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.
Thursday 28 February 2008
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.
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