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“Hey bru, you gotta ciggie?”
“I’ll bitecha fucken face off cunt”
“Oi dickheads! Bet you knob-jockeys can’t do this with ya cocks”
The Kingdom of Frankston, situated 12 parsecs to the left of the Dagobar System, is the capital of Australia, the seat of government having been moved there in accordance with the terms of the Adidas Treaty that saw an end to the Moccasin Wars and the ascension of Alf from TV’s Home & Away to the throne, becoming the Czar of the United States of Australia (USA), as well as Supreme Chancellor of Frankston. Another provision in the treaty, put there to appease fuckwits from Frankston specifically, declared the mighty Holden Commodore to be the official mode of transport throughout the Australian Kingdoms and Boganate dependencies (The Centrelink States).
The people of Frankston, while exhibiting some diversity, fall broadly into the fuckwit category. While there are those few who find themselves subjected to Frankston’s mix of bogans, thieves, pimps and low-life scally-wags because God fucking hates them, most residents deserve to have fuckwit branded clearly to their butt-cheeks with a red hot cattle iron. While initiatives proposed to wall off Frankston from the civilised world have not yet received the funding they warrant, and humanitarian proposals to use tactical nuclear weapons have failed to garner the necessary support, it is, nevertheless, hoped that future generations will know off Frankston only thru horror films and satellite imaging taken out of morbid curiosity to see if they’ve killed each other off yet (or better yet, a big fucking charred hole in ground if we take the nuclear option). Little is known as to communicability of the fuckwittedness that afflicts those of Frankston with dreadful efficiency, enough to make anyone shake their fists angrily in air and scream “why God why?” Indeed, no one understands why, although one thing we know through the careful observation of these unfortunate exceptions to Darwinian principles – that God has a sense of humour and by fuck is it twisted sense of humour.
Frankston was first discovered by some cunt named Frank Stone on the 26th January, 44BC, Although he had planned to find a better place to put a town, he reluctantly chose the site of modern day Frankston after he stopped to take a crap on the beach at which point his horse, who also happened to be his wife whose name was Tori Spelling, dropped dead. After 47 failed escape attempts, Tori Spelling was forced to reconcile with the fact that an end to being relentlessly sodomised by Frank was unlikely and as such, lost the will to live. She then prayed to God daily for a quick and painless death, reminding him constantly that he owed her for giving her a ridiculously long face as a joke. God soon conceded this point, removing Tori Spelling from the physical world into eternal peace, away from Frank’s perpetual sodomising, out of reach of the cruel world that poked fun endlessly at her long face as well as obvious nepotism - Spelling played the title role in the hit TV show ‘Mr ED’, despite the availability of other far more talented horses, horses with faces that weren’t too long (by equine standards). This is widely believed to be the case solely because spelling father, Pharlap, was the shows director and executive producer). Perhaps this is why God chose to punish her by allowing some evil shitbag horsefucker with a love of sodomising horses like Frank to marry her and indulge in her earthly equine delights. The important thing, however, is that justice has been done. Jealous teenage spoilt little bitches no longer need to get green with envy and hateful at the injustices of the world. “I’m a talentless bitch with fuckall going for me – just like Tori Spelling. Why don’t I get to be a TV star?" A fair point. At least now the universe is back in alignment and young girls with no talent can once again accept their station in life without bitter complaint. Now that Tori is a dead horse who long ago was turned into dog food, the injustice of her ill-gotten role as Mr ED now a distant memory. These days, horses like Tori go straight to the knackery just as they should always have done. That cunt Frank got his too – stupid prick hoped to get more than his fair share of a 20 piece bucket by eating like a fucken pig on amphetamines. Greedy shit left this dimension with a bone stuck in his throat, courtesy of Kentucky Fried Chicken and his own greed with regard to the Colonel’s secret recipe. Unfortunately, unlike horsehead, Frank’s legacy lives on, with numerous namesake’s remaining in his honour. When those seeking to change the name have pointed out that Frank was a cunt of a bloke, opponents are quick to point out that Frankston is a cunt of a place so why change. Touche. At least some headway was made recently toward reducing that fuckwit's mark of Frankston society when Frankston's main drag, The Frank Street Promenade was renamed, the citizens voting from among several proposed improved street names. Not surprisingly, the winning candidate, attracting a whopping 97% of the vote saw the old promenade renamed Kentucky Fried Chicken Boulevard.
edit Indigenous Frankstonites
Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, there were no indigenous Frankstonites. Similar to the rest of Australia, there was no bastard here when we got here and to all you outsiders who like to suggest otherwise, you shut the fuck up if you wanna leave with your teeth. No one knows why this is a sensitive issue, given that there was no one here you’d think no one would mind, but we do so shut the fuck up cunt or well give you a hiding, Frankston style. When Frank arrived in Frankston and found no one, therefore couldn’t have shot anyone or given anyone smallpox, he declared Frankston to be Terra Nullcunnius (Latin – ‘No Cunt’s Land). Although this has been found to be a fiction elsewhere in Australia (thanks to outsiders who just couldn’t keep their troublemaking, commie mouths shut), Frankston is still universally accepted by all to be Terra Nullcunnius as no cunt should have to live in Frankston. In a recent online poll conducted, 83% of respondents indicated that if presented with such an awful dilemma, they would choose to commit Seppuku (Japanese ritual disembowelment with a samurai sword, followed by beheading), preserving their dignity and honour, rather than live in Frankston. It should also be noted that while Indigenous Australians don’t concede the point regarding no indigenous inhabitants when that cunt Frank first arrived, they do however agree that the place is Terra Nullcunnius now and when Chief Justice ‘Sneaky’ Mason tried to give indigenous Australia Frankston as part of the landmark Mabo ruling, His Excellency Lord Edward Mabo, the current emperor of Aboriginal Australia simply smirked, then replied “good try dickhead”. The court roared with boisterous laughter for several minutes at Sneaky Mason’s cheeky attempt to give the Aboriginals Frankston. Finally, once the laughter had subsided and had people wiped away the tears, Mason turned to Lord Mabo, still looking somewhat pissed off at Sneaky trying to play him for a chump and said “Oh fair go mate, can’t blame a bloke for tryin”. After the court case had finished, Lord Mabo took Chief Justice Mason goanna hunting during which they had butt sex, fell deeply in loved, marrying shortly afterwards. Now they have lots and lot of butt sex.
edit The Moccasin Wars
Frankstonites are known throughout the Solar System as a peaceful people, never engaging in unnecessary acts of violence, saying naughty words, or doing things with the English language that should never be done to our noble tongue. However, the great people of Frankston found themselves plunged into war when they found themselves subjected to a deliberate and unprovoked attack on December 7th, 1941, in what one guy described as ‘a day that will live in infamy”. At around 11am, while the streets were empty, the gentle Frankstonites still tucked into bed, sleeping peacefully, the notorious Horsefuckers of Argoroth stormed the gates of Frankston and kidnapped the Bogan Queen. Her remains were never found, however, bones that may’ve been hers were found near an Asgrothian campsite nearby, along with numerous empty carboard containers and buckets from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Extensive testing at the Royal Frankston Forensic Institute of Catching Bad Cunts What Done Bad Shit (The RFFIOCBCWDBS), Frankston’s greatest minds were unable to determine whether those remains were those of Queen Tracey, or just leftovers from when they had KFC for dinner. Despite this uncertainty, Frankston’s mayor at the time, George W. Bush, ordered that they give the people of Frankston closure by saying that they were and had all the leftover chicken, potato & gravy and KFC boxes and wrapper found loaded into a cardboard coffin (the traditional coffin for members of Frankston’s royal house) and towed through Frankston on an open trailer, pulled by a genuine Torana GTR XU1 as the people came out to pay their respects, each raising their beer cans in respect as the cardboard box filled with KFC passed by. Some years later when the truth came to light, that there was much doubt as tio whether the KFC that was buried that day contained any royal meat at all, Former Mayor George W. Bush, explained that he’d though it best to just bullshit to everyone so that the city may have the closure it needed, then added “Besides, no one from Frankston would’ve wanted her back anyway, knowing she’d been rooted by the Asgoroths, it just wouldn’t be the same, most Frankstonites agreed that they’d hate to see her brought back alive”. While the full bench of Frankston’s High Court agreed that this was true, they still cracked the shits, stating “That’s not the point George, you shouldn’t have bullshitted to us” The debate over this still rages as this incident, now referred to by the press as the Kentucky Fried Chicken Affair or Colonel-Gate, was the false intelligence that later was used to justify Frankston going to war. Although no bones or other bits of her majesty were found during the conflict, George reckons that a van that was scene hi-tailing it out of there just before Frankston Air Force began ‘Operation White Trash Fury’, carpet bombing fuck knows who and maybe hitting a few bad people in the process, might well have contained the remains of the abducted White Trash Queen as it raced away from Frankston, towards the Syrian border. It could also have been simply a shit scared family who had decided that not getting bombed was in many ways superior to getting bombed and they may’ve concluded also that driving away from the area that is to be bombed and into an area that won’t be should reduce the likelihood of death. If this is the case, then it can certainly be assumed with a good degree of certainty that these individuals were not native to Frankston. In the past when Frankstonites have faced a decision between living or dying, they invariably become confused and angry, then they go to Kentucky Fried Chicken by which point they’ve forgotten all about it.
edit David Attenborough Controversy
Compelled by reports of ‘the land that evolution forgot’, TV personality and guy that likes spending fucken ages watching animals and talking shit in a posh English faggot voice, David Attenborough visited Frankston in 2007 to see what all the fuss and ridicule was about. After observing his level of mastery of the English language, the people of Frankston became confused, then they became frightened. As everybody knows, fear leads to anger and anger is the path to bogans behaving like brain dead fuckwits, throwing half full beer cans at the fancy man using the big scary words who they blamed for inciting the hostilities by confusing them, as was the result. “Get me the fuck out of here now” Attenborough screamed at his driver, pursued by a mob every bit as aggravated, but vastly more stupid than the 20 or so baboons who chased him out of a Zimbabwean jungle the previous year in an almost identical incident. Having escaped with his life, his car extensively damaged – the windows smashed, the panels kicked in and “Mutherfucka 3199 Reprasent” spray-painted across the front, Attenborough declared the inhabitants of Frankston to be “Nature’s Cruellest mistake”, as well as “The most compelling case I’ve ever seen for large scale forced sterilisation”. Upon his return to Britain, Attenborough became the face of the “The Frankston Solution”, a powerful interest group lobbying for some sort of final solution to the Frankston problem. Addressing the House of Commons, he demanded an explanation as to why Frankston had been allowed to go this long unchecked in what used to be an otherwise perfect empire and why the inhabitants hadn’t been sterilised and sold as slave labour decades earlier. Parliament voted to launch an inquiry into this oversight, however, no action has yet been taken against those responsible for not giving Frankston the Dresden treated that it should’ve received many moons before. When news of Attenborough’s activities reached Frankston, an angry mob of fuckwits converged on the Mayor’s house. Her initial response, “Meh, the guy’s got a point”, served only to infuriate them further, at which point she resorted to using her famous genital origami to distract them, the trademark tricks with her vagina that had seen her re-elected as mayor seventeen times and had never before failed to diffuse a tense situation involving angry fuckwits. When this failed to silence their angry, retarded bitching, she reluctantly settled the situation by handing them each a slab of beer and telling them to fuck off, which, of course, worked, but set a dangerous precedent
edit Relationship to Kentucky Fried Chicken
edit The Great Chicken War
Any visitor to Frankston is acutely aware of strong influence of Kentucky Fried Chicken in all aspects of Frankston life. The reasons for this are complex and varied, but an historical event that took place in Frankston 100 years ago today is particularly noteworthy. Not many people know this, but Frankston actually featured as the site for the final battle of what historians have termed ‘the Great Chicken War’, which took place on the site of what is now the Frankston Botanical Gardens. People the world over without exception agree that Colonel Sanders’ contribution to gourmet cuisine throughout the solar system has been nothing short of remarkable, and hiss chicken and sides, fucking delicious. Few, however, stop and ask themselves, what’s with calling himself a Colonel? What did he command a battalion of combat infantry in ‘Nam or some shit? Plenty do ask actually, but few know the truth. Colonel Sanders let the human race to victory in a lesser known conflict long ago that saw man, rather than chicken, emerge as the dominant species at a time when evolution hadn’t yet picked a clear favourite and clearly the chickens really wanted it to be them. It never really looked good from the chicken’s perspective and most battles saw enormous chicken casualties the likes of which the peace-loving chickens could not have anticipated. They also lacked military experience with none having ever fought in combat prior to the outbreak of hostilities.
edit Colonel Sanders' Fights for Justice
Unlike the chickens, Colonel Sanders, was a seasoned veteran, nicknamed Chainsaw Charlie during his time as an officer in the Confederate Army in the U.S. civil war for his insistence that all prisoners of war must be carved up with a chainsaw, along with all civilians. Losing the civil war pissed him off big time, especially losing the fundamental human right for chicken farmers to own slaves. The long days and nights after the civil war, having to farm his chickens himself, left Sanders feeling bitter, the injustice of it all tearing at his soul. His response when chicken emancipation became a hot issue was hardly surprising and he fought with the same cold brutality and tenacity that made him famous previously. It didn’t take long for the chicken armies to be brought to their knees, the famous last battle fought in Frankston. After cycling through all other weapons settings and expending all ammunition, Colonel Sanders gave the order to switch to flamethrowers, having cornered the last pocket of chicken resistance in old Mrs McCunty’s Herb and Spice Supergarden. The chickens signalled their desire to surrender, however, as a man of honour, Sanders explained that he couldn’t in good conscience accept their surrender as he was going to kill every motherfucking last one of them no matter what. With that, the chickens panicked, seeking an escape route, but finding themselves completely surrounded. As Sanders’ battalion hit them with flamethrowers from all directions, the chickens rolled thru the blazing herbs garden, every which as the lads cooked them to a tender succulence
edit Sanders makes sure no bastard blabs
Realising the significance of their find, Sanders and his men promptly located Mrs McCunty, Sanders threatening to cut her tits off if she didn’t reveal to him the identity of the ultimate combination of herbs and spices that had produced this heavenly chicken. After shitting her pants and telling Sanders all he wanted to know with lightning speed, the number of herbs and spiced numbering eleven in total, he thanked her for her cooperation further explaining the need for absolute secrecy on this matter and that if she should reveal it to another soul, they’d come back and staple her cunt to her face. To make sure she understood his sincerity, Sanders thought it prudent to show a little brutality, cutting her tits off and feeding them to the neighbours’ dog before departing to ensure her understanding of the terms of their non-disclosure agreement was the same as his own.
edit Attempts to Acquire Sanders' Secret Recipe
The people of Frankston tried in vain for many years to determine the nature of the ultimate chicken mix, but were unable. They tortured Mrs McCunty for information, while she resided in the psych ward at Frankston hospital, never leaving after her committal, but no level of savagery would suffice to loosen her tongue. Anticipating this eventuality, Sanders returned to Frankston shortly beforehand for one last time to staple her cunt to her face as a precautionary measure to ensure that she was sufficiently terrorised, a move that proved to be the correct one. Sanders’ men also benefited from the discovery as Sanders had them all discharged from the army and employed at KFC, having negotiated an enterprise bargaining agreement that provided them with a fixed hourly income of $3.50.
In Frankston cultural traditions, the Colonel’s chicken is central to official ceremonies and has been the official food of the Royal House of Frankston, KFC exclusively catering all events at which the reigning King Alfred is in attendance (alone since that unpleasantness with those horsefuckers who ate his missus Tracey or whatever the fuck they did with her. He was reportedly sick of her bitching and complaining anyway).
Kentucky Fried Chicken also holds religious significance for the Frankstonites and it is held that every person must make at least three pilgrimages to the KFC in Frankston East during their lifetime (per week), the KFC in Frankston having closed down after a scandal that involved using rabbit meat mixed in with the chicken. Now the old Colonel building is an Argentinian Steakhouse which smells ok, but I’ve never been in there. It aint no fucken KFC though, that much is certain.
edit As an Argument Against Postmodernism
Frankstonites prefer to see the world in terms of black and white, most of them finding shades of grey to be confusing and therefore aggravating. When Postmodernism came to visit shortly after the Muslim prophet Muhammad visited as part of his world tour, many residents responded angrily toward notions of the possible non-existence of objective truth. In response to the growing unrest among the locals, the government, promptly ran postmodernism out of town, suggesting in the stronget possible terms that it not return at any point, lest it face brutal violence, Frankston style. Furthermore, the Czar sent out a delegation to locate the greatest minds throughout the kingdom, calling upon them them to join the taskforce, using any means necessary to compel to cooperate. Codenamed Taskforce Sokal, the members of this team were to dismantle postmodernism, restoring positivist science in all its glory and simplicity to it's rightful place as the sole paradigm from which to base our understanding of the nature of existence. The outcome, which came as a surprise to everyone who gave two shits, was the greatest routing of popular bullshit by rational argument since Charlie Darwin pulled down his pants, and laid upon the traditional belief system that had dominated societal discourse for the last 2000 years or more, a faecal tsunami of biblical proportions.
edit Frankston Defecates on the Hopes and Dreams of Postmodernism
The results of the Sokal taskforce was Postmodernism's worst nightmare, something that's known broadly now as the Argument by Kentucky Fried Chicken. Scientist's at Frankston's prestigious Taswegian Institute were able to isolate the cause of the Colonel's universally accepted deliciousness. By demonstrating the universality of which KFC is held to be delicious, the taskforce demonstrated the existence of an objective truth. The Po Mo Wanker Brigade (PMWB) flew into a panic, despatching scouts the world over to try to locate an individual that found the Colonel's secret recipe anything less then perfectly delicious, even going so far as to seek out uncontacted tribes in the most remote regions of the globe, like out the back of buttfuck nowhere in the Amazon or some bullshit. However, all they did was reinforce the KFC argument (and bring an influx of uncontacted peoples into urban areas, having come in search of more Kentucky Fried Chicken). With one point of pure irrefutable objective truth as a reference point from which to view from, a torrent of further objective truth has been discovered daily since, determined by their position relative to the first point of objective truth known with absolute certainty (the indisputable flawless deliciousness of Kentucky Fried Chicken). Although one point of reference potentially provide all that is required to map the universe in its entirety, the existence of perfection manifested in the form of one of the sense (gustation) lead a team of investigators to attempt the same without a reference point, again ascertaining objective perfection in audition with the discover of Antonio Vivaldi's Violin concerto in C minor RV199, 1st movement.
edit Frankston Riots
The people of Frankston were able to enjoy three days of good ol’ fashioned rioting in response to the brutal treatment by police of young Frankston lad on his way hom from church. Having finished at church for the day and spent the rest of the afternoon catching up with his Sunday School chums, altar boy Rodney King and his friends were out riding their BMX. Minding their own business, the young boys laughed boisterously as they tried to compete with each other to be the best, each wanting to be the one who rode the fastest whilst high on PCP, until their fun times were cut short by the long interfering arm of arbitrary justice. After questioning the boys about the nature of their day’s activities and if they had any excuse for appearing as though they were off their fucking tits on Angel Dust, young Rodney innocently made some remarks calling into question the officer’s mother’s sexual decency, in his playful schoolboy way as young lads do. What happening next however, no one could’ve predicted, as the ringleader of these uniformed thugs, Senior Constable Stacey Coon (who is a guy, even though Stacey is totally a chick name. Must be a fag or something), launched an unprovoked attack on Rodney, emptying a can of pepper spray into his underpants for no reason. The result was a YouTube sensation, receiving 48 Billion views titled ‘Little Fag with his Cock on Fire runs in Circles screaming for his Mum’ filmed by spectator on an iPhone. When Rodney King’s father, O. J. Simpson heard of the atrocity, he sprang to his feet, promising swift retaliation and brutal retribution. Turning to his daughter, O.J. cried ‘bitch, get me ma motherfuckin’ trousers!’, to which she replied with a look of resigned indifference, ‘you’re wearing them fuckwit’. Looking down, he exclaimed ‘Oh!’, then charged out the door ready to rumble. He then headed down to the grand hotel and began inciting people to riot. As it was a Friday and it was happy hour, the citizenry were particularly shitfaced, even by Frankston standards and it wasn’t going to be difficult to rile up fuckwits sporting those sorts of blood alcohol concentrations to partake in whatever fuckwitted behaviour one had in mind, but once O’J. Simpson had delivered his famous ‘This isn’t the Frankston of our forefathers’ Speech, the angry, retarded mob were sold on whatever it was he was saying to them and although none of them understood what he was saying, they all knew that it sounded lovely and they were going to go along with the plan, whatever it turned out to be. They didn’t care that he’d offed his missus 6 months back and got away with it, even though every prick in Franger knew who dunnit. There were more pressing matters at hand and his pretty speech was enough to let bygones be bygones.
edit O.J.Simpson’s ‘This isn’t the Frankston of our forefathers’ Speech
“This is not the Frankston of our forefathers, not the great city littered with empty beer cans that our ancestors once inhabited. My friends! Many years ago, back when Davies was still called The Vines, when that epic battle occurred on Davey St, and left the cops besieged as the noble citizenry of Frankston, displaying integrity, courage and an awesome substance intake stood as one, speaking with one united voiced when they told the police in the inimicalxxxx Frankston style, “Get fucked ya cunts” as they began drive from our streets the foul uniformed blue thugs, forcing their cowardly retreat up Davey street, powerless against a crowd who had just realise it awesome strength by flexing their collective muscles for the first time. As the tides of battle turned against the forces of evil, the heroes of truth and justice, virtue and uninhibited riotous fun had force the enemy to withdraw to the old police station where they sought sanctuary from the citizenry who carried with them the spotlight of accountability, shining it directly into their pusillanimous, trembling piggy faces, demanding they account for their actions, answer to the spontaneous people’s court that had sprung up in response to their injustices. Lest they find themselves hacked to bits and unceremoniously dumped at the tip behind the golf course for Frankston’s Marsupial Foxes to feast upon with the kind of enthusiasm that Frankston’s marsupial population are known for. After beating a cowardly retreat and desperately attempting to board up the windows, the irrepressible force of righteousness .heroically came crashing through the piss-weak defences of the cowardly evil presence that shit bricks in panicked horror as the all that is good made it’ drunken way into a barricaded police station in an effort to purge Frankston of the evil blue swine menace that had long terrorised the youth of this once great city. Although shitface drunk as high as a motherfucker on fuck knows what, righteousness paid those thugs a visit that evening a mere few generations ago. Those who remembered the events of those days all expressed the same point in terms of the result of the community flexing its muscles together as one – the police were courteous and respectful from that point on, doing their job in a professional manner, subjecting no one to inappropriate or unnecessary harassment. Friends, hear my words and know that I speak the truth. It has been too great a passage of time since the long corrupt arm of injustice had itself a reality check in this once great city, a reminder of who really holds the power and what will happen if we the people decided to tear them each a new arse, just as our forefathers did so many years ago. While many history experts speculate as to whether the truth would have changed anything, it seems unlikely that had the intoxicated citizenry known that the stories told of Frankston’s forefathers that formed the basis of his stirring speech were nothing more than inspirational sounding bullshit, made up by O’J. Simpson as went along, tailored to incite a crowd to open up a can whoop-arse and get all rowdy and shit, that they wouldn't lost their shit and fucked up the town nevertheless. When asked to give an opinion on the matter, the Mayor was quoted as saying "Come on, give the bloke some credit, the cunt butchered his missus and got away with it, the motherfucker knows what he's doin'".
The residents of Frankston look forward to a future with hover cars, robot girlfriends who never do any of the irritating shit that bitches from Frankston never stop doing and other futuristic science-fiction type inventions – exactly the kind of shit you’d expect stoner fucks on welfare to spend their time thinking about. It is hoped that if mankind is unable to find the political to do what we all know needs to be done – a final solution to the Frankston question, that God will demonstrate his compassion by stepping in and taking out the trash for us with a plague or some shit. Given what Frankston today tells us about his sense of humour however, it does seem doubtful that he’ll simply forgo that which clearly provide him with endless morbid laughs, like some sort of white trash reality TV show. However, our minds aren’t complex enough to understand the workings of his genius and his sense of humour is by no means something we can hope to comprehend. That said, we can only hope that what God finds so amusing about evolution’s embarrassing little secret is something for which a best before date exist and that their smiting is imminent or not too far off at least.
edit Notable Frankstonites – Past and Present
The Vegemite Horsefuckers – Pulitzer Prize Winning and three time Brownlow medallist band, all hail from Frankston, having met where everyone in Frankston comes together – Centrelink. Members of the Vegemite Horsefuckers lobbied unsuccessfully to have Frankston nuked instead of Nagasaki in 1945.
Paul Charles Denyer – Serial killer and all-round fuckwit, gone from woman-hater to wanting to have his prick cut off courtesy of the tax-payer so he can become one (but not really one) was from Frankston. Those who knew Paul described him as quite the fuckwit indeed.
Anakin Skywalker – Having been born in Frankston North, Anakin’s father, Kevin Skywalker, was flat broke one day and it was still three more days til dole day so he traded Anakin and his mother Schmi to the Hutts for a 24-can slab of Victoria Bitter and two cartons of Winnie Blues, the official beer and cigarettes of the Royal House of Frankston, after which they were flown back to Tatooine in the Starship Enterprise and the rest is history (You didn’t really believe that lying slut about the virgin birth did you? “What can I say?’ she says, ‘I carried him and I gave birth to him’. Yeah no shit, but you still enjoyed a big fat todger in the process, didn’t ya love?). Aside from being out of booze, the little shit wouldn’t stop riding his bike through the house and Shmi hadn’t been putting out much so he figured it was time to make a bit of cash and get rid of both of them in the process. He liked knowing that his bitch ex-missus Shmi would get chained in a bronze metal bikini to a giant space slug who’d tongue kiss her like what happened to her granddaughter Princess Leia much earlier. There were unconfirmed reports that Anakin returned to Frankston as Darth Vader on his way past on a later space journey, subjecting Kevin to a slow and painful death for his epic fail as a parent, gently butt-fucking him with a light saber. This is purely speculation, however, as Kevin was a fucken douchebag who had a lot of enemies and any numbers of long red hot probing devices could’ve produced the kind of arsehole incineration and internal burns that were attributed to his death and the truth of matter we’ll never know, unless it was the work of some complete and utter fucktard who uploads the video of Kev’s fatal red-hot back door light-sabering or whatever the fuck it was. Just more of them to love Free use.jpg
Joseph Stalin – Although perhaps not technically a resident, Joseph Stalin spent his summers in Frankston as a young boy, staying with his uncle and auntie, Pete & Meredith Stalin of Frankston North, making numerous references to Frankston and the effect it had on shaping the man who he ultimately became in his memoirs. On p409, Stalin comments “It changed me, Frankston, it put me irrevocably on the course to becoming the man that I knew then I would one day be. When I thought about the smiling faces on the demented face of every gentle Frankston Bogan, on the fucking stupid shit they used to do and say… it was seeing that. That’s what made me decide on what had to be done. It was my time spent among the trashbags of Franger that presented to me with perfect clarity my calling in life – I knew from that time I needed to kill as many people as possible, mass murder on an unprecedented scale. Every time my mobile phone rang and it was one of the NKVD bosses, requesting my permission to wipe out the inhabitants of some town, any time I felt a little twinge of remorse, a slight feeling of doubt that mass murder might not be the morally correct course of action, I’d simply say to myself ‘remember Frankston, remember Frankston’, and any hesitation on my part was gone and I’d scream down the phone ’execute every motherfucken last one of them’ in my best impersonation of Ringo’s bitch in Pulp Fiction, I fucken love that movie’ “All for my people – my life” by J.V Stalin (available through Penguin Publishing and now in Kindle Books)
Gregory Peck – In 1959, Greg arrived on ol’ Franky Town with his mates Ava Gardner, Anthony Perkins and Fred Astaire to film ‘On the Beach’. While the others fucked off quick smart once filming was complete (Gardner in particular couldn’t get out of there fast enough, pissing people off immensely when she publicly declared Frankston to be ‘a right cunt of a place’), Peck stuck around, honing his character as he practiced for his next part. Cast in the role of ‘Bogan Dave’, Peck played the lead villain in a Jacqui Chan film set in Frankston North titled ‘Rumble in the Pines’, shot shortly after the conclusion of On the Beach. While most of the population of Frankston enjoyed having Peck there initially, they soon tired of having to give him a cigarette every time they arrived in Frankston on the train. Peck maintained that he was merely getting into character and other than the odd comment like ‘why won’t that cunt fuck off already?’, most people endured his mooching. Fifty three years later and the bastard’s still here, still hangin round Frankston station and making a cunt of himself.