One of the biggest problems about living in London is using the Underground. Overcrowded, smelly and filled with angry London commuters.
The most irritating problem, as I see it, is the lack of basics manners. The English are considered to be an overly polite nation, but as soon as they get on the London tube network, rudeness is dispensed like a new choir boy at a Catholic school.
I was recently on the Central Line, on my way home from work, when a heavily pregnant women, pushed a stroller with a baby onto the carriage I was on. As it was a rush hour, there weren’t any seats available, but everybody who noticed her getting onto the carriage quickly looked down at their books, newspapers or backpacks that they were previously placing batteries into.
I don’t claim to be a knight in shining armour, although I have previously seen horses and have been fascinated by swords since I was a young boy.
I stood up and offered my seat to the damsel in distress, as I was manly enough to stand for the three stops to my station exit. She was clearly thankful for my politeness and I could see the relief on her face as she was able to take all her weight off her feet.
Soon after this, our train was held on a red signal just before entering the next platform. Our tube driver announced that there was a faulty train further along our line and it would be quite some time before we’d be on the move again. There was a collective sigh of irritation amongst the passengers at the lack of London Underground’s efficiency, as I nudged my way back to my seat again.
The pregnant lady, who was occupying my newly relinquished seat, was busy giving a bottle of milk to her baby as I approached. As I came to a standstill next the push-chair facing her she looked up and smiled, recognising me as the gentleman who brought some relief to her tired feet. I gave her a polite smile back and asked, “Do you need help standing or can you do it by yourself?” Always the gentleman.
She seemed a bit confused by the question, but hesitantly replied “I can stand fine by myself, thank you. Why do you ask?”
Oh dear. It seems like she hadn’t heard what the driver had just announced. She was probably distracted by her child or some other woman problem.
I calmly explained to her, “The driver announced that we’ll be stuck here for a while, which I obviously didn’t know was going to happen when I offered my seat to you. So can I have my seat back now please?”
The look on her face appeared confused even though I had explained the situation quite clearly. She stuttered, “But... but I’m pregnant.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I offered you my seat, but pregnant or not the initial seat contract we entered into a few minutes ago has changed.” I calmly noted for a small womanly brain.
Fatty still seemed confused by the carefully explained situation, before defiantly simply saying “No” to me.
How rude! This is typical of the average London commuter. I was nothing but a gentleman during this malarkey and this fat slut has the gall to say “No” to the one gentleman who, if given a chance would have come on her tits or in her arse instead of knocking her up again.
I had to threaten to hit her baby, before she relinquished MY seat! Let’s face it. Some people are just rude.
Wednesday 10 December 2008
Saturday 27 September 2008
Little cock of Horrors
I’ve given you hand-jobs.
I’ve given you sock.
You’ve given me nothin’
But a flaccid small cock!
I’m begging you sweetly.
I’m down on my knees.
Oh please,
Grow for me.
I’ve given you soft porn
And KY for lube
I’ve given a big girl
With one giant boob
Oh God, how I missed you.
Oh God, how they tease.
Now please,
Grow for me.
I’ve given you two girls with one cup
To get you to thrive.
I watched dead goats, like I'm suppose to
You’re barely alive.
I’ve tried all levels of texture
From rough hands to a kiss!
I’ve given you Viagra and mineral supplements.
What do you want from me? Piss?
"Ow! Damn Toilet! Urine everywhere!"
I’ve given you sunlight.
I’ve given you rain.
Looks like you’re not happy
Unless I drain my main vein.
I’ll give you a few drops,
If that’ll appease.
Now please...
Oh, oh, oh, please...
Grow for me!
I’ve given you sock.
You’ve given me nothin’
But a flaccid small cock!
I’m begging you sweetly.
I’m down on my knees.
Oh please,
Grow for me.
I’ve given you soft porn
And KY for lube
I’ve given a big girl
With one giant boob
Oh God, how I missed you.
Oh God, how they tease.
Now please,
Grow for me.
I’ve given you two girls with one cup
To get you to thrive.
I watched dead goats, like I'm suppose to
You’re barely alive.
I’ve tried all levels of texture
From rough hands to a kiss!
I’ve given you Viagra and mineral supplements.
What do you want from me? Piss?
"Ow! Damn Toilet! Urine everywhere!"
I’ve given you sunlight.
I’ve given you rain.
Looks like you’re not happy
Unless I drain my main vein.
I’ll give you a few drops,
If that’ll appease.
Now please...
Oh, oh, oh, please...
Grow for me!
Friday 22 August 2008
Time Travesty
I have experimented with and have discovered that time travel should not be taken lightly.
My theory is relatively simple. While moving at great speed in a static environment, the speed of light should be pushed in the opposite direction of the moving object and bounced off two mirrors, thereby going back and forth in a "static - moving" environment, thereby causing time to reverse on itself.
The closest I could get to testing my theory, was by taking two mirrors and a torch onto a plane. I set up my experiment as we had reached maximum altitude and therefore at maximum speed.With baited breath I aimed my torch towards the rear of the plane, where the first mirror was set up (the second mirror was obviously attached to my forehead).
At first nothing seemed to have happened and I concluded that the theory had failed, but once the plane had landed, I noticed that I had in fact traveled back in time by about thirty years.
The people I met were naive to the future and modern day living. The hair and fashion sense made me cringe, as I remembered how awful fashion was back then. I made sure that I didn't kill anybody important, like Hitler or Gary Glitter, as I knew that this would have repercussions.
I was so afraid that I would change something, I boarded the next plane out of Auckland and reversed the time travel machine, by aiming the torch towards the the front of the plane this time.
I landed safely back in London 2008.
My theory is relatively simple. While moving at great speed in a static environment, the speed of light should be pushed in the opposite direction of the moving object and bounced off two mirrors, thereby going back and forth in a "static - moving" environment, thereby causing time to reverse on itself.
The closest I could get to testing my theory, was by taking two mirrors and a torch onto a plane. I set up my experiment as we had reached maximum altitude and therefore at maximum speed.With baited breath I aimed my torch towards the rear of the plane, where the first mirror was set up (the second mirror was obviously attached to my forehead).
At first nothing seemed to have happened and I concluded that the theory had failed, but once the plane had landed, I noticed that I had in fact traveled back in time by about thirty years.
The people I met were naive to the future and modern day living. The hair and fashion sense made me cringe, as I remembered how awful fashion was back then. I made sure that I didn't kill anybody important, like Hitler or Gary Glitter, as I knew that this would have repercussions.
I was so afraid that I would change something, I boarded the next plane out of Auckland and reversed the time travel machine, by aiming the torch towards the the front of the plane this time.
I landed safely back in London 2008.
Wednesday 23 April 2008
Ooh baby!
Is it my imagination or is paedophilia on the rise?
When I was a boy, I could go up to any homeless man in the street and put my hand in his pocket, in case he had some sweets in there for me.
Kids aren’t allowed to do that nowadays because they’ll be raped. This hardly ever happened to me.
So what’s made these homeless people so sex craved?
The answer is simple. Pop music.
Listen to any music on the current charts and you’ll notice that it’s filled with very suggestive lyrics.
For example:
Why can’t Janet be more like her brother?
You’ll notice that all these lyrics are about babies. What’s a homeless man to think, while listening to his Ipod?
I think it’s time that the music industry started lifting their standards. Let’s get some more lyrics out there about prepubescent teens!
When I was a boy, I could go up to any homeless man in the street and put my hand in his pocket, in case he had some sweets in there for me.
Kids aren’t allowed to do that nowadays because they’ll be raped. This hardly ever happened to me.
So what’s made these homeless people so sex craved?
The answer is simple. Pop music.
Listen to any music on the current charts and you’ll notice that it’s filled with very suggestive lyrics.
For example:
Ashanti - Baby
Could have the power to take over mine..cause your
my...
Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby,(baby I love you),
Baby, baby,baby baby,baby,
I love it when I hear ya name,
Got me sayin’ baby, baby, baby, baby, baby(baby I love you)
Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.
Ramones – All Screwed up
I miss your body, baby, next to mine
Ooooh, baby, yeah we sure felt fine
I miss you baby, oh yeah
Baby, babyBaby, baby, aw ahhh, baby, baby, oh yeah (oh yeah)
Baby, baby, aw ahhh, baby, baby, aw ahhh
Baby, baby, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah
Toni Braxton - You're Makin' Me High
All I want is
Moonlight with you there beside me
All night doin? it again and again
You know I want you so bad
Baby baby baby (baby baby baby baby)
Janet Jackson - Love Scene (Ooh Baby)
Ooh baby ooh baby
Ooh baby ooh baby
Ooh baby ooh baby
Ooh baby ooh baby
When you're holding me
When you're loving me
When you're fucking me
Why can’t Janet be more like her brother?
You’ll notice that all these lyrics are about babies. What’s a homeless man to think, while listening to his Ipod?
I think it’s time that the music industry started lifting their standards. Let’s get some more lyrics out there about prepubescent teens!
Wednesday 9 April 2008
Dancing with Shakespeare
A new scourge has hit the streets of London, with the release of the new American dancing film, How she move. Hundreds of graduate BA students have been defacing advertising posters of this film all in the name of “proper English”.
Clementine De Glanville-Stimpson, spokesperson for this rogue group of well-spoken gang of thespians, believes that they’re improving society, by correcting poor English. “When I first saw the title of this cinematic creation, I was abhorrently appalled. Soon after this I felt repugnantly nauseated. Which was later followed by a feeling of indignant insobriety infused with discantatious fintinculation.”
“The fact of the matter is that this film has become a billboard for poor English.” Mz De Glanville-Stimpson continues, “England is already suffering at the hands of pop culture. Many of today’s youth are drinking tea from mugs instead of cups. Where will this madness end?”
Mz De-Glanville-Stimpson is well supported by the hundreds of BA graduates, who don’t have much else to do after finishing university with a degree, which is useless to society and a mockery to their own sense of self worth.
Clementine De Glanville-Stimpson, spokesperson for this rogue group of well-spoken gang of thespians, believes that they’re improving society, by correcting poor English. “When I first saw the title of this cinematic creation, I was abhorrently appalled. Soon after this I felt repugnantly nauseated. Which was later followed by a feeling of indignant insobriety infused with discantatious fintinculation.”
“The fact of the matter is that this film has become a billboard for poor English.” Mz De Glanville-Stimpson continues, “England is already suffering at the hands of pop culture. Many of today’s youth are drinking tea from mugs instead of cups. Where will this madness end?”
Mz De-Glanville-Stimpson is well supported by the hundreds of BA graduates, who don’t have much else to do after finishing university with a degree, which is useless to society and a mockery to their own sense of self worth.
BA students hate people with rhythm.
Saturday 5 April 2008
A helping hand
So last night, I'm out on the town and this woman says to me, "I want to stay with you tonight."
And I'm like, "I know you do. I'm hot!"
And she's like, "I want you to take me home and climb into your bed."
And I'm like, "Oh yeah! You're dirty aren't you?"
And she's like, "I'm very dirty. I need a bath."
And I'm like, "I bet you do!"
And she's like, "And some food."
And I'm like, "Ooh! You're hungry for me, aren't you?"
And she's like, "I'm starving. I haven't had anything to eat all day.
And I'm like, "Oh I know what I can feed you. Come with me."
And she's like, "Thank you so much! You're so kind."
And then we went home and I like nailed her and stuff.
Homeless people are great!
And I'm like, "I know you do. I'm hot!"
And she's like, "I want you to take me home and climb into your bed."
And I'm like, "Oh yeah! You're dirty aren't you?"
And she's like, "I'm very dirty. I need a bath."
And I'm like, "I bet you do!"
And she's like, "And some food."
And I'm like, "Ooh! You're hungry for me, aren't you?"
And she's like, "I'm starving. I haven't had anything to eat all day.
And I'm like, "Oh I know what I can feed you. Come with me."
And she's like, "Thank you so much! You're so kind."
And then we went home and I like nailed her and stuff.
Homeless people are great!
Wednesday 2 April 2008
Beauty is in the eye of the pie holder
In the news this week:
Many people will read this story and think, good for her and not think about the fat picture.
The problem is that beauty queens are role models to the young. What will happen if beauty queens start letting themselves go a bit?
What good can come from a world filled with women who aren't self-conscious about their bodies?
I don't want to grow up in a world where thirteen-year-old girls don't feel guilty about not vomiting up their supper.
I don't want to grow up in a world where women are recognised more for their brains than their looks.
I blame twenty first century upgrades. Breasts became very popular during the end of the last century. As we entered the new millennium, J-Lo started making big bums (not homeless people)popular. It was only a matter of time before the ladies started combining the two and then filling in the gaps. Don't they know that that is what the penis is for?
It's a world gone mad!
Thin ladies are happy ladies.
Chloe Marshall is the teenage beauty queen who broke the mould by becoming the first size 16 beauty queen contender to make it to the finals of the Miss England contest.
And now she reveals her shapely body in the official Miss England bikini – not forgetting her tiara of course – in her first bikini photoshoot since winning the Miss Surrey title.
Posing confidently poolside in the brief white gem-embossed Miss England bikini which she'll wear in the pageant in July, Chloe appears completely lacking in self-consciousness.
Many people will read this story and think, good for her and not think about the fat picture.
The problem is that beauty queens are role models to the young. What will happen if beauty queens start letting themselves go a bit?
What good can come from a world filled with women who aren't self-conscious about their bodies?
I don't want to grow up in a world where thirteen-year-old girls don't feel guilty about not vomiting up their supper.
I don't want to grow up in a world where women are recognised more for their brains than their looks.
I blame twenty first century upgrades. Breasts became very popular during the end of the last century. As we entered the new millennium, J-Lo started making big bums (not homeless people)popular. It was only a matter of time before the ladies started combining the two and then filling in the gaps. Don't they know that that is what the penis is for?
It's a world gone mad!
Thin ladies are happy ladies.
Sunday 16 March 2008
Who the f*ck is Dave?
Last night I spent the evening at my girlfriend’s place and because I’m so incredibly handsome and charming and because my girlfriend was quite drunk, I was able to have intimate relations with her and her vagina.
I won’t bore you with all the disgusting foreplay details, but will skip two minutes straight into the sexual climax part.
My girlfriend is usually quite docile in bed. Quite often she pretends to not be enjoying it, but last night she seemed very frisky. More to the point, she was quite vocal.
As we were approaching climax, she seemed more and more excited until I heard the words every man dreads to hear when he’s in bed with his girlfriend.
“Oh God! Yes Dave! Yes!”
Now these are words that probably don’t worry guys called Dave, but for the rest of us, and I happen to be one of these men not called Dave, we can find it quite confusing.
Anyway, once these words were screamed, it put a slight dampener on the proceedings and we both just lay in bed not saying anything to one another.
I guess I should have said something, but two very important questions were going through my mind and I didn’t know how to address the issue.
Firstly, who the fuck is Dave?
Secondly, why am I screaming Dave’s name out loud while I’m having sex with my girlfriend?
I won’t bore you with all the disgusting foreplay details, but will skip two minutes straight into the sexual climax part.
My girlfriend is usually quite docile in bed. Quite often she pretends to not be enjoying it, but last night she seemed very frisky. More to the point, she was quite vocal.
As we were approaching climax, she seemed more and more excited until I heard the words every man dreads to hear when he’s in bed with his girlfriend.
“Oh God! Yes Dave! Yes!”
Now these are words that probably don’t worry guys called Dave, but for the rest of us, and I happen to be one of these men not called Dave, we can find it quite confusing.
Anyway, once these words were screamed, it put a slight dampener on the proceedings and we both just lay in bed not saying anything to one another.
I guess I should have said something, but two very important questions were going through my mind and I didn’t know how to address the issue.
Firstly, who the fuck is Dave?
Secondly, why am I screaming Dave’s name out loud while I’m having sex with my girlfriend?
Wednesday 12 March 2008
NHS’s kinky requests
When I first arrived in the UK, I had to register with the NHS, in order to be given horrible diseases, in case I had to go to hospital due to an ingrown toenail.
I was unaware of the process of registering and as I’m a manly man, I did not ask for directions or information about this process, as this might make me appear to be slightly feminine. Anyway I went along to my local doctor’s office, without asking for directions, where a receptionist gave some forms and a plastic cup and told to return at a future date.
Of course my manly manliness again prevented me from saying to the receptionist, “What the fuck am I suppose to do with this plastic cup?” I merely gave her a manly nod of the head and strode home in a manly manner.
The cup was quite small and had a lid, so as my Sherlock Holmes instincts took over, I presumed that I had to fill it with some type of fluid from my body. This left me with five options:
- Piss
- Shit
- Blood
- Vomit
- Semen
Or possibly a dangerous mixture of all of the above.
My Sherlock Holmes instincts continued to take hold of me and logic dictated that the cup was too small for shit and vomit and if they wanted blood, surely they would have given me some kind of pointed stick to help me sever an artery. So I was left with piss and semen, just like a London Underground train.
As the day of the appointment approached I considered what the reactions of the incorrect sample at the doctor’s office would be like. If I whipped out some warm yellow liquid, when they were expecting some throat yoghurt, would they expect me to have a wank in the doctor’s office? What if I couldn’t perform under the pressure of the situation and they’d have to get a sexy nurse or two to join me in the office in order to give me a hand?
I couldn’t even imagine that… at all… two nurses… wanking me off… ewe!
So on the day of the appointment, I decided to take them some of my wee.
Of course I had a back-up plan, in case my fluid was too yellow for their liking. I decided to keep the little plastic cup of wee, with its lid tightly shut, inside my jacket pocket and when the doctor asked me for my urine sample, I would simply remove the cup from my pocket and hand it over. But if the doctor asked me for my semen sample, I would claim to have forgotten my cup at home, but if he’s willing to send three nurses in, I would quickly remedy the situation.
Genius!
I waited in reception, armed with wee and was finally called in to see the doctor. To my surprise I was not greeted by a sixty year old man with a grey beard, but by a very attractive female doctor who was about my age.
Time seemed to slow down as she asked, “So do you have…”
What will she ask for? Urine or semen? URINE OR SEMEN??
The doctor continued, “… a little present for me?”
WHAT? I had not expected this. I needed a clear-cut question. This could go horribly wrong. I replied, “Um…”
I was hoping that she would help me out.
I got nothing but a blank stare from her.
I continued, “Do you mean my…”
I left the sentence hanging, hoping that she’d finish it for me.
Nothing!
I gulped and finished “… urine sample?”
“Yes,” She politely replied.
I exhaled with relief. Whipped out my cup of wee and handed it to her.
Why must women act all coy when they want your wee? Why can’t they just come out and say it?
“Little present?” My ass!
I was unaware of the process of registering and as I’m a manly man, I did not ask for directions or information about this process, as this might make me appear to be slightly feminine. Anyway I went along to my local doctor’s office, without asking for directions, where a receptionist gave some forms and a plastic cup and told to return at a future date.
Of course my manly manliness again prevented me from saying to the receptionist, “What the fuck am I suppose to do with this plastic cup?” I merely gave her a manly nod of the head and strode home in a manly manner.
The cup was quite small and had a lid, so as my Sherlock Holmes instincts took over, I presumed that I had to fill it with some type of fluid from my body. This left me with five options:
- Piss
- Shit
- Blood
- Vomit
- Semen
Or possibly a dangerous mixture of all of the above.
My Sherlock Holmes instincts continued to take hold of me and logic dictated that the cup was too small for shit and vomit and if they wanted blood, surely they would have given me some kind of pointed stick to help me sever an artery. So I was left with piss and semen, just like a London Underground train.
As the day of the appointment approached I considered what the reactions of the incorrect sample at the doctor’s office would be like. If I whipped out some warm yellow liquid, when they were expecting some throat yoghurt, would they expect me to have a wank in the doctor’s office? What if I couldn’t perform under the pressure of the situation and they’d have to get a sexy nurse or two to join me in the office in order to give me a hand?
I couldn’t even imagine that… at all… two nurses… wanking me off… ewe!
So on the day of the appointment, I decided to take them some of my wee.
Of course I had a back-up plan, in case my fluid was too yellow for their liking. I decided to keep the little plastic cup of wee, with its lid tightly shut, inside my jacket pocket and when the doctor asked me for my urine sample, I would simply remove the cup from my pocket and hand it over. But if the doctor asked me for my semen sample, I would claim to have forgotten my cup at home, but if he’s willing to send three nurses in, I would quickly remedy the situation.
Genius!
I waited in reception, armed with wee and was finally called in to see the doctor. To my surprise I was not greeted by a sixty year old man with a grey beard, but by a very attractive female doctor who was about my age.
Time seemed to slow down as she asked, “So do you have…”
What will she ask for? Urine or semen? URINE OR SEMEN??
The doctor continued, “… a little present for me?”
WHAT? I had not expected this. I needed a clear-cut question. This could go horribly wrong. I replied, “Um…”
I was hoping that she would help me out.
I got nothing but a blank stare from her.
I continued, “Do you mean my…”
I left the sentence hanging, hoping that she’d finish it for me.
Nothing!
I gulped and finished “… urine sample?”
“Yes,” She politely replied.
I exhaled with relief. Whipped out my cup of wee and handed it to her.
Why must women act all coy when they want your wee? Why can’t they just come out and say it?
“Little present?” My ass!
Thursday 28 February 2008
Python vs Chihuahua
An interesting story appeared in the papers this week about a python eating a pet Chihuahua.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2008/02/27/wpython127.xml
Which makes me wonder what the conversation between these two animals was before the snake attacked. I imagine it being something like this:
Chihuahua: Hi! I'm a dog. Do you want to be my friend?
Python: Fuck off! Animals can't talk.
C: Then why are you talking?
P: I'm not. Sad muppet is typing this.
C: Who's Sad muppet?
P: The person writing this conversation.
C: I don't understand. Is he writing down what I'm saying?
P: No. You're not real. This is all in his mind.
C: Of course I'm real. There's a newspaper article about me at the top of this blog. You're also in it.
P: I know. The picture makes me look fat.
C: Only because I'm overweight and you ate me.
P: Why do you eat so much?
C: I guess I have low self esteem. It's not easy being one of the smallest breeds of dogs in the world. All the other dogs make fun of me.
P: Your problem is not your breed. Your problem is you. You need to love yourself before you can move on in life.
C: Is that a wanking joke?
P: No. I mean you need to love the person you are, on the inside.
C: Well that's ironic, because you're going to eat me and therefore I'll be inside you.
P: Lol. True.
C: Hey. We're getting along now. Are you still going to eat me?
P: Well I have to. The story is about me eating you.
C: But I thought this was all in Sad muppet's mind.
P: Yes it is and in his mind, I eat you.
C: No. In the article, you eat me. Anything can happen in Sad muppet's mind.
P: Not really. He has a limited intellect.
C: Why do you say that?
P: Look at this pathetic conversation we're having.
C: What do you mean?
P: Well it's not really going anywhere. He's just typing random crap onto his blog where all his loser "friends", will end up making fun of him.
C: Well that doesn't sound like real friends to me.
P: That's why I had "friends" in inverted commas.
C: Oh. I didn't know you did that because we're talking and therefore I can't read what you meant.
P: Well I guess I could have used my hands to use the quote symbol with my fore fingers and index fingers, but I'm a fucking snake and therefore can't do that.
C: Good point.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2008/02/27/wpython127.xml
Which makes me wonder what the conversation between these two animals was before the snake attacked. I imagine it being something like this:
Chihuahua: Hi! I'm a dog. Do you want to be my friend?
Python: Fuck off! Animals can't talk.
C: Then why are you talking?
P: I'm not. Sad muppet is typing this.
C: Who's Sad muppet?
P: The person writing this conversation.
C: I don't understand. Is he writing down what I'm saying?
P: No. You're not real. This is all in his mind.
C: Of course I'm real. There's a newspaper article about me at the top of this blog. You're also in it.
P: I know. The picture makes me look fat.
C: Only because I'm overweight and you ate me.
P: Why do you eat so much?
C: I guess I have low self esteem. It's not easy being one of the smallest breeds of dogs in the world. All the other dogs make fun of me.
P: Your problem is not your breed. Your problem is you. You need to love yourself before you can move on in life.
C: Is that a wanking joke?
P: No. I mean you need to love the person you are, on the inside.
C: Well that's ironic, because you're going to eat me and therefore I'll be inside you.
P: Lol. True.
C: Hey. We're getting along now. Are you still going to eat me?
P: Well I have to. The story is about me eating you.
C: But I thought this was all in Sad muppet's mind.
P: Yes it is and in his mind, I eat you.
C: No. In the article, you eat me. Anything can happen in Sad muppet's mind.
P: Not really. He has a limited intellect.
C: Why do you say that?
P: Look at this pathetic conversation we're having.
C: What do you mean?
P: Well it's not really going anywhere. He's just typing random crap onto his blog where all his loser "friends", will end up making fun of him.
C: Well that doesn't sound like real friends to me.
P: That's why I had "friends" in inverted commas.
C: Oh. I didn't know you did that because we're talking and therefore I can't read what you meant.
P: Well I guess I could have used my hands to use the quote symbol with my fore fingers and index fingers, but I'm a fucking snake and therefore can't do that.
C: Good point.
Monday 18 February 2008
Sleeping for love
Dear Susan
I write this letter to you with teary eyes and a heavy heart.
We’ve been seeing each other for about three months now and although I think we had something very special at first, I feel that our relationship has been quite stagnant of late.
I’m not the type of guy to point the finger of blame at who was in the wrong, as it doesn’t help us in going through the list of why I made an effort and you didn’t.
I guess all relationships go through tough times, but if both partners are willing to work at it, they get over these difficulties and emerge on the other side stronger because of it, however our relationship just continues to sink into a never ending sea of despair.
I remember the day when we first met. How was I to know that working as a janitor, during the night shift at the hospital, would lead to love? Earlier that day you had been in a horrific car accident and as you lay there, so helpless in I.C.U., my heart went out to you. Over the next couple of weeks as you lay in I.C.U. recovering, I always made sure to check up on your condition and by the third week, after your condition was considered stable, you were given your own room in the “coma wing”, as it’s become known by the staff.
Having your own room meant that we were able to get to know each other more intimately and I remember how your heart monitor raced when I first suggested that we explore one another sexually. It’s as though you could really hear me and you were excited by the prospect.
Do you remember the first night your naughty hand slipped into my pants to feel my privates? And then the night you gave me my first blowjob? You looked so sexy as I crouched over your face, trying to concentrate on opening your mouth and also listening to see if anybody was approaching in the corridor. We felt like naughty teenagers, alive with the discovery of one another’s bodies.
And then the night that we became one, was one of the most memorable nights of my life. We had discussed it at length (well I discussed it while you listened), and in the end we decided that it would make our relationship stronger, so the next evening I snuck some champagne and flowers into your room, in order to set the mood. Little did I know at the time that the champagne I poured into your I.V. that night nearly killed you the next morning, but I guess all romances have to overcome great difficulty.
All the other girls I’ve dated have always been so negative. Many of them kept insisting I was some kind of weird stalker and they kept calling the police about me. It’s as though they didn’t really want to be with me, but you were different. The thing I really I liked about us was that you never complained. You never stopped me from living every sexual fantasy I could come up with and you were always there to listen to what I had to say, at the end of the day.
But now those early romantic days seem so far away. Lately it seems that you’re just going through the motions. Last night when we made sweet love, you just seemed to lie there. You seemed so distant. Your heart monitor hardly ever increases in rate lately and now when I tell you about my day, you seem to be not really listening. In fact it seems like you’re in a world of your own. I just wished you made more of an effort.
Well if that’s how you want to be. Fine! I can take it. I won’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt, but I guess I have to be grown-up about it and move on with my life.
And if you’re thinking that this has something to do with the new cute blonde girl who was wheeled into the coma wing last night, you’re wrong. I don’t like her like that. Yes she’s good looking and has firm breasts and a tongue ring, but what we had was something special.
Anyway, I guess this is good-bye and good luck. I hope you come out of your coma soon and you’re able to get over losing the love of your life.
Yours faithfully
Muppet
I write this letter to you with teary eyes and a heavy heart.
We’ve been seeing each other for about three months now and although I think we had something very special at first, I feel that our relationship has been quite stagnant of late.
I’m not the type of guy to point the finger of blame at who was in the wrong, as it doesn’t help us in going through the list of why I made an effort and you didn’t.
I guess all relationships go through tough times, but if both partners are willing to work at it, they get over these difficulties and emerge on the other side stronger because of it, however our relationship just continues to sink into a never ending sea of despair.
I remember the day when we first met. How was I to know that working as a janitor, during the night shift at the hospital, would lead to love? Earlier that day you had been in a horrific car accident and as you lay there, so helpless in I.C.U., my heart went out to you. Over the next couple of weeks as you lay in I.C.U. recovering, I always made sure to check up on your condition and by the third week, after your condition was considered stable, you were given your own room in the “coma wing”, as it’s become known by the staff.
Having your own room meant that we were able to get to know each other more intimately and I remember how your heart monitor raced when I first suggested that we explore one another sexually. It’s as though you could really hear me and you were excited by the prospect.
Do you remember the first night your naughty hand slipped into my pants to feel my privates? And then the night you gave me my first blowjob? You looked so sexy as I crouched over your face, trying to concentrate on opening your mouth and also listening to see if anybody was approaching in the corridor. We felt like naughty teenagers, alive with the discovery of one another’s bodies.
And then the night that we became one, was one of the most memorable nights of my life. We had discussed it at length (well I discussed it while you listened), and in the end we decided that it would make our relationship stronger, so the next evening I snuck some champagne and flowers into your room, in order to set the mood. Little did I know at the time that the champagne I poured into your I.V. that night nearly killed you the next morning, but I guess all romances have to overcome great difficulty.
All the other girls I’ve dated have always been so negative. Many of them kept insisting I was some kind of weird stalker and they kept calling the police about me. It’s as though they didn’t really want to be with me, but you were different. The thing I really I liked about us was that you never complained. You never stopped me from living every sexual fantasy I could come up with and you were always there to listen to what I had to say, at the end of the day.
But now those early romantic days seem so far away. Lately it seems that you’re just going through the motions. Last night when we made sweet love, you just seemed to lie there. You seemed so distant. Your heart monitor hardly ever increases in rate lately and now when I tell you about my day, you seem to be not really listening. In fact it seems like you’re in a world of your own. I just wished you made more of an effort.
Well if that’s how you want to be. Fine! I can take it. I won’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt, but I guess I have to be grown-up about it and move on with my life.
And if you’re thinking that this has something to do with the new cute blonde girl who was wheeled into the coma wing last night, you’re wrong. I don’t like her like that. Yes she’s good looking and has firm breasts and a tongue ring, but what we had was something special.
Anyway, I guess this is good-bye and good luck. I hope you come out of your coma soon and you’re able to get over losing the love of your life.
Yours faithfully
Muppet
Wednesday 13 February 2008
“Daddy. Where do babies come from?”
The question caught me off guard, as I had just finished preparing my six year old for bed and expected him to fall asleep within minutes.
But as I looked down on him, I could tell that there was no sign of tiredness in his eyes and therefore this question had probably been puzzling him for quite some time. I consider myself a modern father and won’t try to shun negative stereotypes from my children’s eyes, but wasn’t sure how to reply to this one.
“Um, why do you ask Johnny?”
Johnny looked up at me with his big innocent eyes and said, “Is it when a man puts his thingy in a woman’s mouth?”
I looked back at him with stunned silence. Johnny had obviously heard some kind of sordid story, probably from older kids and it was up to me to sort things out.
“Well, no. Babies can’t be made like that.”
“So putting a thingy in a woman’s mouth has nothing to do with babies?” he enquired.
If I was going to tell him the truth, I guess I had to be honest. “Well it does sometimes play a roll in making a baby. Sometimes a daddy is tired and doesn’t feel like have special hugs with a mummy, so the mummy encourages a special hug by putting the daddy’s thingy in her mouth.”
“Special hugs?”
I realised that I had to start from the beginning.
“You see, Johnny. When a daddy has had a tough time at the office, he quite often goes to a pub for a few drinks, instead of going home to his fat bitch.”
“Do you mean mummy?”
“Yes I do, but she wasn’t a mummy, back then. She was a lazy, good for nothing bitch who watched soap operas all day and ate junk food.”
“Ewe! No wonder daddy needed some happy drinks.”
“Exactly, but after six or seven pints daddy knew that he had to head on home, but the problem with happy drinks is that it makes mummy look semi-decent, so when daddy got home he felt like having some fun with mummy.”
“What kind of fun? Did you want to play playstation?” Johnny’s eyes lit up, as he imagined mummy and daddy playing playstation against one another.
I chuckled a bit. “Well it’s a special type of playstation with a joystick, but the problem was that when daddy got home, aunty Gloria was visiting mummy which made daddy sad, because he wanted to play playstation with mummy.”
“Why does aunty Gloria shake so much daddy?”
“Well that’s because she’s a crack-whore Johnny.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when a woman will sell her soul for a few lines of powder, which gave daddy an idea. He quickly phoned his friend, uncle Smith, and asked uncle Smith to bring some powder around. Do you remember uncle Smith?”
“Yes. He likes it when I sit on his lap.”
“Yes he does.” I laughed to myself. “So while uncle Smith was on his way over I suggested to mummy and aunty Gloria that they take turns putting daddy’s thingy in their mouths and in return daddy will give aunty Gloria the powder that uncle Smith was bringing over.”
“And is that how mummy had a baby?”
“Well not quite. You see daddy’s happy drinks had made it difficult for daddy to enjoy the fun with mummy and aunty Gloria properly. So daddy had to go take a blue pill, while mummy and aunty Gloria drank from the furry cups.”
“Did mummy not do the washing?”
“Probably, but that was aunty Gloria’s problem at the time. So while the ladies were busy eating fish pie, uncle Smith arrived with the powder and asked if he could join in the fun, thereby not charging daddy anything for the powder. It made good business sense, so daddy allowed uncle Smith to join the fun.”
“Uncle Smith has a very big thingy”, Johnny said behind scared little eyes.
“Yes he does,” I agreed, “but mummy assures me that size doesn’t matter.”
Johnny rolled his eyes.
“By this time, the blue pill was starting to work”, I continued, “and thrust my lovestick into mummy’s mouth, while shoving two fingers into aunty Gloria’s bum.”
“That always hurts” Johnny said.
“Well if aunty Gloria screamed, it was muffled on uncle Smith’s lovebranch. By this time the blue pill was working too well and I pulled my lovestick out of mummy’s mouth and sprayed my love fountain all over mummy’s and aunty Gloria’s faces while uncle Smith held aunty Gloria’s head in place by grabbing the back of her hair.”
“Bitches love that, don’t they daddy?”
“They sure do Johnny.”
“So is that when mummy got the baby?”
“Well not quite, you see because mummy got a whole lot of love fountain spray in her eye, she wiped it away with her fingers and with those same fingers she selfishly tried to have some fun of her own, by playing with her crab cave.”
“Why didn’t daddy stop her?”
“Well daddy was quite sleepy by this stage and after letting aunty Gloria and uncle Smith out, he collapsed into a deep sleep.”
“So mummy got a baby by playing with daddy’s love fountain spray in her crab cave?”
“Yep. That’s about it, now stop asking all these questions and get back to sucking daddy off so that daddy can go to sleep.”
But as I looked down on him, I could tell that there was no sign of tiredness in his eyes and therefore this question had probably been puzzling him for quite some time. I consider myself a modern father and won’t try to shun negative stereotypes from my children’s eyes, but wasn’t sure how to reply to this one.
“Um, why do you ask Johnny?”
Johnny looked up at me with his big innocent eyes and said, “Is it when a man puts his thingy in a woman’s mouth?”
I looked back at him with stunned silence. Johnny had obviously heard some kind of sordid story, probably from older kids and it was up to me to sort things out.
“Well, no. Babies can’t be made like that.”
“So putting a thingy in a woman’s mouth has nothing to do with babies?” he enquired.
If I was going to tell him the truth, I guess I had to be honest. “Well it does sometimes play a roll in making a baby. Sometimes a daddy is tired and doesn’t feel like have special hugs with a mummy, so the mummy encourages a special hug by putting the daddy’s thingy in her mouth.”
“Special hugs?”
I realised that I had to start from the beginning.
“You see, Johnny. When a daddy has had a tough time at the office, he quite often goes to a pub for a few drinks, instead of going home to his fat bitch.”
“Do you mean mummy?”
“Yes I do, but she wasn’t a mummy, back then. She was a lazy, good for nothing bitch who watched soap operas all day and ate junk food.”
“Ewe! No wonder daddy needed some happy drinks.”
“Exactly, but after six or seven pints daddy knew that he had to head on home, but the problem with happy drinks is that it makes mummy look semi-decent, so when daddy got home he felt like having some fun with mummy.”
“What kind of fun? Did you want to play playstation?” Johnny’s eyes lit up, as he imagined mummy and daddy playing playstation against one another.
I chuckled a bit. “Well it’s a special type of playstation with a joystick, but the problem was that when daddy got home, aunty Gloria was visiting mummy which made daddy sad, because he wanted to play playstation with mummy.”
“Why does aunty Gloria shake so much daddy?”
“Well that’s because she’s a crack-whore Johnny.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when a woman will sell her soul for a few lines of powder, which gave daddy an idea. He quickly phoned his friend, uncle Smith, and asked uncle Smith to bring some powder around. Do you remember uncle Smith?”
“Yes. He likes it when I sit on his lap.”
“Yes he does.” I laughed to myself. “So while uncle Smith was on his way over I suggested to mummy and aunty Gloria that they take turns putting daddy’s thingy in their mouths and in return daddy will give aunty Gloria the powder that uncle Smith was bringing over.”
“And is that how mummy had a baby?”
“Well not quite. You see daddy’s happy drinks had made it difficult for daddy to enjoy the fun with mummy and aunty Gloria properly. So daddy had to go take a blue pill, while mummy and aunty Gloria drank from the furry cups.”
“Did mummy not do the washing?”
“Probably, but that was aunty Gloria’s problem at the time. So while the ladies were busy eating fish pie, uncle Smith arrived with the powder and asked if he could join in the fun, thereby not charging daddy anything for the powder. It made good business sense, so daddy allowed uncle Smith to join the fun.”
“Uncle Smith has a very big thingy”, Johnny said behind scared little eyes.
“Yes he does,” I agreed, “but mummy assures me that size doesn’t matter.”
Johnny rolled his eyes.
“By this time, the blue pill was starting to work”, I continued, “and thrust my lovestick into mummy’s mouth, while shoving two fingers into aunty Gloria’s bum.”
“That always hurts” Johnny said.
“Well if aunty Gloria screamed, it was muffled on uncle Smith’s lovebranch. By this time the blue pill was working too well and I pulled my lovestick out of mummy’s mouth and sprayed my love fountain all over mummy’s and aunty Gloria’s faces while uncle Smith held aunty Gloria’s head in place by grabbing the back of her hair.”
“Bitches love that, don’t they daddy?”
“They sure do Johnny.”
“So is that when mummy got the baby?”
“Well not quite, you see because mummy got a whole lot of love fountain spray in her eye, she wiped it away with her fingers and with those same fingers she selfishly tried to have some fun of her own, by playing with her crab cave.”
“Why didn’t daddy stop her?”
“Well daddy was quite sleepy by this stage and after letting aunty Gloria and uncle Smith out, he collapsed into a deep sleep.”
“So mummy got a baby by playing with daddy’s love fountain spray in her crab cave?”
“Yep. That’s about it, now stop asking all these questions and get back to sucking daddy off so that daddy can go to sleep.”
Tuesday 5 February 2008
Should fat people be allowed to have sex?
Let’s face it, God made them fat in order to stop them from being found attractive, but sometimes thin people drink too much.
So who’s at fault?
Thin people are obviously going to get drunk a lot quicker than a fat person and therefore it’s probably the fat person’s responsibility to refuse the thin person’s advances.
On the other hand, the fat person has never been found attractive before and therefore will find it difficult to resist any kind of advance.
So I propose that all pubs now have BMI restrictions at every door. Anybody over 25 BMI is refused. They can hang out with the smokers and talk about pies and cancer.
So who’s at fault?
Thin people are obviously going to get drunk a lot quicker than a fat person and therefore it’s probably the fat person’s responsibility to refuse the thin person’s advances.
On the other hand, the fat person has never been found attractive before and therefore will find it difficult to resist any kind of advance.
So I propose that all pubs now have BMI restrictions at every door. Anybody over 25 BMI is refused. They can hang out with the smokers and talk about pies and cancer.
Wednesday 30 January 2008
Breathtaking sights of New York
Last week I went to the United States of America for the first time in my life, or more accurately to New York.
I was accompanied on this trip with my girlfriend, who had been to New York on two previous occasions. This was our first trip to any place together.
I had brought two cameras and my handy guidebook to show me around this amazing city of steel and concrete. During my week I saw, the largest department store in the world, the Empire State Building and it’s jaw-dropping views over Manhattan, Ground Zero, the Statue of Liberty, walked across Brooklyn Bridge, The Met and countless other sights.
I have hundreds of photos of all these places, but I left New York feeling somewhat disappointed, as I was unable to take a photo of the one thing I was most amazed by.
What hurts even more, is that it wasn’t just a once off flash incident where you wish you had a camera with you, like watching an old lady fall down some stairs or watching a baby panda explode. The fact of the matter is that I didn’t take a photo, because I don’t think my girlfriend would have understood.
It happened in our hotel, on the first night we had arrived. I had spent the previous night at her place after a very busy last day at work. We had to leave for the airport quite early as we were flying via a connecting flight in Detroit where we were stuck for ages.
The point is that by the time I had reached our hotel in New York, I had not taken a dump for about 48 hours and I was choking.
As I am a very romantic guy, I had not been informing the chain-and-ball of my turtlehead problem as we admired the beautiful view of a McDonald’s from our hotel room window. The pre-dump sweats had started as I informed the battleaxe that I was “going to freshen up” before bed.
As soon as I slammed the bathroom door behind me, I dropped trou and sat down to the accompaniment of angels singing, or so it seemed. It didn’t last long and I was suspicious of circumstances below me as there was no splash, despite all the rectal orgasming I was going through.
Once I was confident that there weren’t any younger siblings who wanted to join the party, I had a quick look at my escaped prisoners, to make sure that I had at least hit parts of the bowl. At first glance I was left speechless at what was staring back at me. I had given birth to a monster. One solid turd, over a foot long!
At this stage I wouldn’t have been surprised if Godzilla had appeared behind me, peered over my shoulder into the toilet and then said to me, “Dude! What the fuck!”
My first instinct was to run into the bedroom, with my trousers around my ankles to grab my camera and then waddle back to the toilet again, but then thought that this might lead to some strange questions from the hag.
My second thought was to invite the old cum-bucket into the toilet to admire my creation along with me and then we could take photos together. Unfortunately I don’t think we were quite at that stage of our relationship yet. Feces picture sharing is more like a year anniversary thing.
So with tears in my eyes, I said farewell to my child and with a shaking hand I flushed her away. As she swirled around the toilet, she broke into two pieces, much like the Titanic, the other great engineering creation of man, had done before being claimed by the murky waters below.
And so I returned to the bedroom much lighter, but weighed down with the guilt of knowing what mothers go through, having to give up their children for adoption.
I was accompanied on this trip with my girlfriend, who had been to New York on two previous occasions. This was our first trip to any place together.
I had brought two cameras and my handy guidebook to show me around this amazing city of steel and concrete. During my week I saw, the largest department store in the world, the Empire State Building and it’s jaw-dropping views over Manhattan, Ground Zero, the Statue of Liberty, walked across Brooklyn Bridge, The Met and countless other sights.
I have hundreds of photos of all these places, but I left New York feeling somewhat disappointed, as I was unable to take a photo of the one thing I was most amazed by.
What hurts even more, is that it wasn’t just a once off flash incident where you wish you had a camera with you, like watching an old lady fall down some stairs or watching a baby panda explode. The fact of the matter is that I didn’t take a photo, because I don’t think my girlfriend would have understood.
It happened in our hotel, on the first night we had arrived. I had spent the previous night at her place after a very busy last day at work. We had to leave for the airport quite early as we were flying via a connecting flight in Detroit where we were stuck for ages.
The point is that by the time I had reached our hotel in New York, I had not taken a dump for about 48 hours and I was choking.
As I am a very romantic guy, I had not been informing the chain-and-ball of my turtlehead problem as we admired the beautiful view of a McDonald’s from our hotel room window. The pre-dump sweats had started as I informed the battleaxe that I was “going to freshen up” before bed.
As soon as I slammed the bathroom door behind me, I dropped trou and sat down to the accompaniment of angels singing, or so it seemed. It didn’t last long and I was suspicious of circumstances below me as there was no splash, despite all the rectal orgasming I was going through.
Once I was confident that there weren’t any younger siblings who wanted to join the party, I had a quick look at my escaped prisoners, to make sure that I had at least hit parts of the bowl. At first glance I was left speechless at what was staring back at me. I had given birth to a monster. One solid turd, over a foot long!
At this stage I wouldn’t have been surprised if Godzilla had appeared behind me, peered over my shoulder into the toilet and then said to me, “Dude! What the fuck!”
My first instinct was to run into the bedroom, with my trousers around my ankles to grab my camera and then waddle back to the toilet again, but then thought that this might lead to some strange questions from the hag.
My second thought was to invite the old cum-bucket into the toilet to admire my creation along with me and then we could take photos together. Unfortunately I don’t think we were quite at that stage of our relationship yet. Feces picture sharing is more like a year anniversary thing.
So with tears in my eyes, I said farewell to my child and with a shaking hand I flushed her away. As she swirled around the toilet, she broke into two pieces, much like the Titanic, the other great engineering creation of man, had done before being claimed by the murky waters below.
And so I returned to the bedroom much lighter, but weighed down with the guilt of knowing what mothers go through, having to give up their children for adoption.
Monday 28 January 2008
Coma of love
I'm not one to brag, because I'm so modest and great with the ladies, but I have been known to put a few ladies in a coma while making sweet love to them.
Some might claim that it was from the horrific car accident they were in that put them in the coma, others think it was my sweet luvvin that pushed them over the edge. All I know is that they were semi-conscious when I found them. You do the maths.
Some might claim that it was from the horrific car accident they were in that put them in the coma, others think it was my sweet luvvin that pushed them over the edge. All I know is that they were semi-conscious when I found them. You do the maths.
Friday 18 January 2008
How to pick up chicks - lesson 8
Get thee to a nunnery
Warning – If you read the following article, you will probably go to hell. In fact, this article is so morally corrupt that you will probably go to hell for just reading this warning. So stop reading this warning. (Ironic, isn’t it?)
There is a common misconception out there that nuns are all old, fat women who fear any kind of intimacy with men. I would like to correct this misconception by stating that most of my ex girlfriends were old, fat bitches that didn’t want me touching them, yet only turned to a life devoted to God after dumping my sexy ass. It’s difficult to find an equal after you’ve been with the muppet. Bless their frigid little hearts.
Yet despite some negative misunderstandings I’ve had with nuns, I still maintain that they are easy prey.
So why would a nun decide to become a nun?
They claim to be spreading the word of God. So what is the word of God about? It’s about lurve! Lurve thy neighbour! Lurve thy neighbour’s ox (kinky bitches). So that’s what the nuns want to share with you.
Their attempts to disguise themselves as frigid zebras is discarded if you look at the facts behind the frock.
The relevant facts to note are:
- They don’t believe in marriage. These women are too wild to settle down.
– They devote themselves to “The Big Guy”.
– They’re kinky drunken bitches! They love a bit of father, son and some good spirit.
– They spend hours on end on their knees. What’s not to like about that?
– They’re very gullible. You could make up one of the most ridiculous stories ever created and they’d believe it.
- They quite often hang out with Catholic priests and we all know that those guys are some of the dirtiest sex-maniacs around.
- They always want to know about your sins. Dirty wenches!
- You hardly ever see a nun by herself. They’re either in two’s or more. A threesome is always on the cards.
And last but not least
- They wear towels on their heads. Curtains are no longer needed to clean your man bits. A bit of a dirty habit, if you ask me.
Warning – If you read the following article, you will probably go to hell. In fact, this article is so morally corrupt that you will probably go to hell for just reading this warning. So stop reading this warning. (Ironic, isn’t it?)
There is a common misconception out there that nuns are all old, fat women who fear any kind of intimacy with men. I would like to correct this misconception by stating that most of my ex girlfriends were old, fat bitches that didn’t want me touching them, yet only turned to a life devoted to God after dumping my sexy ass. It’s difficult to find an equal after you’ve been with the muppet. Bless their frigid little hearts.
Yet despite some negative misunderstandings I’ve had with nuns, I still maintain that they are easy prey.
So why would a nun decide to become a nun?
They claim to be spreading the word of God. So what is the word of God about? It’s about lurve! Lurve thy neighbour! Lurve thy neighbour’s ox (kinky bitches). So that’s what the nuns want to share with you.
Their attempts to disguise themselves as frigid zebras is discarded if you look at the facts behind the frock.
The relevant facts to note are:
- They don’t believe in marriage. These women are too wild to settle down.
– They devote themselves to “The Big Guy”.
– They’re kinky drunken bitches! They love a bit of father, son and some good spirit.
– They spend hours on end on their knees. What’s not to like about that?
– They’re very gullible. You could make up one of the most ridiculous stories ever created and they’d believe it.
- They quite often hang out with Catholic priests and we all know that those guys are some of the dirtiest sex-maniacs around.
- They always want to know about your sins. Dirty wenches!
- You hardly ever see a nun by herself. They’re either in two’s or more. A threesome is always on the cards.
And last but not least
- They wear towels on their heads. Curtains are no longer needed to clean your man bits. A bit of a dirty habit, if you ask me.
How to pick up chicks - lesson 7
Women’s prisons
Shooting fish in a barrel is a concept that comes to mind when I think about doing some lazy fishing. On the other hand, being inside a woman’s prison is like fishing inside a shark tank, with a big piece of raw steak sewn into your crotch. As you approach the tank, you can smell the fish. As you enter the tank, you can see the fish. While in the tank, you can reach out and touch the fish, but you know that by the end of the day, if you leave, your crotch will not be in one piece.
If you’re ever able to get inside a woman’s prison, your hunting skills must be at its peak. There’s a good chance that you’ll be stripped, slapped about and have a large object shoved up your bum, but if you make it past the guards, there’s a good chance of getting some action.
One’s initial thought about being in a woman’s prison is that you’ll be treated like a piece of candy. Passed along from one hardened criminal to the next, as they use and abuse you, as they see fit. They’ll release their pent up anger and frustrations on you and you’ll probably end up nailed to the “mama bitch’s” wall after having your male anatomy torn from your body by hundreds of sexually frustrated women.
But one must remember that there could be a down side too.
The problem with the female prisoner is that they’re so use their routine. I’ll explain the concept through the clever analogy of food.
The female prisoner was use to having all kinds of food on the outside, but since they’ve been locked up, all they’ve had to eat is… um… let’s say, fish for instance. There’s nothing wrong with fish, but let’s be honest, it’s not steak. One can make do with eating fish day after day, week after week, year after year, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a nice piece of steak, for a change, especially if one use to eat steak regularly on the outside.
Over the years these murderers, thieves, bad cooks and drug dealers have obsessed about meat. This obsession has been built up to such a degree, that they feel that their next piece of meat will be like being in heaven. An ironic concept, seeing that the murderers and bad cooks are deemed to go to hell for eternity.
So there’s a lot to live up to and no matter how good you are at putting a penis in a woman’s mouth, you’re still not going to live up to the woman prisoner’s expectations.
So in the likely chance of being able to get some special alone time with an inmate, I suggest that you keep a high voltage taser handy, without her knowing about it, for once you’re done.
Also remember to concentrate your hunting skills to the “lifers”. You thereby save money by not having to use condoms. A pregnant “lifer”, isn’t your problem.
Shooting fish in a barrel is a concept that comes to mind when I think about doing some lazy fishing. On the other hand, being inside a woman’s prison is like fishing inside a shark tank, with a big piece of raw steak sewn into your crotch. As you approach the tank, you can smell the fish. As you enter the tank, you can see the fish. While in the tank, you can reach out and touch the fish, but you know that by the end of the day, if you leave, your crotch will not be in one piece.
If you’re ever able to get inside a woman’s prison, your hunting skills must be at its peak. There’s a good chance that you’ll be stripped, slapped about and have a large object shoved up your bum, but if you make it past the guards, there’s a good chance of getting some action.
One’s initial thought about being in a woman’s prison is that you’ll be treated like a piece of candy. Passed along from one hardened criminal to the next, as they use and abuse you, as they see fit. They’ll release their pent up anger and frustrations on you and you’ll probably end up nailed to the “mama bitch’s” wall after having your male anatomy torn from your body by hundreds of sexually frustrated women.
But one must remember that there could be a down side too.
The problem with the female prisoner is that they’re so use their routine. I’ll explain the concept through the clever analogy of food.
The female prisoner was use to having all kinds of food on the outside, but since they’ve been locked up, all they’ve had to eat is… um… let’s say, fish for instance. There’s nothing wrong with fish, but let’s be honest, it’s not steak. One can make do with eating fish day after day, week after week, year after year, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a nice piece of steak, for a change, especially if one use to eat steak regularly on the outside.
Over the years these murderers, thieves, bad cooks and drug dealers have obsessed about meat. This obsession has been built up to such a degree, that they feel that their next piece of meat will be like being in heaven. An ironic concept, seeing that the murderers and bad cooks are deemed to go to hell for eternity.
So there’s a lot to live up to and no matter how good you are at putting a penis in a woman’s mouth, you’re still not going to live up to the woman prisoner’s expectations.
So in the likely chance of being able to get some special alone time with an inmate, I suggest that you keep a high voltage taser handy, without her knowing about it, for once you’re done.
Also remember to concentrate your hunting skills to the “lifers”. You thereby save money by not having to use condoms. A pregnant “lifer”, isn’t your problem.
How to pick up chicks - lesson 6
Fuglies
The supreme hunter can usually have his pick of the finest meat in a herd, but sometimes it’s the slow running, back of the herd, beaten with an ugly stick piece of meat that’s easiest to pick off.
In pubs and clubs they are easy to recognize. They usually stand out like a sore thumb. A sore, overweight, badly dressed, uncomfortable, shy looking thumb.
One must understand that the fugly has low self-esteem due to their lack of confidence. They have very little experience with dealing with men and generally keep to themselves. They feel that they aren’t as pretty as the other girls and therefore don’t give themselves much chance of getting a man’s attention in a social scene. All this can be exploited to serve the hunter’s needs.
The fugly will usually be in the pub or club with a group of friends. Once you’ve zeroed in on the fugly, you should approach her in a confident manner, ignoring the other girls that she’s with in the group and open with an appropriate line like, “Wow, you’re really fat and ugly.”
The fugly usually has such low self esteem that she won’t stick up for herself and one of her friends will stick up for her, but it’s important to shoot the friend down immediately with, “Excuse me, but I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to your fat ugly friend. You’re not nearly as repulsive looking as your friend and therefore have a chance of getting another male’s attention, but I’m here to talk to your friend, elephant girl, if you don’t mind.”
As the friend has already shown that she tried to stick up for her fugly friend, she’ll be pleased to drop it as she’s actually embarrassed to be in public with a fugly and is pleased that somebody else is there to talk to her. Nobody likes a fugly, not even their friends.
With the friend gone, you can continue to charm the fugly by pointing out how fugly she actually is. The problem with some fuglies is that they seem to think that they’re not really that bad looking or that they might feel that their fun loving personality might make up for what they lack in looks. It’s best to set them straight. It’s important to note that fuglies have feelings and emotions, almost like real people.
If you’re brave enough, give her a hug when she starts to cry her fugly tears. This takes a lot of will power on the hunter’s side, as normal people might see you hugging a fugly in public. After the tears have slowed, she will thank you for being so truthful with her and that’s when you suggest how she can repay you.
Remember that the true hunter is also a gentleman and should therefore ask the fugly if she wants the paper bag for her head to have holes for her eyes.
The supreme hunter can usually have his pick of the finest meat in a herd, but sometimes it’s the slow running, back of the herd, beaten with an ugly stick piece of meat that’s easiest to pick off.
In pubs and clubs they are easy to recognize. They usually stand out like a sore thumb. A sore, overweight, badly dressed, uncomfortable, shy looking thumb.
One must understand that the fugly has low self-esteem due to their lack of confidence. They have very little experience with dealing with men and generally keep to themselves. They feel that they aren’t as pretty as the other girls and therefore don’t give themselves much chance of getting a man’s attention in a social scene. All this can be exploited to serve the hunter’s needs.
The fugly will usually be in the pub or club with a group of friends. Once you’ve zeroed in on the fugly, you should approach her in a confident manner, ignoring the other girls that she’s with in the group and open with an appropriate line like, “Wow, you’re really fat and ugly.”
The fugly usually has such low self esteem that she won’t stick up for herself and one of her friends will stick up for her, but it’s important to shoot the friend down immediately with, “Excuse me, but I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to your fat ugly friend. You’re not nearly as repulsive looking as your friend and therefore have a chance of getting another male’s attention, but I’m here to talk to your friend, elephant girl, if you don’t mind.”
As the friend has already shown that she tried to stick up for her fugly friend, she’ll be pleased to drop it as she’s actually embarrassed to be in public with a fugly and is pleased that somebody else is there to talk to her. Nobody likes a fugly, not even their friends.
With the friend gone, you can continue to charm the fugly by pointing out how fugly she actually is. The problem with some fuglies is that they seem to think that they’re not really that bad looking or that they might feel that their fun loving personality might make up for what they lack in looks. It’s best to set them straight. It’s important to note that fuglies have feelings and emotions, almost like real people.
If you’re brave enough, give her a hug when she starts to cry her fugly tears. This takes a lot of will power on the hunter’s side, as normal people might see you hugging a fugly in public. After the tears have slowed, she will thank you for being so truthful with her and that’s when you suggest how she can repay you.
Remember that the true hunter is also a gentleman and should therefore ask the fugly if she wants the paper bag for her head to have holes for her eyes.
How to pick up chicks - lesson 5
Communication
At a young age, Albert Einstein was asked by his girlfriend, “Does this skirt make my bum look big?” Albert, being the quick-witted lad that he was, ran away without saying a word and studied physics for years on end. After decades he eventually felt confident enough to return to his girlfriend with an answer.
After eventually tracking her down he paid the girl, now an old lady, a visit. Albert sat the old lady down and recalled the question that she asked him and told her that he now had an answer for her. With confident look in his eye, he declared that space was finite. The old lady glassed him.
The moral of the story is that communication between the sexes has long been one of the most difficult things to do on this planet.
The subtle art of communication has long been an underestimated technique when trying to trap one’s prey.
It’s true that clubbing a woman over the head and dragging her by her hair back to one’s cave has its advantages, but one needs to understand that this isn’t the 1980s anymore. Man has evolved and through this evolution, man has learnt that women have emotions, feelings and other shit like that, that he is able to exploit.
Women are basically simple-minded creatures. Their overwhelming urge to serve men, make babies and collect shoes has blinded them to the true hunter.
The basics of communication with women can be summed up under one heading:
LIE.
Yes, it’s that simple. The secret to communication is never being truthful.
Image a girl asks you the following questions and think if you would be better off by telling her the truth or rather telling her what she wants to hear?
1: “Would you like to buy me a drink?”
2: “Will you still respect me in the morning?”
3: “Are you stalking me?”
4: “Is there Rohypnol in this drink?”
5: “Is that suppose to be THAT small?”
6: “You’re not one of those loser chat forum geeks, are you?”
7: “Do you mind if we cuddle after sex?”
8: “Isn’t sex suppose to last longer than that?”
9: “Why do you have pictures of amputees on your wall?”
10: “Do these jeans make my bum look big?”
At a young age, Albert Einstein was asked by his girlfriend, “Does this skirt make my bum look big?” Albert, being the quick-witted lad that he was, ran away without saying a word and studied physics for years on end. After decades he eventually felt confident enough to return to his girlfriend with an answer.
After eventually tracking her down he paid the girl, now an old lady, a visit. Albert sat the old lady down and recalled the question that she asked him and told her that he now had an answer for her. With confident look in his eye, he declared that space was finite. The old lady glassed him.
The moral of the story is that communication between the sexes has long been one of the most difficult things to do on this planet.
The subtle art of communication has long been an underestimated technique when trying to trap one’s prey.
It’s true that clubbing a woman over the head and dragging her by her hair back to one’s cave has its advantages, but one needs to understand that this isn’t the 1980s anymore. Man has evolved and through this evolution, man has learnt that women have emotions, feelings and other shit like that, that he is able to exploit.
Women are basically simple-minded creatures. Their overwhelming urge to serve men, make babies and collect shoes has blinded them to the true hunter.
The basics of communication with women can be summed up under one heading:
LIE.
Yes, it’s that simple. The secret to communication is never being truthful.
Image a girl asks you the following questions and think if you would be better off by telling her the truth or rather telling her what she wants to hear?
1: “Would you like to buy me a drink?”
2: “Will you still respect me in the morning?”
3: “Are you stalking me?”
4: “Is there Rohypnol in this drink?”
5: “Is that suppose to be THAT small?”
6: “You’re not one of those loser chat forum geeks, are you?”
7: “Do you mind if we cuddle after sex?”
8: “Isn’t sex suppose to last longer than that?”
9: “Why do you have pictures of amputees on your wall?”
10: “Do these jeans make my bum look big?”
How to pick up chicks - lesson 4
How to recognize a lesbian.
The supreme hunter is a ruthless killer. Once he has zeroed in on his prey, she will be helpless to escape his charm and powerful aftershave, but even some of the top hunters can be lured in by false bait. This bait usually comes in the form of a lesbian.
Over the years, Hollywood has presented the image of lesbians as beautiful young women who parade around in tiny bikinis who snog other young beautiful lesbians in order to excite men that might be watching. Hollywood doesn’t represent lesbians as women who come in all ages, shapes and sizes and are simply attracted to women rather than men. They don’t represent this version of lesbians, because they don’t exist.
But until the bikini clad young nymph grows out of her “women know where my clit is” stage (usually age 26 when she starts getting ugly, as gravity takes hold), the hunter will struggle to turn a lesbian towards his will.
So how does one recognize a lesbian, in order to save one’s money on cologne and tear-away leopard skin G-strings?
Owing to my many hunting experiences, I am able to share with you certain situations whereby one can recognize a lesbian.
One:
Your mother, who seems to think that you struggle with the laydees, has set you up on a blind date. The young lady you’re picking up is described as very shy and needs to be treated delicately. You take note and stuff your wallet with lubricated condoms. You ring her doorbell and she opens it to find you naked except for a lubricated condom and a paper bag in your hand, as you don’t know how ugly she is yet. She screams and slams the door in your face. Lesbian.
Two:
Your best friend has a business conference out of town for the weekend, so you invite yourself over to his place to “entertain” his wife during his absence. She acts a bit surprised to see you there, but tries to be polite. She invites you in and even opens the 59p bottle of wine you brought over to show her how much she means to you. Things seem to be going well until she comes back from the kitchen to find you naked on her coffee table. She throws you out. Lesbian.
Three:
You’re at your weekly diet supporters group meeting, with your box of chocolates and McDonalds vouchers, to help cheer the fat bitches up, when the rest of the group isn’t looking. You’ve been concentrating on one particular young lady by being supportive by telling her lies like “Fat people have feelings too” and “I wouldn’t mind my friends seeing me in public with you”. It all seems to be going well as she tucks into her third Big Mac, which you treat her to after the group ends for the evening. You have the box of fries she wanted resting on a specific area of your anatomy and when she reaches for it, she finds something else besides fries. She appears to be disgusted and is surprisingly fast for a chubby porker and breaks your nose with a powerful left hook. Lesbian.
Four:
You volunteer on weekends at the local charity, which helps people with physical disabilities because you want to give something back (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). You’re assigned to help a group of wheelchair bound freaks, whereby you must run errands for them on the weekend, as they’re obviously too lazy to do it themselves. One of the better looking R2D2s gives you a short shopping list of medical supplies she needs. You take her money and instead of buying her “medicine to help her through the week” you return to her with four porn DVDs and a bottle of KY jelly. You are unaware that her electric wheelchair has a stun-gun option. Lesbian.
The supreme hunter is a ruthless killer. Once he has zeroed in on his prey, she will be helpless to escape his charm and powerful aftershave, but even some of the top hunters can be lured in by false bait. This bait usually comes in the form of a lesbian.
Over the years, Hollywood has presented the image of lesbians as beautiful young women who parade around in tiny bikinis who snog other young beautiful lesbians in order to excite men that might be watching. Hollywood doesn’t represent lesbians as women who come in all ages, shapes and sizes and are simply attracted to women rather than men. They don’t represent this version of lesbians, because they don’t exist.
But until the bikini clad young nymph grows out of her “women know where my clit is” stage (usually age 26 when she starts getting ugly, as gravity takes hold), the hunter will struggle to turn a lesbian towards his will.
So how does one recognize a lesbian, in order to save one’s money on cologne and tear-away leopard skin G-strings?
Owing to my many hunting experiences, I am able to share with you certain situations whereby one can recognize a lesbian.
One:
Your mother, who seems to think that you struggle with the laydees, has set you up on a blind date. The young lady you’re picking up is described as very shy and needs to be treated delicately. You take note and stuff your wallet with lubricated condoms. You ring her doorbell and she opens it to find you naked except for a lubricated condom and a paper bag in your hand, as you don’t know how ugly she is yet. She screams and slams the door in your face. Lesbian.
Two:
Your best friend has a business conference out of town for the weekend, so you invite yourself over to his place to “entertain” his wife during his absence. She acts a bit surprised to see you there, but tries to be polite. She invites you in and even opens the 59p bottle of wine you brought over to show her how much she means to you. Things seem to be going well until she comes back from the kitchen to find you naked on her coffee table. She throws you out. Lesbian.
Three:
You’re at your weekly diet supporters group meeting, with your box of chocolates and McDonalds vouchers, to help cheer the fat bitches up, when the rest of the group isn’t looking. You’ve been concentrating on one particular young lady by being supportive by telling her lies like “Fat people have feelings too” and “I wouldn’t mind my friends seeing me in public with you”. It all seems to be going well as she tucks into her third Big Mac, which you treat her to after the group ends for the evening. You have the box of fries she wanted resting on a specific area of your anatomy and when she reaches for it, she finds something else besides fries. She appears to be disgusted and is surprisingly fast for a chubby porker and breaks your nose with a powerful left hook. Lesbian.
Four:
You volunteer on weekends at the local charity, which helps people with physical disabilities because you want to give something back (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). You’re assigned to help a group of wheelchair bound freaks, whereby you must run errands for them on the weekend, as they’re obviously too lazy to do it themselves. One of the better looking R2D2s gives you a short shopping list of medical supplies she needs. You take her money and instead of buying her “medicine to help her through the week” you return to her with four porn DVDs and a bottle of KY jelly. You are unaware that her electric wheelchair has a stun-gun option. Lesbian.
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