As you may be aware, Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus Online Internet Comedy Magazine Blog is a product of the Jackdaw Comedy Network, Ireland’s largest, most feared and indeed only online comedy Network. Decimated by the econopolypse our corporate finances, once the envy of publishing barons from Robert Maxwellhouse to Rupert Baracus, have like the greedy kiosks of the M50, taken a heavy toll in recent years. In a vain effort to save our wilting money tree, Editor in Chief Henry McSputherboon Chamberton has bought an allotment and begun steadily to fertilise the fastest growing branch of publishing – that heavily leafed bow known as Misery Porn.
‘Ah ha’ some scoffed, when he announced this bold new direction in our daily missive The Amusing Quail, ‘it is a horse too whipped to march further’. Nay. In our exhaustive search to discover literature so miserable, experiences so torrid, futile and bereft of human decency as to out whinge McCourt himself, we have uncovered new seems of the rich black coal of human misery. And stoke the fire we shall, till the bright orange flames of voyeurism leap like one day each intercalary year, into the calendar of literary events, to scrawl their name in the padlocked planner of the Times best seller list. Oh yes.
With that in mind, here’s a brief preview of the grief wank classics on their way from JCN this cold and loveless winter.
Sarah was twelve when she discovered she was different from other girls. It happened in the shower. There she was, innocently scrubbing away the scabs and scrapes of what cruelly resembled a normal childhood, when she noticed it. Not the timely yet confounding gush of the ladies curse, but something even more likely to cause lifelong aggression and discarded bloody rags. There, just where the crest of calf met the knuckle of knee, a rent left by some bramble or skipping rope that had torn into her innocent flesh, revealing not the tender knot of ravaged sinew, but cold hard steel. Read the book that no one else dared publish. The heart rending biography of a tiny terminator.
A Child Called Mingus Campbell
Progeria. The word stings like a bee that has nothing to lose. We’ve all seen the pictures, hairless swollen skulls hanging loose from candle-wax necks. Gnarled arthritic fingers clutching coloured pencils. Childhood cries of bingo, little hands of bridge. Candy-cane coloured Hello Kitty zimmer frames. Tranformer patterned colostomy bags. But for little Menzies the diagnosis meant only that his twin dreams of one day representing his country at running very fast, and leading a centre left social democratic party to electoral irrelevance, could not wait.
‘Inspiring’, the Sun.
‘Good Night’, the Moon.
‘Croak!’, Mingus Campbell.
Ladies, no book yet published will make you gladder of your life of banal pedantry. No graphic account of a kinderfrau’s seduction by her tall dark and winsome step father will better oil your frig nub. No premature departure from normative sexuality could more crudely inspire your pity, alone at 4am with a box of chocolate, your favourite brand of bolly’ and a rampant rabbit (included). No rise above adversity could leave you more convinced that lost time is never found again, that the wheel comes full circle, and that the first ape who became a man thus committed treason against his own kind.
You’ll find the series at all good airports and supermarkets, whenever we’ve found a team of miserable shits to write them.