A hundred in UK's town of Grim Bitch say "Piss Off!" to the Town Drunk

The town of Grim Bitch is several pints lower this morning, thanks to the demise of town drunk Colin "Oozy" Osborne. He kicked the bucket. Since it contained several quarts of horse shit at the time, the prankster broke his toe, hobbled into traffic, and was run over by a pie wagon. He would've wanted it that way. Most wanted it that way, only decades earlier.

In a town as small and starved for entertainment as Grim Bitch, the sight of Osborne passed out like a log was always good for a laugh. As the pubs closed, he'd often fall over, and roll up against the side of a building, looking like some discarded roll of fungus-covered carpeting. That's how he got his nickname "The Lovable Rug."

He was nicknamed "Oozy" Osborne. It stuck because so did he, mostly palms down on any bar. They'd have to peel him loose at closing time.

Recalls one tavern chum, "Colin could take the piss out of anyone, and drink it. If there was even the slightest scent of beer to your urine, he'd be at your friggin' dick-spigot, and by God, we'd laugh and laugh. He made you forget your troubles. Usually by becoming 'em. You haven't had troubles till you tried to keep his slippery tongue off your drippin' willy!"

"Oozy" was proud that his age and his I.Q. were both 64. "I may be stupid," he'd say…and then forget the rest of the sentence. His wife recalled, "He was known to drink light beer or dark beer, or green liqueur or red wine. Whatever, he'd throw it up, and you never saw such colorful clothing! What a personality." Actually, that last bit was a question: "What? A personality?"

She did crack a smile when the hearse sped to the funeral and pulled up with a sudden jerk. That jerk was Colin. "I'm not really dead," he laughed. "Isn't that funny?"

"That's what you think, you pasty-faced git," laughed his wife. After posing for a photo, she hit him in the face with a steak and kidney pie. It was a lethal one, hard as a rock, on sale from Tesco for two pence off. Colin fell over, and remained on the ground until sailors found the barge pole nobody wanted to touch him with while he was alive. An expert snooker player managed to nudge Colin's body with the pole, and bank it into the crematorium in under an hour. Rigor mortis had thankfully set in, and there wasn't much of a smell.

Said Mrs. Osborne, "It's important to say something good about the dead. He's dead. Good!"

She didn't have an easy time. She had hoped to marry a man. What she got was somebody face down so often you couldn't really tell if he had a dick. Not unless somebody tripped over him and shouted, "Colin, YOU DICK!"

The service for him was held at the Grim Bitch Crematorium. Unfortunately he had so much alcohol in his system, the ashes kept glowing hour after hour. The funeral home, which donated the money, noted in a statement, "Oozy's wife was skint, which is short for "skinny cunt." Poor lady, it's hard to lose a loved one. Colin was hard to lose. She kept moving, taking different apartments from Hull to Keadby, but he kept finding her anyway."

Colin's wife not only couldn't afford the funeral, she couldn't afford underwear. She had no other choice but to shoplift. Alas, in her first try, the old lady passed out from exhaustion while de-briefing a pair from her purse. She'd nicked the knicker but was nackered. She would've been jailed, but everyone knew she was married to Colin, which is punishment enough.

The Department of Work and Pensions got involved in the overall funeral expenses, donating a pair of overalls Mrs. Osborne could wear under her skirt. Oozy of course, had died wearing one of his amusing black suits. "Black suited him," said Oozy's widow, Kathleen, "and black suits me too. I let Lenny Henry fuck me last night. But I also let him eat my pussy, because he keeps complaining that Africans are starving."

As for Oozy, she admitted, "He never got a chance to be on "Comic Relief," but it was comic how he'd relieve himself in his pants so often. He never did give up drinking. As for giving up smoking, I think his fucking ashes are STILL burning. Would it be such a crime if a few of you men whipped your peckers out and pissed him off?"

She noted that things have become very quiet without Colin around: "I miss the sound of his farts. I can always walk around, bend over and sniff dog shit, but not hearing the sound of his farts...it winds me up to the breaking point."

Townsfolk in Grim Bitch chuckled to recall how Colin would stagger around, asking for money to get booze. He'd always claim he just wanted "an alcohol rub to get rid of the body odor." Folks would throw him money from great distances, and he would smile, gather up the coins, and do the thing that pleased crowds more than anything else: go away.

He never spent money foolishly, on things like food. Once in a while he'd get some week-old bread at Tesco. Some say it's what finally caused him to drop dead. "He had a heart of mold."

One thing everyone agreed on was he loved to make people laugh. He'd say, "I'm going to become something some day," or "I'm going to take a bath this week," and the people would go into hysterics.

More than a hundred people came to the Grim Bitch Crematorium, all of them wanting, more than anything else, to have proof he was finally dead. "It's so heartwarming that he was cremated," his wife said. "Of course, it was facewarming too, and footwarming, and I think they managed to burn that scrawny arse of his as well."

"The important thing," she declared, "is that a lot of people come to your funeral. You know the old saying, you can be a very rich person, and it doesn't mean everyone comes. You can be lovely, and beloved, and few may show up. But here…everyone came out when they heard the news Colin had died. It's the old adage, give the public what they want."

Simon Osborne, fighting back his emotions, as well as several people who wanted him to shut the fuck up, cried out, "He was a son, a brother, a father, a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, a thief…don't stop me, I'll get it yet…he was a twat, he was an asshole, he was a waste of space…am I getting close?"

The Grim Bitch Curator of Ash Holes, Robin Parker-House Roll, used a whisk broom to tuck the legendary Colin Sorry-He-Was-Borne into an envelope for mailing out of town. He then proclaimed, "It's not everyone who has been banned in not only this town, but Cleethorpes and Hull. He was even banned from Barton-Upon-Humber for fartin' upon somebody named Humber.

Oozy claimed it was a joke, but he kept doing it to various citizens in town after town. A certain Mr. Savage was very offended, because he'd been cultivating his own piss smell and Colin's gaseous odor interfered. "Me wife got used to me rancid urine smell, and when I walked in with Colin's farty odor, me wife naturally accused me of being with another woman! Could I say it was just a joke from some arsehole's colon? Or some arsehole named Colin?."

The worst part, Mr. Savage said, was "the old geezer smelled like shit even when he wasn't farting. He was 64 but he looked older. That face...it looked more like somebody had talcum powdered a cow pie."

As she left the crematorium, Mrs. Osborne shed a tear. "Damn these ashes, getting into my eye," she said. "It's so hard to forget my dear Ozzy Arsebum. That's his name isn't it? Isn't it? Zab Arsebum? Oh, oh, that's right. Yes. It's Deja Vu. I remember now. Well, you know what I won't forget about Colin? It was the jolly way he used to carry a pigeon under his arm. And, oh yes, those crusts of pigeon shit on his shoes. I hear he was a member of the Grim Bitch Preservation of Pigeon Shit Society."

In fact, it was the Pigeon Shit Society that paid for the music at the event, which was a few illegal karaoke downloads of "Always Look on the Trite Side of Life" and "I Will Always Loathe You." The songs, blared on a boom box that was strapped to the dog of a Boot Sale Lord, were sung by naked drunken men from the White Bare Pub on Freeman Street.

Everyone had a good laugh, thinking about mourning Colin. One thing is certain; such a colorful character will be hard to find in the future, even if you look under a rock. "Sad but true," his wife sighed, "with all these filthy Muslims coming in, and the smelly Pakistanis, and the heathen Chinese and all the coloreds from Africa, it gets rarer and rare to find someone like Colin, the old fashioned Village Idiot."