05.08.2009 - 3:13 p.m.

I've decided to jack this shit in and take a radical departure in my life, i'm leaving normality and will (after a period of training) become a confectionary ninja.

I've found a shaolin custard temple that takes pasty caucasians and turns them into secretive, nightstalking, darkwearing, fondant heroes, with these skills i'll be able to exact a sugary revenge on bastards and rotters.

I'm not sure whether i'll stay in the land of the custard temple or come back to the heaving metropolis to fight evil, either way it'll be fabulous, and i can get all mysterious and shit and be right cagey when people ask me what i do for a living. I've already got a nerd sidekick with a full hard-on for organic glucose based chemistry, he'll make some full on secret hero flaming justice weapon shit i can use on the rotters and bastards. Ever been hit by firey sugar ? it sticks and burns, the bad people will be cursing me for sure, i'll use the proceeds from my anti-crime to fund a burns unit for orphans and kittens.

SOCO boys will only know me by my calling card of some icing sugar residue left on the dazed and fucked up rotters' clothes, but it'll be a readily available commercial grade so they can't track me down by it, i'll be, to all intents and purposes, infuckingvisible to the law, except when i drop off another batch of miscreants frozen up to their necks in solidified sugar.

The more astute people will draw comparisons with Faunaman, but he's fictional, and besides, have you ever bitten into a ferret or polecat ? they taste awful, my modus operandi is sweet and tasty. I'm sure i'll blow the minds of americans as they're not used to the uber-sweetness we're familiar with in europe, american chocolate - i'd rather chew the back leg of a centipede, saltwater taffy - same but substitute centipede for coastal alligator, that shit tastes fowl.

Piping bag at the ready, i'm gonna decorate you fools 'til you ain't taken seriously by the criminal fraternity, you can only pity the fool with a marzipan topping, he ain't no gangsta, he's a sugar-topped fairy fuckwit, beaten by beaten eggs and sucrose, and whipped across the 'hood until light and wasted, suckers can lick my bowl.

But not the spoon

They can't handle my spoon, it's too much spoon for one person to get to grips with, even with freakishly big hands. Anyones with a hot pocket are welcome to try, the moister and more succulent the better, everyone loves pop-tarts, but hygiene first, no-one enters the kitchen with dirty utensils, you got a utensil with residues, you clean that fucker up first, minger.

There you have it, you got trouble from hoodlums and hoodies, housebreakers and hijackers, you send me a message, i'll descend on them with righteous fury and rolling pins bearing the very mother creator of pain and suffering, ain't no-one immune from my high-carb justice, can you feel the rush ?

Can you ?

The rush is gonna getcha and you'll be rushing your sugary tits off.

Believe mofo's.