Fatson and Byron

You have arrived at the Fatson and Byron page. Who the fuck are Fatson and Byron you may ask. Basically it's the names adopted by my best friend Cos and I when we venture outside of the comfort of our respective hovels and into the harsh piss soaked streets of our fair city, sort of our super hero alias' if you will, except the only powers we have are being fat and being sarcastic respectively. Why do we need alias'? Obviously to protect our secret identities from supervillians, but realistically, it's so when we ruin the lives of various beasts and trolls around town they don't know who to come and rape.

Why is Fatson such a feature nowdays? Well apart from his backhair, he doesn't excel at anything and has to piggyback on the success of others by redesigning their site and doing all their work for them. I know, what a cunt right? But the main reason is that the two of us are pooling our resources and constructing a doom fortress on the land we captured from the evil Gosnells Council. Yes, it is currently in the process of being constructed, and once it is we will rule over the 20m squared parcel of land with an iron fist, and steel balls. We will of course bury radioactive material in the blocks around ours so nobody can move in near us. People are the worst thing of all time. I'm sickened by everyone that exists. When our fortress is constructed I plan on kidnapping Shona, moving in, installing the worlds phattest internet pipez, and getting Nandos and comics airdropped in once weekly. We can declare independence from Australia and become The Republic of Fatsonia. We will protect our sovereign borders with deadly force.

We rarely leave our caves for any reason and once our impregnable fortress is complete, we wont leave at all, but when we do, hilarity ensues. From our battles with the giant pork monsters of our town, to our quest to find some magical land where the ratio of hot women is more than 1 in a billion, and who could forget our continuing discussions into why Gill is such a crazy freak, to our coming adventures where we fake human emotions and try to infiltrate society or better yet, the panties of attractive women. So I thought, why not chronicle said hilarity and share it with the good folks of the interwebz? Written articles and photos are of course a given, but once I figure the fuck out of this video editing software, expect to see blurry footage of us fleeing from hordes of pitchfork waving beasts. So welcome. Feel free to look around. And remember ladies while I do have one picture up right now, I'm sure soon enough there will be plenty more. One problem; it will be kinda hard to make secret and deadly missions into the heart of the world’s financial and political powerhouses when my pictures inevitably adorn the lockers of female law enforcement officers the world over. Still, pictures will be an inevitable side effect of the camera-age I imagine. A disclaimer though, I can’t be held responsible for what it does to your relationships, marriages or religious beliefs when you are faced with the glory that is me. Pictures of Fatson on the other hand, have been shown in clinical studies to cause cancer in rats. I'm no scientist (or so says the Australian Government, I myself argue that I hold a degree in both Radicalology and Fuckyeahtology from the University of Notmadeup, as well as the Nobel Prize in Awesomeness for advances in the field of sexiosity) but I think I just medically proved that Fatson is worse than Hitler. Be sure to check out the Fatson page for more details of his failure. Now get reading!