We are frustrated tabloid hacks with a common interest in red-hot monkey love and we wish to bring to you the stories that our editors dare not print. Read our profile page to find out more.
Celebrity Bestiality was published monthly from 1999 until 2003. Then, after a suggestion made at a somewhat regrettable social gathering, we went away to have a good, long, hard look at ourselves. Now we're back.
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IN OUR IMAGINATION THERE IS NO HESITATION
Issue 46 - December 2006
Normal, right-thinking readers might accuse us of being insensitive bastards in naming soap-star turned singer turned cancer-survivor Kylie Minogue on these pages, and they'd be right... but society needs to be protected from this strumpet.
With the untimely and unnecessarily violent death of the only man who might have backed up our claims - celebrity croc-buggerer Steve Irwin - we find ourselves with no alternative but to spill the beans. It's what poor dead Steve would have wanted, and who are we to stand in the way of wild speculation?
Miss Minogue may have the public image of the innocent squeaky-clean girl-next-door, forced against her will by her billionaire-shagging sister into a life as a pole dancer. This lead all-too-predictably into unnatural acts of sexual deviancy... which - let's not beat about the neatly-trimmed bush - is what we're all here for.
The evidence is all around us; even during her soap opera years in Neighbours, while the world cooed over her screen romance with Jason Donovan, she only had eyes for another of her co-stars...
With his glossy coat, wagging tail and damp nose, it was lust at first sight for Minogue, but Bouncer had other ideas. They found him, face down in Mrs Mangel, the cheque from the Melbourne Age stuffed where the sun don't shine, and the expose was never published.
Free and easy with her canine co-star she may have been, but there was a ruthless streak that not even Barbara Woodhouse could tame.
Despite this early set-back, those rumours of red-hot Showgirl Farmyard action just wouldn't die. Minogue, obsessed that she is, cannot resist dropping not-so-subtle hints into her songs, not unlike her friend Robbie Williams with his forthcoming single; "I'm not a gayer you know, I just like enormous cocks".
Take for example her monster international hits: "I Can't Get Ewe Out Of My Head" which implies both bestiality AND lesbianism, plus "The Low Cow Motion", telling the tale of her underage beef-cattle scat fantasies. We could go on, and by God we will... "Better the Tasmanian Devil You Know"? The filthy moo.
And let us not forget a certain breakthrough hit which featured the following rhyming couplet: "I should be so lucky / my finger's up a ducky".
This set out her disgusting, perverted stall from the off, and an unwitting public lapped it up like Sandi Toksvig in a bucketful of fanny.
So, while some might say it too soon to lay into this perverted slattern after her serious illness, we say we should strike while the iron is hot. And, if we strike in the right place, we might make it heal up and prevent any more of God's creatures from enjoying themselves far too much.
As any right-thinking farmer might say: "Minogue - get orf moi laaand!"