A joke.

A judge is hosting tryouts for a talent competition. He hasn't been impressed so far. Entertaining the dogged dreams of amateurs so deluded it makes the judge sick to his stomach to observe, this judge is better than this. The next act will surely be a similar disappointment thinks the judge to himself. A family unit is led in. The father looks the judge square in the eye. 'Sir,' he begins, 'I've watched your work. I know what you're looking for and right here I have the answers to your dreams.' First he presents his wife. She is overweight, grey haired and wisps of facial hair blur the lines between the sexes making her slightly indeterminable. She hocks and clears her throat, deposits a congelant load of flem on the stage, then begins to sing. Her voice is beautiful, achingly soft tones sung by what would sensibly be called a troll. A true salesman with secret gold, the father wheels his wife back in. 'There's more!' he cries. Next rolls in a wheelchair bound boy; his son, he says. The boy has no legs and only one gnarled, fleshy tree limb of an arm. His face is burned into an eyeless massacre of red skin, and he begins to sing. The forced air comes forward. It flails the hanging skin that had once been a pair of lips. teeth rattle upon one another. The singing is closer to a macabre whispering wind chime composed of dry bone and damp blobs of flesh slapping upon them, or the screaming of the nearly dead astrewn the battlefield. the judge looks somewhat perturbed yet the father seems relaxed. 'You know how he got in such a mess?' The judge blankly shakes his head. 'He fought in a war and stood on a land mine.' And like some veil of joy, the judges frown makes way for awe and wonder at the magnificent singing pork roast. The father is not in the least surprised. 'There's more!' he cries. He ushers in a pale child and prompts her to sing. The child looks miserably at the father...rolls her head over toward the mother...looks down at the pork roast of a brother. Then begins to cry. The judge at this point is looking like his time has been wasted, looking left then right in a feigning of annoyance. But the father, far from worrying about this mess is looking most pleased with himself. The judge enquires as to why. The father sniggers to himself, nods at the child and looks back at the judge. The child is horribly abused; molested both sexually and mentally by the three of us, sometimes even my parents have their way with the child. She also has downs syndrome which we all find especially attractive. We sometimes don't even feed the child. The judge looks at the child, 'is this true?' The child sniffs. 'Yessir.' She mumbles. In the silence in the dead of night the only thing i hear is my brothers flailing hunks of lip slapping against his teeth as he breaths.' The judge can barely contain himself. A tear issues majestically from his eye; a tear of pride. 'And what do you call yourselves?' he enquires of the father. The father puffs out his chest, throws out his arms and in the loudest, proudest call he can muster, he shouts out, 'The Aristocrats!'...Congratulations, you're through to the next round of Britains got talent.