So, my luvverly gorls, an era ends. And we mourn for Our Lady of the Lard in this, her time of tribulation, facing an uncertain future and hoping those bum-wipe sticks actually work until she has visited the local sped farm and found a new host upon which to flumpf.
And I honour of the OGs that came before, the still-gs (I know you're still around. I'm watching you) and the new -gs that have joined us during the saga, I present my closing masterpiece in my usual Shit Art by Clanger stylee. Kenny is immortalised as ever, the poop bun is doubling as a grease discharge tube (and if you see anything else you need to wash your filthy mind out with soap. Oooo you're all revolting) and all the other features we love from fat earlobes to wonky bum-chin.

How far we have come, from the early days where NoNeckBex towed a cake across the foetid waters of Lake Chernobyl and her beloved galumphed behind in her natural element and her trousers, orange bun standing proudly against the gently glowing green waters. Through the terrifying sighting of the Binge Monster to the gentle acceptance of the Designated Lesbiotic Free Space, all immortalised by me very badly when stoned.
You fuckers made me laugh, you made me cry (with laughter) and so we light one of the several gazillion candles in her stash and start the gentle lament of the Funeral March. Or some such bollocks.
So. My epitaph. Dedicated to Big Albert, The Next Grate Murican Awfor, my muse and my inspiration.
PS. If you have no idea what the fuck I'm banging on about, fret ye not. Situation normal.
Edited because I can spell, I just get the letters in the wrong order sometimes. Ripe n Perils Eelsflop.
If Becky's smart, she'll put distance between herself and her ex-fiance and wash her hands of this trainwreck of a relationship. She has no further obligations to the fat retard.
If Becky's smart.
Oh bless you, my hopelessly optimistic feathery friend.