As the moon completes another cycle we must mourn another spate of dead Soundcloud Rappers. They shone ever so bright before they were cruelly taken from us to the most I of VIP parties; the afterlife. But they will be mourned by their followers, their crews and, mostly, by their over eager investors. Their corpses aren’t feeding worms for they are collaborating and fronting now on the right side of Jesus. We will remember you all by the tracks you’ve left online. And until the servers are disconnected we will always remember you. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rap in Peace.
Lun Cha Bull
Gunned down when a game of Uzi Hide ‘n Seek went wrong. Cha Bull will be remembered for his catchphrase “Gimme that on a burger” which sent the world alight briefly in 2017
Born the son of Florida Senator 4tune@son hit it big in his early teens when he started throwing wads of cash out his window as he’d do laps of the nighbourhoods. His breakthrough hit “Hoes E.A.” featured in an ad for AdamandEve. As well as attack ads against his father
The Emo-Rap Suicide Queen, Daisy Chain$, famed for her albums “Whortless”, “Otto eRotica” and “R U GDPR Cumplyent?” was sadly killed when a lighting rig fell on her while shooting a Music Video where she was crying black tears. Her management are working on touring the footage to fulfil her commitment to art, music and ticket holders
Tennis mad CoNtxt $en$it!v€ (21), perhaps best known for his beefs with Pi$$pondant and Huge Bone Villa, died of dehydration after falling asleep in a Jacuzzi filled with champagne. He’ll be missed by his two kids: Racket and Ball. His management have said they’ll be taking his ashes to the place he always dreamed he’d go to one day, the Wimbeldon Centre Court.
I aspire to write headlines and I think there could be something there with “in our mist/ midst”. It’ll come to me fully once I see the photos.
I’d be all for it. I was the best in my swimming class at holding my breath so the gas will have no affect on me.
Poison gas has the potential to kill thousands of people although it’s very imprecise and requires a lot more testing. I think they should release clouds at Ed Sheeran concerts to get a better gauge of what it can do. With snipers on stand by should some be immune.
My major worry would be all those hard working workers in the Bullet Factories being put out of a job.
We could use it for good too. Fly a crop-duster over the disadvantaged area and spray them with Omega 2 andt Cod Liver Oil and watch them become hard working entrepreneurs.
Latest figures indicate that Dubliners have ditched the bed for a bedding in the ditches. But what makes rutting in the woods, alley ways and behind skips so much more appealing than a bedroom with the Love Zone on the Radio up and the blinds down? We hit the streets to find doggers with their lights on and stuck our dictaphone in their sweaty faces to ask What’s it all about?
“If I was to do it in me bedroom, at the volume that comes naturally to me, I’d not just wake up my kids, it’d be the neighbours’ kids too and me Ma in the granny flat”
“I want to feel pretty and having a circle of wanking men slowly encroaching on your personal space can make a girl feel very special indeed”
“For me, personally, it’s about getting in touch with my ancestors who didn’t have fancy caves or feather beds. If they needed to have at it they’d to get their knees mucky. I’m just honouring their legacy”
“It’s become ritual for me now to have a snack box then spaff with a stranger by the bins in my flats. I then get double use from the wet-wipe and head home to bet on the Horses in China”
“You get to meet new people. Just last week there was this guy with an English accent and the most unusual welts on his lob-on. I’d never seen such a sight before”
“Everyone else is paying for pints to get their end away with a stranger. Me? I just need some petrol and a few johnnies that I swiped from the student unions”
“I’m a very smelly and lazy man. And I find you never stink that bad in comparison to the reek of cow shite and rotten hay of a lay by”
“It’s every girls’ dream to be taken in the woods by the light of a phone, with pine cones in her hair and the sound of an engine running”
” If you want to be boring then be boring, eat your bland rice, wear your beige shirt and tick your boxes. I’d rather live life and nothing beats the thrill of having a wank on the train tracks at night”
Readers share their stories of the Bad Pennies that have plagued their life
My bad penny is actually a 5c piece. I carved an X on it when I was young. I put in in the poor box and then the next week the shopman gave it to me in change. I was livid.
The worst penny I’ve ever had is sitting in my large intestines. I was a very curious child before the care home.
I lost sight in my right eye from a bad penny. Those Shamrock Rovers Scum had sharpened it and flung it at me while I tried to officiate a match.
I had a shilling sneaked into me tankard and ended up serving in the Royal Navy until my death in 1814 when a cannon ball fell on my foot and I fell in to the sea and drowned.
I’m a waiter of an Italian restaurant that relies on tips. I counter this by running a “Take a Penny, Leave a Penne” scheme that keeps the larder full and the coppers scarce
I’m a plastic warrior and live virtually cashless. But I still have a couple of Bad Pennies on my statement every month. 50,000 of them. Anyone know why “Car Parts” comes up at 3am every friday night? I was nowhere near a garage, I was in a Stripper Club.
I don’t know why everyone is so vexed by bad pennies. They’re still legal tender. You get 52 of them and you can buy cream in Tescos. It’s even less if you steal the cream. Significantly so.
I ghosted a girl call Penny sometime ago and she wouldn’t stop hounding me. I’m glad I did because time hadn’t been kind to her as the months after we’d been together she put on a lot of weight localised in her stomach.
Exclusive Explosive Extract We are pleased to share with you the opening chapter of Danny Cannon’s (the author) latest page-ripping thriller Do Fear The Reaper. Danny Cannon (the Character) is tasked with infiltrating the most dangerous, home grown, radicalized terrorists group: Hippies. Who if left unabated would destroy all the great progress our corporations have made.
It’s hard not to feel too clean in a place like this. I’m far from the fanciest stud in the ranch but next to these “artists” I’m immaculate. I could literally taste their sweat, stank and musk yards before I even got in to this “Art Space”. A canny name for any building whose ownership has gone into disrepute and taken over. Tonight the freaks and work-shys were convening for a “Poetry” Night. Every ragtag straggler that could string a few words together was here. I panned over them and their glossy eyes as they prepared their “takedowns” of big business and globalisation. I could hardly hear CEOs quaking in their boots. It was far from the night out I’d have planned for myself. But it was an assignment and I was finding it very hard to relax having returned from security detail in Dubai. I was better working, even if it was in the bowels of society.
I pushed my way through to the throngs, dodging the fleas and lice to a spot at the back. The crowd were facing the empty “stage”, an apple box and a microphone hanging off its stand, waiting for the first “rhymer” to disseminate the pillars of civilisation. I had to laugh. A pair of scruffs edged in front of me. They looked like a couple but I was at a loss which was the Man and which was his Woman. They both looked liked they’d climbed through a few ditches to get here. They were sharing a plastic bottle of cider in recyclable cups. The shorter one’s fuzzy dreads dipping in to the cup as “she” knocked the scrumpy back. I turned away. I had a bottle of American Whiskey inside my Motorbike jacket and a few quick pulls of that had the sting taken out of my eyes.
A dippy young one, with green hair and a pair of over-sized boots that made her look like a clown, took to the “stage”. She mumbled her way through her introductions. Thanking people before the night had even started. I had to laugh. She initiated a round of applause for the first “act” with the proficiency of a two legged greyhound. I took the aural blanket as a “poet” walked out with his toothy grin to get back to the case at hand.
I had still had sand in my boots when I was approached by the party representing Senator Wilson. I knew very little about him save for his achievements in property development and thus knew I could trust him. He was due to retire and his organisation were planning a farewell, testimonial-style dinner for him. One last, deserved, passing around of the cap. But his people wanted to be certain there would be no maggots in the margaritas so they called me. Sen. Wilson had a, very ungrateful, granddaughter. She turned her septum pierced nose up at everything he gave her and fell in with these dirt worshipping hippies. And for all their shit talking about peace and love they have an unnecessary penchant for big “political” protests. I had to neutralise this selfish freak before she released a load of “fat cats” at Sen. Wilson’s retirement dinner. Or whatever tenuous, big statement they were planning with all the time they weren’t spending at work. Only thing was I didn’t have anything but a description of her, and that fit with every one of these “radicals” here.
The pube-bearded man-child finished his drool poem about Starbucks and left to the opposite of deafening applause. The clown girl stumbled back out to thank everyone again. I was starting to worry that due to the needless reverence of the proceedings I’d have to wait until after the “poetry” for the obligatory mingling and feigned congratulations to question and prod these soap dodgers for intel. I reached for my American Whiskey at the thought of that. When the clown girl invited Misty Terra Wilson Marley to the “stage”. I spun my head around as the short stinker with the soggy dags from earlier adjusted the microphone. “Hi.” She muttered into the side of the microphone. “I’m very nervous so if you can help me with the good energies we can all get through this as one. This first poem is called “Sins of the Grandfather”.” Bingo. Target acquired. I felt relief that she’s was finally in my cross-hairs. And then dread as she took out about an inch thick stack of crumpled paper from her patchy saddle bag. This is going to be a long fucking night.
Do Fear the Reaper may return but I wouldn’t bet on it being any time soon.
A signed copy of Issue 1 delivered to you as a .pdf
Instant Access to a Gallery of Rejected Scrag pages, many almost made it
Spotify Playlist of Personally Curated Hits from the Editor (Spotify premium required or there will be ads – Spotify’s and ours)
Three Realtone Ringtones including ”Buck-buck-buck-a-roo!” and parody song ”Oh Navan is a place on Earth” by Belinda Carlisle (sung by the Editor)
A Personalized Welcome Email (provided you enter your name correctly in the box provided)
And I’ll put my twitter on private but let you follow me and I’ll try use it more (I can barely stand the shite on it though)
Two exciting Paper Masks of Wacky Characters (please don’t photocopy)
And possibly maybe more gifts
Only €5.99 a month That’s EVERY month!
An absolute steal when it’s a month with 31 days!
Just had a think. There’ll be one more gift – ”Dippy Egg” T-Shirts – available to buy two weeks before it goes on general sale
If for any unseen reasons our creditors do not deem the Scrag Fan Club as a reasonable repayment scheme the Scrag Fan Club may end without notice and all “gifts” must be immediately returned. Or deleted in the case of the eGifts
The insurers should only pay out if there was a massive car pile up. Not trivial things like a scuffed bumper, clipped wing mirrors or a minor crash with a single fatality.
To lower fraud you have to lower premiums, to lower that you have to lower accidents, to lower that you have to lower the speed limit. Only problem with that is it encourages curb crawling and with that the decay of family values. It’ll have to be one or the other.
My insurance company has been hit with a lot of fraud in the last few years. As apparent in the fact that they can only sponsor a shit team like Norwich City. Had there been another £50m spare they could be on the shirts of Chelsea or Arsenal.
If I stop at every stop sign all my life I’ll not get a penny back from them vultures. But should a racer boy decide to fling his car off a bridge he’ll get a lump sum and some really cool scars that the birds will go jelly for. Some justice.
Insurance is a big con. You give money for the, against the odds, chance that you’ll get loads in return. It’s an absolute swizz and scandal. And I wish I had every red cent I’ve had to pay back so I could put it towards something worthwhile like the bookies.