut, but in reality, it was the only way to suppress the outward signs of Hulkamania surging through his veins.
There is a rarely seen portrait of Queen Elizabeth I dating from 1567 displayed in a secret chamber under the Tower of London. In order to view it you must run a gauntlet of trials laid down in 1234 by King Howard the Duck.
Only when all these trials have been completed are you allowed entrance to the secret chamber.
Inside are many shocking things including Hitler’s missing testicle (bitten off by Winston Churchill himself during the ‘Battle of the Bulgy Inner Tube’ in 1942), a photograph of the children’s TV presenter, Andy Crane, on the moon in 1954 many years before Neil Armstrong became ‘the first man on the moon’ and a good decade before Andy Crane was even born!
There’s a life size replica of the red London bus that finally finished off Cliff Richard when he went mad and almost ended the world. (Cliff’s rampage and the subsequent harrowing events are recounted in the documentary film, ‘Summer Holiday’, for those who are interested.)
I have seen these things with my own eyes. I ran that gauntlet and won the right to view this bizarre collection.
I still have the scars, both physical and emotional. I do not know if I will ever be the same again because of my experience or if what I witnessed was worth the trauma I sustained.
Passing a camel through the eye of a needle was hard. Looking at a photograph of Piers Morgan without a bit of sick coming up was harder. Listening to the entire back catalogue of both Justin Bieber and Nikki Minaj was nearly impossible and almost caused me to lose what little sanity I have left.
Reading Katie Price’s collection of autobiographies sent me right over the edge and I totally lost my shit. And my lunch.
I began believing I was a raven in a three piece suit named ‘Gravel Minky McNobbler’, who was ruler of a half-eaten doughnut I found on the Tower of London’s front lawn with the exception of a small piece on the northern edge which belonged to a cockroach named Cecil. I fought Cecil for complete control of the doughnut but he always, somehow, managed to both outsmart and outmanoeuvre me.
After a while, too long if I am honest, I regained a little bit of decorum and sanity and returned to the tasks.
Many days passed before I managed to complete the whole list.
It took me ages to herd all those cats.
The portrait of Queen Elizabeth I in question clearly shows old Lizzie with facial hair, a bald head and a mullet out the back for parties.
All other portraits you have seen of Elizabeth I were painted without these crucial details, as was the fashion in those days. A painter could get easily get his head lopped off if he painted this King’s double chin or that Queen’s massive, hairy nose mole.
In that same chamber of secrets is another portrait, this time depicting Henry VIII with a blonde, handlebar tash.
Clearly, a lot more than madness, syphilis, gout and baldness runs through the royal bloodline of the United Kingdom.
There is a unique painting on the wall of the belfry in the Cricklethwaite ‘Church of Latter-Day Bowel Splitters and Llama Ticklers’. Carbon dated to around 1665, it depicts plague spectres haunting the country as evil skeletons with handlebar moustaches.
Is this artistic liberty or does this reflect the true cause of the Great Plague; Hulkamania?
An early alternative of the Mona Lisa was recently unearthed in a jacuzzi allegedly belonging to the maestro himself; da Vinci. Research suggests that old Leo had a thing for miserable munters with facial hair and painted Ms. Lisa the way he would like her to look rather than an accurate representation.
When the subject of his art eventually saw the painting she had paid a lot of clams for, she shot straight round to da Vinci’s studio on her moped and kicked ten bells of shit out of him, demanding that he repaint it.
Da Vinci agreed and created one of the most famous paintings in the world. He left the tash out but still painted his subject as a sour faced Karen.
While not strictly evidence of Hulkamania, as Ms. Lisa obviously didn’t have facial hair, it does imply the regularity of women with handlebar moustaches da Vinci encountered in his daily life. It was a common enough occurrence for him to develop very specific sexual proclivities about it.
Elsewhere, among the hieroglyphs and petroglyphs on the side of the Great Pyramid of Mooky Mooky in the Valley of the Surfboards, Egypt, is a depiction of three ancient Egyptians clearly suffering from early stage Hulkamania.
Further evidence can be found in a rare selfie taken by Cleopatra in 57 BC. Cleo clearly has a tash. The photograph was found in a canopic jar buried at the foot of a giant carving of a Nokia 3210.
Historians are baffled by this discovery as no one can figure out how a Queen of Ptolemaic Egypt managed to take a photograph of herself in 57 BC.
The Nokia 3210 didn’t have a camera.
For now, this has just been added to the huge list of mysteries surrounding ancient Egypt such as why none of the pyramids have a giant sculpture of a walnut on the top and why does the Sphinx smell of marmite.
Then there’s this photo of a random Victorian lady. I have no idea who she is or even if she suffered from Hulkamania, but she does have that massive outbreak of face fur. Look at that! Mad innit?
The evidence for the wide spread nature of Hulkamania in our history is out there for anyone to find.
If you look in the right places.
Maybe try in that mysterious box in the loft under the Christmas decorations and all those old jumpers you received as birthday gifts from Mad Aunt Shiela. Possibly have a look behind the fridge, there’s all sorts of stuff back there.
There is no doubt, Hulkamania has been with us for a very long time. At least since we first climbed down out of the trees and started wearing shoes and eating baked beans.
What a great idea that was huh?
Where did that get us?
Some twat invented money and interest rates and that was that. We all got screwed. Let’s just go back. I could live in a tree for the rest of my life. I’ll be fine as long as I can still get a fibre connection and a calzone delivered at the weekend.
The evidence for historical cases of Hulkamania is easy to find and there were, apparently, a lot of people affected. When you think that only the top echelon of society had the wealth and time to have their physical likeness rendered in paint and stone, how many ordinary people were infected? Those millions of poor, unfortunate plebs who never get a mention in the history books.
Take the number of historical celebrities, for want of a better description, who were infected and multiply it a thousand-fold or more for the true number of sufferers in our past.
But even that really big number with many, many noughts on it just hanging around acting all important like they’re not worth nothing when they’re not with their big mates 9 or 7 or one of them other fellas, can compare with the sheer numbers of infected people we see in our modern world.
A world made smaller every day by faster, more efficient forms of travel, the ability to send sneezes through the postal system and holographic turds delivered by semi-sentient drones at a whim.
If you want proof that Hulkamania is a bigger problem now than it ever was, you simply have to take a withered glance towards our ‘celebrities’.
Despite representing a tiny section of the population, as in the past, this elite group still has a high infection rate. Extrapolate this out and the true horror of our situation becomes easily visible.
What’s worse is that their jet-set lifestyle takes them all over the world where they can spread their sweaty germs to everyone else. Rather than quarantine themselves for the sake of humanity, they cover up their symptoms with plastic surgery and make up and act as if everything is fine while desperately trying not to point at crowds, cup their ears and tense their shoulder muscles as if they are trying to crack out a particularly stubborn and difficult turd.
Here is just a small sample of the fame hungry, vapid egos who are clearly infected.
Former Franciscan Nun of the Third Order of Saint Francis, Minaj is better known for her market leading brand of epoxy glue. The glue comes in three separate vials; a reactive prepolymer polypoxide, a cross linking catalytic homopolymer and a co-reactant acid anhydride. The glue only hardens to its final state when all three liquids are mixed together.
It is sold under the brand name ‘Minaj Au Trois’ and is available in several different colours and scents including; turd brown/sprouts, vomit yellow/wet dog and hippo pink/dead ferret.
Mr. Trump prefers to comb his rear mullet up over his head to give the illusion of a full head of hair and to keep the suspicions of rampant Hulkamania to a minimum. People don’t suspect he is a sufferer, they just think he’s a twat.
Trump owns a large share in Gillette Ltd. Plc. and is their best customer as he has to shave his tash off every 14.3 seconds.
Beyonce rose to fame as part of the all female band ‘Destiny’s Child’. Few people know that the ‘child’ in question, Trevor, was a victim of Hulkamania, born infected, to Beyonce’s Great Aunt MacGyver.
Beyonce believes that the world would be a better place if everyone had Hulkamania and has made a personal vow to spread the disease far and wide.
She must be stopped at all costs.
The other two members of ‘Destiny’s Child’; Kelly Rowlandrat and Michelle Williwasn’t have long since passed from extreme Hulkamania and are currently interred in a shallow grave marked only with a small pile of yellow Y-fronts and blonde hair somewhere in Pennsylvania.
Musky Elon is a massive toad masquerading as a human being. Despite being an amphibian, which are usually immune to Hulkamania, Musky somehow still managed to contract it.
He also suffers from cholera, yellow fever, the bubonic plague, consumption, flatulence and chronic penile warts.
Don’t ever get in an elevator with him.
Lopez is the world’s only living fourteen breasted woman. She also has two arses; one for the week and a slightly less scaly one she only uses at weekends.
Lopez likes moonlit walks on the beach and blowing up goats with unstable dynamite.
Kim is best known to the world for having rich parents and owning a posterior. Despite these handicaps, she has still managed to rise straight to the bottom of a huge vat of useless, vacant, morally corrupt scumbags who use their wealth to fuck around and have fun, completely ignoring the good they could do with just a fraction of it.
Kim, like others of her kind, fails to realise that most people would like her more if she was a good person who did good deeds. By choosing to use her wealth and status to help others she would still receive the attention she so obviously desires but it would be for the right reasons and she wouldn’t end up on the fifteenth level of hell reserved for dickheads and wankers.
Zuckerberg is the sole survivor of the famous UFO crash in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947.
His last name comes from his youth on his home planet of Facebookian. Disgusted by his appearance, his nine parent-pods threw him out on to the frigid, iceberg littered plains of Kankeroo. When little Zuckerberg asked his parents what he would do for sustenance, his parents simply replied;
“Go suck a berg.”
Little Mark adopted the name so he would never forget his roots.
He also has roots instead of feet and a rusty, old trombone instead of a penis
Oprah rose to fame telling people shit they already knew on mid-afternoon chat shows.
Despite weighing anywhere between 478kg and 890kg, depending on her mood, Oprah still wears a child’s size 3 shoe.
Due to this, and a very high centre of gravity, Oprah is always falling over. Her rotund figure results in her beginning to roll uncontrollably almost every time she falls and once she gets going, nothing can stop her except the ocean.
The whole of the USA road network has been brought to a complete standstill many, many times due to an out of control, rolling Winfrey.
Everyone just has to sit and wait until she hits the sea and causes a mild tsunami.
Not a mild salami. That’s a different thing entirely, although the two are easily and commonly confused.
Robert is permanently confused as he is apparently named after his father but his father’s name is Gordon Smith.
Despite funneling millions of dollars into research, Robert has never gotten to the bottom of this mystery.
Christiano is an arsehat. He has the certificates and documentation to prove it.
He suffers from an extreme case of Hulkamania but has extensive plastic surgery every fourth Thursday to disguise it. In order to pay for all the surgery, Christiano had to become a famous professional footballer.
He hates football and has long harboured dreams of being a tube.
Taylor was a world class sprinter in her youth, thus her stage name, but after a freak accident involving a rabid Mogwai, a wheelbarrow full of whelks and a pamphlet entitled ‘The Importance of Looking Around Corners with a Herring’ she badly injured both her index fingers.
She couldn’t run anymore following that and became a singer instead.
Many have speculated that, if she was a fat, hairy, sweaty builder called Derek, would she be as famous? She would. Everyone loves Derek.
Taylor is the inventor of Mondays.
Tom has tried very hard to go on a cruise but has consistently failed. He has managed to kiss a kayak, canoodle a canoe, touch a tugboat, toss off a tanker and snog a submarine but when it comes to cruise ships, he has missed every, single time.
He lives in hope.
Tom doesn’t believe in the existence of carrots and thinks rice pudding is the same thing as frog spawn.
Will lives in constant fear. He is a huge movie fan and spends much of his free time watching movies and TV shows. His favourite genres are science fiction and war films.
He suffers form a rare form of P.T.S.D. due to hearing the words, ‘fire at will’ far too many times.
He lives on the edge of sanity, permanently petrified that someone is going to shoot him.
Sean Combs isn’t even clear on what his own name is. His entire career has been one long, lucky streak where he ignorantly and accidentally fell into various capers, larks, scrapes and shenanigans which resulted in him becoming a multi-millionaire……….whatever it is he is.
He contracted Hulkamania at a ‘Stop Hulkamania’ benefit concert which he only attended by accident.
While attempting to steal the wheels from a discarded shopping trolley, his trousers fell down and some sausages dropped from a third floor window above him and tangled around his neck. He was then chased by a pack of dogs for several miles before falling over a wall and landing in a wood chipper.
Just before he became puffy chips, the blades on the wood chipper failed and the machine spat him out. He flew through the air and crashed through the window of a tuxedo hire shop. He fell into a brand new suit and rolled out of the back door, down a hill and straight into the benefit concert where people just assumed he was famous.
The Hulkamania in his system can’t even deal with his stupidity. His tash grows upside down and he has a mullet on his arse.
It’s clear that wealth and power is no protection from the scourge of Hulkamania. What chance then, do us ordinary slobs, plebs and gutter dwellers stand against this pandemic?
None. Zip. We fucked, buddy!
We cannot discuss this terrible disease without discussing a certain man synonymous with the disease.
Patient Zero.
The man widely believed to be the Typhoid Mary of Hulkamania:
Hulk Hogan.
The picture shows Hogan wearing his favourite T-shirt he had created specially without realising the spelling mistake he made on the order form. It should have read ‘Hulk’s Ruler’s’.
He keeps wondering why his new business venture hasn’t taken off. The world needs bright yellow rulers! Why do they not sell?
A lot has been said and written about Hogan. As with most famous people, some of it is true and some of it is false. The outward, public persona of the man known as Hulk Hogan does not concern us here.
Most people simply know Hulk Hogan as the larger-than-life character who throws himself and others around in a roped off trampoline in the world of professional wrestling.
Some people may simply be aware of him via the debacle of the ‘Hulk Hogan Tea Strainer’. This was Hogan’s disastrous attempt to replicate the success of the ‘George Foreman Grill’ and cash in on the lucrative kitchen appliance market.
Sadly, the ‘Hulk Hogan Tea Strainer’ was a flop, not least because it was responsible for the deaths of 876 people and the sinking of the Exxon Valdez.
It wasn’t even very good at straining tea.
It was also pointless as it was introduced in the 21st Century when everyone uses tea bags and has no need whatsoever for a tea strainer, even if it IS bright yellow and calls you ‘brother’ when it is immersed in hot water.
You can’t even buy loose tea anymore, can you? I’ve never seen any in Aldi.
The tea strainer was quickly withdrawn from sale, payouts were made to the victims to keep them quiet and the whole thing was swept under the massive, dusty, ant-infested rug of history.
Whatever your opinion of Hogan’s in-ring antics, I am here to talk about the man behind the persona.
It is ironic that Hogan is sometimes described on television as ‘The Immortal Hulk Hogan’. This is generally attributed to his longevity in the ‘sport’ of professional wrestling, having been performing since the 80’s.
In reality, it is believed that Hulk Hogan is in fact, literally immortal!
The man known as Terry Bollea, AKA Hulk Hogan, or whatever his original name is as nobody really knows for sure, has a unique physiology.
He is the only known person in history to be a carrier of the disease while being immune to its negative properties.
Rather than succumbing to the disease, Hogan is able to use the extraordinary symptoms of Hulkamania to his own advantage.
Less surprising properties granted by Hogan’s infection are the usual symptoms of a normal infection such as the moustache, the bald pate and rear mullet, a penchant for ripping his clothes off, calling everyone ‘brother’, involuntary orangeness and a liking for yellow and red clothing.
However, the disease does not have any negative effects on Hogan. He is somehow able to live with the infection. It has given him singular abilities. He has learned to harness these abilities to become the millionaire he is through his career in professional wrestling.
These abilities include, increased size and strength, bulletproof buttocks and the self-confidence needed to stamp around a wrestling ring in front of an audience of millions wearing nothing more than a giant, yellow nappy and wellington boots.
The main ‘superpower’ granted to Hogan by the virus, however, is apparently immortality.
Research by the Tony the Tiger Institute of Advanced Data Comparison and Analysis (It’s G-G-G-Great!) suggests that the man we know as Hulk Hogan has been around for a very long time. A very long time indeed.
Some would suggest he was one of the first proto-humans to fall out of a tree, stand up straight, pick up a big stick and say;
“Ugg. Me twat other bloke with dis. Hur hur.”
In the late 70’s, in the Ardenne region of France, a cave painting was discovered which seems to depict a large man with a blonde, handlebar moustache.
The cave painting has been dated to 60,000 BC!
While this is not definitive proof that the being in question is actually Hogan, oral tradition from the area supports this very argument.
A Benedictine Monk named Cletus of Frogbollock, 325 Ad – 378 AD, spent his life recording the many traditional stories told by the locals which had been passed down from generation to generation.
One particular passage is quite revealing:
“Lo, the old ones spoke the orange one’s name in whispers. For he was strong and chunky, with massive feet. Many of the menfolk were kicked in the nuts with a foot that looked as a banana despite people in this area having no idea what a banana was at this point in history. But the old ones assumed that, if they had somehow managed to see a banana before they could possibly have seen a banana, then that was what it probably looked like, just with less toes.
But the orange man grew ever more orange and ruled these lands with an ass made of iron and a shiny head. He was feared and respected by all and many gifts of huge yellow loincloths were brought forth form distant shores.
His legend follows the river of time through the ages, floating upon it as if it were a wooden barrel filled with jam, for the orange man can never die. He has, and will always be.”
From ‘The Epic of Bernard the Grobbelaar’, 342 AD.
An illustration from that same ancient text shows a group of Neanderthal men and women in a cave, each clearly sporting a tash and the tell-tale mullet. This suggests that Hogan has been spreading Hulkamania since the dawn of man.
It is a matter of conjecture and debate if Hogan is aware he is the patient zero of Hulkamania. Some are of the opinion that he came to Earth from somewhere in outer space, bringing the disease with him. Some speculate that infecting humanity with Hulkamania is an intentional act while others believe it is simply an accident, and he is just an unwitting agent of doom.
Whatever his intentions, he seems to be the epicenter of the contagion and has been walking the Earth since human life evolved, began to settle down into agrarian civilisation and started making tools and microwaves.
Wherever Hogan goes, Hulkamania follows.
There are tales of a large, orange man in yellow pants in most cultures around the globe. From the ancient Egyptians to the Incas of South America. Most of these stories have been passed down from generation to generation with a warning of the virulent plague that accompanies the mysterious figure.
Further proof can be found in artwork and portraiture from all corners of the Earth.
A statue in Rome dated to 73 AD stands outside the Coliseum. It clearly shows a large, muscular man with a handlebar moustache.
It is believed to be a representation of the oft vilified Emperor Hogan shown partaking in one of his favourite pastime; kicking babies.
Many records exist of this vile practice. It was a common sight on the streets of ancient Rome before they figured out watching Christians getting eaten by lions while eating otter’s noses and wolf nipple chips was a lot less physically taxing and slightly more fun.
Is Emperor Hogan the same Hogan who has been kicking and stamping on people for money on television for the last 40 years? Or is an identical name and the physical resemblance merely a coincidence?
A painting in the Louvre attributed to an unknown artist and dated to 54 AD shows a group of Roman peasants clearly suffering from Hulkamania. Of the six individuals pictured, only one seems to have no symptoms and the look on his face speaks a thousand words. Most of them are expletives.
Is one of these unfortunate men actually the same Hulk Hogan we know today surrounded by his friends who have all contracted Hulkamania from him?
A portrait of Benedict Hogansnatch, dated 264 AD.
A self-portrait by Benedict himself.
It’s not an easy task to paint a portrait of yourself in profile. Hogansnatch spent many hours desperately flicking his glance from a mirror to the canvas trying to capture an accurate painting of the side of his face, failing miserably. He eventually opted for asking one of his servants to grow a large handlebar moustache and wear Hogansnatch’s hat and clothing. He then painted the servant. Then he painted a portrait of the servant. After the servant had been washed in the river.
Hogansnatch was an abbot of the influential ‘Faith No More’ group who believed that true worship of God came through whacking yourself in the face with a piece of cedar wood.
Hogansnatch spent many years hitting himself in the face with cedar planks but got no closer to God or the enlightenment he desired. He decided to change the type of wood used to see if it made any difference. He experimented with many different species of tree and eventually settled on holly. One afternoon, while out looking for suitable holly trees, he fell in a midden full of peasant poop. He emerged, enraged and stinky, snarling, swearing and decidedly irked. He ripped the shit-soaked clothes off his piss stained body, stamped around the forest pointing at trees and pretending not to hear a squirrel before sitting on a barn owl.
No more mention of him can be found.
Every single person who encountered Hogansnatch died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
A tapestry concerning Harold Hogan III, King of Wessex between 601 Ad and 612 AD.
Harold’s rule was cut short by a very large bunion outbreak which was attributed to his laws regarding his populace wearing wellington boots at all times. Even in the bath. After the public outcry, Harold ripped all his clothes off and stamped around Wessex pointing at people, pretending not to hear the Church and sitting on Vikings.
He disappeared from history soon afterwards.
Every single person who encountered Harold died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
A portrait of Oswald Hogan, Lord of Wankerton Manor, circa 700 AD.
Oswald is recorded in the minutes of the UK Parliamentary records. During a vote on a bill stating that all underwear should be bright yellow, he is recorded as standing up suddenly and shaking his fists before waving a finger in the face of the Speaker of the House and launching into the following tirade:
“Thou speaketh falsehoods regarding the colour of pantaloons my honourable kinsman. Well, let me respectfully inform you of something my male sibling. All know that yellow is the lord’s colour. The Hulkster tells ne’er a lie. Myself and my own four and twenty fingerbreadth serpents will not stand for such blasphemy. What, indeed sir, are you going to do at a time and after which Hulkamania runs wild on you?”
Oswald lost his parliamentary rights and was thrown out of office after losing his temper at a peasant who had the temerity to look at his mullet. He ripped all his clothes off and stamped around the House of Commons pointing at empty, green chairs, pretending not to hear the opposition and sitting on the fence.
Every single person who encountered Oswald died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
A portrait of the Earl of Hoganton, circa 900 AD.
The Earl of Hoganton was well known for his hatred of witchcraft. Specifically, among rabbits and stoats. He personally interrogated thousands of small, furry creatures about their affiliations with the Devil. He took their refusal to answer any of his questions as a confession and had them all burned at the steak.
His copy of the Malleus Maleficarum had a misprint and he would tie the stoats and rabbits to large pieces of beef before coating them in barbecue sauce and setting fire to them.
The now defunct borough of Hoganton, entirely unrelated to the Earl’s despicable antics, was rife with stories of strange beasts roaming the streets. Described as half hare, half medium rare, these strange beasts appeared to be amalgams of small furry animal and pork chop and were often depicted as satanic beasts, emitting a sulphurous smell, engulfed in flames and screaming like a banshee. They were meant to be forewarning of doom. There was a lot of doom around back then apparently.
The Earl disappeared from the history books after losing his marbles on a Wednesday afternoon.
Unable to locate his marbles, he spat out his dummy, threw his toys out of the pram and ripped off all his clothes before stamping around the village square pointing at barbecues, pretending not to hear the cries of his victims and sitting on badgers.
Every single person who encountered the Earl died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Czar Hulkavich of Varangia, dated approx. 1000 AD.
A despised ruler of turn of the century Russia. Czar Hulkavich had a liking for impaling people on large, specially sharpened potatoes.
Hulkavich was overthrown by his own people after he got angry one day and ripped all his clothes off, began stamping around Purple Square pointing at the bourgeois, pretending not to hear the truth about the proletariat and sitting on elderly, grey haired women with backs bent by labour.
Every single person who encountered Hulkavich died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Gregor McHogan, 1200 AD, Outer Hebrides.
McHogan was a well-liked and well-respected clan chief. His only vice was his habit of kicking babies up and down the glen every Sunday morning. Other than that, he was apparently a nice enough guy.
McHogan was banished from the tribe after a nasty argument with the other heads of the clan involving a turnip, a small stone named Philby, a collection of lithographs featuring early versions of Roger Rabbit and, as in all Scottish arguments, someone spilling someone else’s drink.
McHogan threw a set of bagpipes at an innocent lemming and then threw a major wobbly.
He ripped off his kilt and sporran and stamped around the glen pointing at wild haggis, pretending not to hear the call of the wild and sitting on the Loch Lomond Monster.
He was never seen in the glen again.
Every single person who encountered McHogan died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
1450 AD, Hogan the Lionbutt.
Lionbutt carved himself a reputation during the crusades. His escapades kicking the enemy in the nuts before jumping, arse first, on to their faces were legendary.
Lionbutt became missing in action after losing his temper at a donkey who looked at him funny.
Lionbutt asked the donkey a simple question:
“What are you gonna do donkey, when Lionbutt runs wild on you?”
The donkey chewed some grass and said nothing.
Lionbutt narrowed his eyes at the donkey.
The donkey said nothing.
Lionbutt gritted his teeth and his left eye started to twitch.
The donkey farted.
Lionbutt ripped all his clothes off and started stamping around the stables pointing at horses, pretending not to hear the mules and sitting on stable-boys.
Every single person who encountered Lionbutt died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Leonardo da Hogan, 1534 AD.
An inventor, painter and sculptor, da Hogan was by all accounts, nothing less than a genius.
He is well known for inventing the tea strainer before tea had even made it back to Europe from the colonies in the new world.
He invented a new kind of material specifically used in the construction of brightly coloured footwear which was waterproof and resistant to all odours.
He invented the colour yellow. Before that, daffodils were brown, and the Sun was green with pink stripes.
He also invented the chocolate fireguard and the left-handed pencil.
da Hogan disappeared from his small village after ‘The Eve of the Scolded Hatstand’, a night of tumult allegedly beginning with da Hogan accidentally hitting his thumb with a hammer while trying to build a machine that milks dogs.
da Hogan became furious, ripped all his clothes off and started stamping around his workshop pointing at clogs, pretending not to hear his clockwork defibrillator and sitting on robotic tea ladies.
Every single person who encountered da Hogan died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
1578 AD, Hulkeo Montague.
A poet and a scholar, not much else is known of Hulkeo. He allegedly fell in love with a young woman named Juliet who came from a family in a blood feud with Hulkeo’s own.
Their love denied, Juliet poisoned herself with a Walnut Whip (she had a nut allergy) and Hulkeo became outraged. He ripped all his clothes off and began stamping around the castle pointing at people, pretending not to hear the guards and sitting on peasants.
He disappeared soon afterwards.
Every single person who encountered Hulkeo died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
1689 AD, Nahoganan Bonahulk.
A lieutenant in the French army that attempted to take over Europe in the 17th Century. Little is known of Bonahulk except the reasons for his departure from the military.
During an attack on an unnamed fort somewhere in Germany, Bonahulk allegedly saw a cake shop, muttered something about chocolate and became angry because the cake shop’s door was locked.
He ripped all his clothes off and stamped up and down the street pointing at people, pretending not to hear his fellow soldier’s pleas for calm and sitting on random cows who had sauntered up to see what all the shouting was about.
Every single person who encountered Bonahulk died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Except Frank, who died of orange.
George Augustus Hoganton, 1st baron of Heathfield, circa 1787 AD.
Pictured during the Great Siege of Gibraltar during the American War of Independence. Hoganton single-handedly won the ‘Battle of The Tree That Looked Like Basil’ and played a major part in the ‘Scrap Over the Last of the Cornflakes’.
George was dishonourably discharged from the military soon after. During a celebratory meal with the King, he accidentally used the wrong spoon to eat a winkle. George became furious at his own lack of etiquette, ripped all his clothes off and began stamping around the hall pointing at people, pretending not to hear the King’s beagles and sitting on Beefeaters.
Every single person who encountered George died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Louis Hogan XVI, 1834 AD.
Pictured at the Palace of Versailles in France.
Louis was a favourite among the French aristocracy of the time. He would entertain the King’s Court with his acrobatic ability. His pièce de résistance was falling from a great height, buttocks first, onto a bed of nails and sustaining no injuries whatsoever.
Many among the French nobles copied his singular style and it was considered de rigueur to sport a large, blonde, handlebar moustache, a bald head with a rear mullet and wear large yellow boots. Even amongst the women.
Louis eventually lost the respect of his peers during an ill-fated night in December 1835. Louis dropped a hot sausage roll down his cravat and became enraged.
He ripped all his clothes off and started stamping around the banquet hall pointing at people, pretending not to hear the King’s mistresses and sitting on courtiers.
Every single person who encountered Louis died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Except Francois, who died of unintentional mullet overdose.
Photographic evidence is even more damning than portraits from history, clearly showing Hulk Hogan himself in various guises.
If it’s not him, he must have had many doppelgangers!
Chief Sitting Hogan, 1850.
Sitting Hogan was a leader among the free people of the Americas during the early 19th Century. Ironically, he rarely sat down at all. The tribe’s younger braves joked he should have been named ‘Chief Runs About Screaming With Massive Clonky Feet’.
He had an odd reputation, and many stories were told about his life. He was reputed to have smoked cabbage leaves in the peace pipe. He was completely unable to light any kind of fire. He could eat an entire buffalo, gizzards and wibbly bits included, in one sitting. His farts were said to have evacuated entire camps for several hours at a time. He once got drunk and started a fight with a totem pole and he would regularly floss his butt with a wigwam, and many more strange tales.
He lost the respect of his fellow tribes-people when the they discovered he was not naturally orange after a particularly dark winter.
He was eventually thrown out of the tribe after losing his temper because he stubbed his toe on a totem.
He ripped all his clothes off and started stamping around the camp pointing at people, pretending not to hear the other braves and sitting on wolves.
Every single person who encountered Sitting Hogan died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Except Prances With Loaves, who died of a silly name.
Two photographs, from 1859 and 1863 respectively, show one Hubert Hogan. The first image was taken during a sporting event at Yale University and shows a young and carefree Hubert who was obviously enjoying his time at Yale and partaking in many ‘vitamins’, oblivious of the horrors yet to befall him.
The second image was taken at an unknown enlistment camp for the 54th Massachusetts Infantry. There is nothing in the history books regarding Hubert’s military career save a vague mention of a large orange soldier who ripped his uniform off during the ‘Battle of Pigeon Pie Ridge’ and proceeded to stamp around the battlefield, pointing at the enemy, acting as if he couldn’t hear the canon shots and sitting on people. It is unclear if this description is one of Hubert or just a fanciful tale borne of too much moonshine.
Every single person who encountered Hubert died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Except quite a few of his comrades in arms who died of getting shot. But most of them did have postmortem mullet.
Another photograph from 1901 shows a character called ‘Harpo Hogan’. A member of a short-lived, three-man comedy troupe named ‘The Mighty Tash’, who graced the theatres of New York City in the early 20th Century.
Harpo was notable for his crazy hairstyle and slapstick style of physical comedy which seemed to involve nothing more than farting loudly and falling on his butt continuously. However, audiences were simpler back then and a lot easier to please so ‘The Mighty Tash’ went down very well wherever it performed.
Newspaper clippings from the time document the dissolution of the comedy troupe following a disagreement over a dry-cleaning bill for a pair of huge, yellow Y-fronts which had been covered in jam of an unknown flavour.
There was an enormous public argument on stage where Harpo ripped his clothes off and stamped around the stage pointing at people, acting as if he couldn’t hear the audience booing him and sitting on people.
No more information about Harpo Hogan can be found following his departure from the theatre that night under police custody.
Every single person who encountered Harpo died horribly of moustache soon after his disappearance.
Except Zeppo Hogan, who died of a dodgy clam.
The final photographic evidence is two images of a man named Horatio J. Hogan, taken almost two decades apart.
The first image shows Horatio as a wealthy businessman. By all accounts he was a gentleman and a scholar. He was kind to children, as long as they agreed to allow him to kick them up and down Wall Street every Sunday.
He made regular donations to charity. He funded the annual fire fighter’s association ball and he personally set up a not-for-profit company that put amputees in contact with other amputees.
This finally allowed people with one missing limb to find a partner with an opposite missing limb so they could go halfsies on a pair of shoes or gloves instead of being forced to buy a pair and throw one away.
The second image shows the same man after the financial crash of 1929. The haunted face of a man who has lost everything peers out from this image.
At this point Horatio’s whole outlook on life had changed. He took to kicking children up and down Wall Street every day of the week. He would often steal charity boxes to fund his Coca Cola habit. He had also taken up arson and would set buildings ablaze and call the fire brigade. Once the fire department had turned up, he would sneak into the fire engines and steal the fireman’s lunches, and he took great pleasure in knocking amputees over and stealing their shoes.
He is recorded in the New York Times as attempting to assault a man with one leg, one arm and one eye on a dreary Tuesday afternoon. The poor victim fell over but as he hit the floor, his prosthetic leg came detached and fell in just the right place for Horatio to land on, butt first, while attempting to finish the poor man off with his trademark ‘landing ass first on people’ manoeuvre.
The knee end of the prosthetic leg went right up Horatio’s fudge tunnel and he became violently angry.
He ripped all his clothes off and started stamping up and down the street with a fake foot hanging out of his arse, pointing at bankers with a fake foot hanging out of his arse and pretending to not hear the IRS with a fake foot hanging out of his arse before attempting to sit on Calvin Coolidge with a fake foot hanging out of his arse.
Horatio had somehow forgotten that he currently had a false leg sticking out of his butt.
Falling with all his weight onto the fake foot partially inserted into his rectum only forced the knee end deeper. Horatio yelped at a very high frequency. Every dog within seventeen miles pricked up their ears and quickly ran in the opposite direction to the source of the sound.
Horatio jumped to his feet. The feet on the ends of his legs, not the foot currently hanging out of his posterior. He was already on that foot which is what made him want to jump to his other feet in the first place.
He pulled the sort of face that people who have had the misfortune of slamming their fingers in a door knows well and set off running.
Anyone who has ever received a vicious kick up the arse that landed right in the middle between the meat will recognise the run. A strange run where the legs seem to only go up and forwards and is accompanied by the victim leaning back and placing both hands on the sore bottom in an attempt to mitigate the pain somehow.
This results in a strange ambulation that looks like a Nazi goosestep on crack and LSD at the same time.
People pointed and giggled. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.
Horatio was never heard from again, but a bent and disgusting prosthetic leg was found washed up on the shores of the Manhattan River three days later.
Every single person who had encountered Horatio died from laughing too hard soon after.
Are all the individuals pictured here the same man through the ages? Or is it mere coincidence?
You decide.
If it’s not Hogan, it’s bloody weird right?
Weirder still is a 3D model created by the University of East Talun which claims to be based on the biblical figure of Moses.
I hope you have taken this information to heart.
I hope you are adequately forewarned and can take precautions against catching this horrible affliction.
Cover your face.
Don’t breathe in around wellingtons.
Keep contact with sharts to a minimum.
Be wary. Be vigilant. Protect yourself and your loved ones.
Trust me. The last thing you want is your Granny suddenly kicking off, turning orange, growing an enormous tash and kicking your Dad through a window.
I hope you will join me in this war against Hulkamania.
We MUST stop it. We have to.
I don’t want to wear big, yellow pants.
If we do not stand up and fight, it’s all over.
You have been warned.
