Shepton Mallet
From Uncyclopedia, the content-free encyclopedia.
What?
Oh right yeah, Shepton.
If ever a town was a in serious need of a full on roundhouse kick it is Shepton Mallet, Somerset, England.
I'm serious. Go there, step off the bus, gaze despairingly down at your impeccable new brogues. Thats right, now they've got dog eggs on them, right in the treads where you're going to have to use YOUR key to dig it all out, because there's no grass in this town, not a single blade for you to expunge your footwear of clart.
Look left. Don't panic, the shambolic individual lurching towards your person is not a Zombie, although in many ways he resembles one, dark eyes, covered in blood, no brain activity ... in reality it's a local urchin. Give him a smoke and he'll scuttle back into the bushes to father more children.
Look forward, oh, and what's this, an abandoned factory, its rusty gates held together with an old chain. Don't weep, for this factory, which used to provide employment for thousands, will soon be a Tesco, providing jobs for one hundred.
You hear a squawking in the distance. It is the call of the Sheptonite, informing you that Glastonbury Festival is actually closer to Shepton than it is Glastonbury, and how Shepton gets the worst of the traffic anyway, and that one day it will be renamed the Shepton Festival, and then this cycle of decline will end.
Legend has it that Mr. T invented Pity after flyying over Shepton Mallet on a plane made from the bones of the numerous Mexican bad guys slain by him and his reactionary, overly violent posse. (They were in prison for a reason.) He also invented Fools as a term to help him describe the dezizens of such a fetid arsehole of a place, and the rest is history: Mr. T has been pitying fools on a daily basis ever since.
Looking back through the history books (at least the ones not burnt by the locals in one of there fits of para-religious hysteria, usually spurred on by an article on paedophiles in The Sun) reveals a curious tale. Apparently the town used to be considered one of the great cultural paradises in the world, the equal of Paris or New York. But one day a stranger moseyed into town, seeking shelter, sustenance and a brief respite from applying devastating roundhouse kicks to the local serfs. The innkeeper overcharged this mysterious wanderer for his broth, of course the walker tossed back his shroud, revealed himself to be Our Lord and Savior V2.0 (Chuck Norris), fresh from a titanic battle with Moth Pope. He grabbed the town's youth and vitality, its vim, its vigor and its spunk, and roundhouse-kicked it so hard that plates fell of shelves IN THE FUTURE!
And ever since the town has been lost, a desolate soul, awaiting the day the wanderer (or one of his minions like Stewart Pearce or Ross Kemp) will come and lift the curse.
It must be the most miserable place on earth....
