Dear Satan
I have been a good boy this year and therefore I think I deserve lots and lots of presents!
Amongst all the good deeds I did, some of the bestest things I did were the following:
- I saw an old lady unable to get a seat on a packed train.
- I watched a blind man attempt to cross a busy road.
- When girl scouts came to my door selling their cookies for charity, instead of slamming the door in their faces, I invited them in.
- While at a funeral of a close friend, I didn't hit on his wife, until the drugs I put in her drink took effect.
- I did some charity work for tards.
- I visited old people in hospital who were too weak to defend themselves.
- There are a homeless couple who live in a cardboard box at the end of my street and on one particularly cold night, I made a lovely hot curry and thought of them while I ate it.
- I gave unwanted and abandoned a pets a new home and learnt to make interesting new recipes in the kitchen.
I'd like a gun!
Thanks
Muppet
Monday 14 December 2009
Thursday 3 December 2009
Standing for freaks
The London underground is filled with the below picture on the tubes.
How offensive is that! Why would I give my seat up to fat people? People with a dead conjoined twins or people who can do rather simple levitating tricks?
Fat people should not be allowed on the tube, let alone be given a seat.
Dead conjoined twin people are so rare, if I see more than five in a month, it's unusual.
People who do levitating tricks scare me a bit, so I might give them a seat, but not because I want to.
I think the London Underground needs to change its policies. What about old people? What about hot chicks with a low-cut top? Am I the only polite person using the Underground?
How offensive is that! Why would I give my seat up to fat people? People with a dead conjoined twins or people who can do rather simple levitating tricks?
Fat people should not be allowed on the tube, let alone be given a seat.
Dead conjoined twin people are so rare, if I see more than five in a month, it's unusual.
People who do levitating tricks scare me a bit, so I might give them a seat, but not because I want to.
I think the London Underground needs to change its policies. What about old people? What about hot chicks with a low-cut top? Am I the only polite person using the Underground?
Friday 20 November 2009
Talking Bullocks
This is how I rate dinner party fanciness. The three levels are:
- wine from a box: Standard dinner party
- wine from a bottle with a screw-off top: Fancy dinner party
- wine from a bottle with a cork in it: Very fancy dinner party (the queen might attend).
I was recently at a very fancy dinner party. People were drinking corked wine and very few people were wearing jeans. By about the second glass of wine, the women folk, who had finished cooking for the men and therefore were allowed to mingle with the other guests, started talking about female celebrities they'd sleep with.
Some of the women were surprised by the others' choices, but the strange thing was that they all agreed that they'd sleep with Sandra Bullock. This seemed strange, as I'm sure most men would probably like to bang her, she's not really at the top of many of men's lists. So why are women so attracted to Sandra?
The reason, as was explained to me by the women, is that she comes across as nice and she does a lot of work for charity.
Yes this is what women look for in a one night stand, celebrity, lesbian fantasy - a solid history of charity work.
Is this the real reason why celebrities do charity. It's that hope that non-celebrity women will find their charity work arousing. Is this why Angelina Jolie adopts orphans? A few years ago, Angelina would have struggled to pull a fifty year old housekeeper in Middlesex, but thanks to some Aids charity gigs in sub-Sahara Africa, women all around the world are considering adding her to their lists.
Can you imagine a group of men having a similar conversation?
John - Jessica Alba is so hot. I'd love to nail her.
Mike - Yeah! She's fit all right. I wonder how much she gives to charity.
Pete - I hear she's a supporter of PETA.
John - So what. All celebrities say they support PETA, but how many of them really get involved?
Mike - That's a good point. Many celebrities merely show up at charity functions because it increases their PR, but are they actually helping.
Pete - I think that they're bringing awareness to the campaign, by being at such a function.
John - True, but they're not really going out of their way to make the world a better place, are they?
Mike - So it's agreed then. None of us will sleep with Jessica Alba, until she makes a significant contribution to charity.
Pete - So which celebrity can we nail?
John - Well, Oprah gives millions to charity every year and Madonna is always doing great work in Africa.
Mike - Oprah it is then!
On the other hand, Brad Pitt does do a lot for charity along with Anglina. Should I add him to my list?
- wine from a box: Standard dinner party
- wine from a bottle with a screw-off top: Fancy dinner party
- wine from a bottle with a cork in it: Very fancy dinner party (the queen might attend).
I was recently at a very fancy dinner party. People were drinking corked wine and very few people were wearing jeans. By about the second glass of wine, the women folk, who had finished cooking for the men and therefore were allowed to mingle with the other guests, started talking about female celebrities they'd sleep with.
Some of the women were surprised by the others' choices, but the strange thing was that they all agreed that they'd sleep with Sandra Bullock. This seemed strange, as I'm sure most men would probably like to bang her, she's not really at the top of many of men's lists. So why are women so attracted to Sandra?
The reason, as was explained to me by the women, is that she comes across as nice and she does a lot of work for charity.
Yes this is what women look for in a one night stand, celebrity, lesbian fantasy - a solid history of charity work.
Is this the real reason why celebrities do charity. It's that hope that non-celebrity women will find their charity work arousing. Is this why Angelina Jolie adopts orphans? A few years ago, Angelina would have struggled to pull a fifty year old housekeeper in Middlesex, but thanks to some Aids charity gigs in sub-Sahara Africa, women all around the world are considering adding her to their lists.
Can you imagine a group of men having a similar conversation?
John - Jessica Alba is so hot. I'd love to nail her.
Mike - Yeah! She's fit all right. I wonder how much she gives to charity.
Pete - I hear she's a supporter of PETA.
John - So what. All celebrities say they support PETA, but how many of them really get involved?
Mike - That's a good point. Many celebrities merely show up at charity functions because it increases their PR, but are they actually helping.
Pete - I think that they're bringing awareness to the campaign, by being at such a function.
John - True, but they're not really going out of their way to make the world a better place, are they?
Mike - So it's agreed then. None of us will sleep with Jessica Alba, until she makes a significant contribution to charity.
Pete - So which celebrity can we nail?
John - Well, Oprah gives millions to charity every year and Madonna is always doing great work in Africa.
Mike - Oprah it is then!
On the other hand, Brad Pitt does do a lot for charity along with Anglina. Should I add him to my list?
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Dirty lesbians!
As was previously posted, I have recently moved from the inner city slums, to the countryside with my prostitute and her giant pussy.
I was previously living in a one bedroomed flat, which my prostitute owned and when we decided to move to the farming town of outer London, she decided to rent the flat to prospective tenants, rather than sell it.
I was at home, resting my broken face during this period, so every now and then I had to put pants on when estate agents brought enquiring tenant wannabes.
The strange thing about all the people that came to view the flat was that the majority of them were lesbians. I wasn't aware that there were so many homeless lesbians in the world, but day after day, week after week, schools (I think that's the collective noun) of lesbians would come lesbianing in out of my flat, pretending that they weren't attracted to me, while they looked at the electrical outlets, plumbing fixtures and other lesbian type things that lesbians stare at.
I don't know why lesbians were drawn to the flat. Perhaps the decor is lesbenian. Perhaps they could tell that a real man had never lived there (good thing none of them brought one of those CSI blue lights with them). Perhaps they were drawn to my prostitute, who I think is actually a lesbian.
So the tenants who finally got the flat were lesbians. They came to view the flat twice and and asked me interesting lesbian questions. I've met many lesbians when in my single days and I can confirm that most lesbians aren't attractive. These two however were HOT! I was however a gentleman and my answers obviously satisfied their lesbian needs and they became lesbian tenants.
Prostitute, giant pussy and I moved out. Hot lesbians moved in.
One month on and hot lesbians call us, telling us that the shower is leaking. This never happened when I lived there, even though I used to shower up to twice a month. Home insurance would save us and prostitute dispatches a plumbing type man to look at the hot lesbians' pipes. Shower is mended and everyone is happy.
One week later and the hot lesbians call again and tell us that the shower is leaking again. Insurance plumber and pizza delivery boy are dispatched again.
So here's the thing. The shower was in fine working order when I lived there, but now that hot lesbians are there, they're doing something to the shower, but I don't know what. How can I find out what they're doing? Isn't the answer obvious? I need to install CCTV in the shower! This is my right as a landlord to keep an eye on those pesky, destructive, hot lesbians!
They don't need to know that I've installed CCTV in their shower. I could do it while they're sleeping. They're both deep sleepers and don't even wake up when I stroke their faces.
I was previously living in a one bedroomed flat, which my prostitute owned and when we decided to move to the farming town of outer London, she decided to rent the flat to prospective tenants, rather than sell it.
I was at home, resting my broken face during this period, so every now and then I had to put pants on when estate agents brought enquiring tenant wannabes.
The strange thing about all the people that came to view the flat was that the majority of them were lesbians. I wasn't aware that there were so many homeless lesbians in the world, but day after day, week after week, schools (I think that's the collective noun) of lesbians would come lesbianing in out of my flat, pretending that they weren't attracted to me, while they looked at the electrical outlets, plumbing fixtures and other lesbian type things that lesbians stare at.
I don't know why lesbians were drawn to the flat. Perhaps the decor is lesbenian. Perhaps they could tell that a real man had never lived there (good thing none of them brought one of those CSI blue lights with them). Perhaps they were drawn to my prostitute, who I think is actually a lesbian.
So the tenants who finally got the flat were lesbians. They came to view the flat twice and and asked me interesting lesbian questions. I've met many lesbians when in my single days and I can confirm that most lesbians aren't attractive. These two however were HOT! I was however a gentleman and my answers obviously satisfied their lesbian needs and they became lesbian tenants.
Prostitute, giant pussy and I moved out. Hot lesbians moved in.
One month on and hot lesbians call us, telling us that the shower is leaking. This never happened when I lived there, even though I used to shower up to twice a month. Home insurance would save us and prostitute dispatches a plumbing type man to look at the hot lesbians' pipes. Shower is mended and everyone is happy.
One week later and the hot lesbians call again and tell us that the shower is leaking again. Insurance plumber and pizza delivery boy are dispatched again.
So here's the thing. The shower was in fine working order when I lived there, but now that hot lesbians are there, they're doing something to the shower, but I don't know what. How can I find out what they're doing? Isn't the answer obvious? I need to install CCTV in the shower! This is my right as a landlord to keep an eye on those pesky, destructive, hot lesbians!
They don't need to know that I've installed CCTV in their shower. I could do it while they're sleeping. They're both deep sleepers and don't even wake up when I stroke their faces.
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Bad in bed? Women love it!
A well known fact is that chicks dig bad boys.
If a woman had to decide between going out on a date with a priest who devotes all his spare time teaching choir boys about the evil in the world or choosing a man who doesn't do much charity work, but occasionally drinks alcohol and doesn't mind buying some wine for a woman, even though she's not his wife, the majority of woman would choose the man who drinks. Women are stupid.
So in order to boost my image with the fairer, weaker and dumber sex, I've decided to drop my wholesome good boy image and delve into my dark side.
So in order to impress women, I'm going to push them out of the way, if they're in my way and I might even push them if they're not in my way. This rule will only relate to small women, really old women and girls under thirteen years old.
I'm not going to offer a heavily pregnant women my seat on the train. She needs to understand that I'm a bad boy and even though this will result in her finding me incredibly attractive, I'm not going to have sex with her until she loses some weight.
I'm not always going to eat five fruit and veg a day.
If I see a neighbour murder his wife, cut up the body, have sex with the body parts, drag the remaining body to a quiet forest and bury them in a shallow grave, I'm not going to dig up the body and take photos of me having sex with the parts and then later pretend that the photos were faked, when questioned by the police, unless they buy me a beer shandy first!
I'm not going to do all the ironing, unless there are serious creases in my shirts and socks.
I'm not going to apologise to corpses anymore.
Watch out world, a new muppet is here.
Actually, don't watch out. I don't care if you watch or don't watch. I'm bad.
Actually, I do care if you watch because if girls didn't notice my sexy bad behaviour, they're not going to respect me more than previously.
I'm not even going to spell check this article!
If a woman had to decide between going out on a date with a priest who devotes all his spare time teaching choir boys about the evil in the world or choosing a man who doesn't do much charity work, but occasionally drinks alcohol and doesn't mind buying some wine for a woman, even though she's not his wife, the majority of woman would choose the man who drinks. Women are stupid.
So in order to boost my image with the fairer, weaker and dumber sex, I've decided to drop my wholesome good boy image and delve into my dark side.
So in order to impress women, I'm going to push them out of the way, if they're in my way and I might even push them if they're not in my way. This rule will only relate to small women, really old women and girls under thirteen years old.
I'm not going to offer a heavily pregnant women my seat on the train. She needs to understand that I'm a bad boy and even though this will result in her finding me incredibly attractive, I'm not going to have sex with her until she loses some weight.
I'm not always going to eat five fruit and veg a day.
If I see a neighbour murder his wife, cut up the body, have sex with the body parts, drag the remaining body to a quiet forest and bury them in a shallow grave, I'm not going to dig up the body and take photos of me having sex with the parts and then later pretend that the photos were faked, when questioned by the police, unless they buy me a beer shandy first!
I'm not going to do all the ironing, unless there are serious creases in my shirts and socks.
I'm not going to apologise to corpses anymore.
Watch out world, a new muppet is here.
Actually, don't watch out. I don't care if you watch or don't watch. I'm bad.
Actually, I do care if you watch because if girls didn't notice my sexy bad behaviour, they're not going to respect me more than previously.
I'm not even going to spell check this article!
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Greased sluts
More filthy lyrics from Grease - Summer Nights.
All good so far. Nothing sinister to be seen there.
Getting a bit personal here.
Women! The only thing they ever care about is cars.
On the blob?
You're sharing a bit too much, Sandy.
Bukake?
Kenickie is confident that not only did Danny rape Sandy, but he'd also like to know if she can take a punch. Nice.
Are we honestly supposed to believe that ten o'clock was the original lyric?
Tranny suspect?
No interpretation needed here.
Sand in Sandy's sandpit. This won't end well.
No we don't. You've been so subtle.
Hi Jan. Single?
Sonny likes threesomes.
Sandy. Welcome to Dumpsville. Population, you.
Probably having a scratch, if she still hasn't got all that sand out yet.
Who honestly believes that Sandy was a virgin.
No! Fuck off.
[Danny]
Summer lovin' had me a blast
[Sandy]
Summer lovin' happened so fast
[Danny]
I met a girl crazy for me
[Sandy]
Met a boy cute as can be
[Both]
Summer days driftin' away, to uh-oh those summer nights
[Everyone]
Uh Well-a well-a well-a huh
All good so far. Nothing sinister to be seen there.
[Thunderbirds]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Doody]
Did you get very far?
Getting a bit personal here.
[Pink Ladies]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Marty]
Like does he have a car?
Women! The only thing they ever care about is cars.
[Everyone]
Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh
[Danny]
She swam by me, she got a cramp
On the blob?
[Sandy]
He ran by me, got my suit damp
You're sharing a bit too much, Sandy.
[Danny]
I saved her life, she nearly drowned
[Sandy]
He showed off, splashing around
Bukake?
[Both]
Summer sun, something's begun, but uh-oh those summer nights
[Everyone]
Uh well-a well-a well-a huh
[Pink Ladies]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Frenchy]
Was it love at first sight?
[Thunderbirds]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Kenickie]
Did she put up a fight?
Kenickie is confident that not only did Danny rape Sandy, but he'd also like to know if she can take a punch. Nice.
[Everyone]
Uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh
[Danny]
Took her bowling in the arcade
[Sandy]
We went strolling, drank lemonade
[Danny]
We made out under the dock
[Sandy]
We stayed out 'till ten o'clock
Are we honestly supposed to believe that ten o'clock was the original lyric?
[Both]
Summer fling, don't mean a thing, but uh-oh those summer nights
[Everyone]
Uh well-a well-a well-a huh
[Thunderbirds]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Putzie]
But you don't gotta brag
[Pink Ladies]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Rizzo]
Cos he sounds like a drag
Tranny suspect?
[Everyone]
shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop,shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, YEH
[Sandy]
He got friendly, holding my hand
No interpretation needed here.
[Danny]
While she got friendly down in the sand
Sand in Sandy's sandpit. This won't end well.
[Sandy]
He was sweet, just turned eighteen
[Danny]
Well she was good you know what I mean
No we don't. You've been so subtle.
[Everyone]
Woah!
[Both]
Summer heat, boy and girl meet, but uh-oh those summer nights
[Everyone]
woo, woo, woo
[Pink Ladies]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Jan]
How much dough did he spend?
Hi Jan. Single?
[Thunderbirds]
Tell me more, tell me more
[Sonny]
Could she get me a friend?
Sonny likes threesomes.
[Sandy]
It turned colder - that's where it ends
[Danny]
So I told her we'd still be friends
Sandy. Welcome to Dumpsville. Population, you.
[Sandy]
Then we made our true love vow
[Danny]
Wonder what she's doing now
Probably having a scratch, if she still hasn't got all that sand out yet.
[Both]
Summer dreams ripped at the seams,
Who honestly believes that Sandy was a virgin.
bu-ut oh, those su-ummer nights....
[Everyone]
Tell me more, tell me more!
No! Fuck off.
Tuesday 6 October 2009
Friendly neighbours
I have recently moved from a depressing one bedroom flat in the city to a lovely three bedroomed house in the burbs. The air is cleaner. The noise is less noisy. The people are friendlier.
On the weekend of the move, I was busy supervising my girlfriend, who was carrying heavy boxes from the car to the house, when a little old lady from next door appeared to welcome us to the neighbourhood.
She walked up to my girlfriend and held out her ninety year old wrinkled hand, saying "Hi, I'm Jane. Welcome."
My girlfriend introduced herself while chatting about the lovely street and lovely trees and lovely day and lovely cats, while the handshake continued. This seems strange, but I'm too handsome to comment.
Near the end of the conversation, my girlfriend's voice becomes shaky and she looks like she's about to pass out. I quickly try to locate the camera, because filming her passing out while shaking hands with a little old lady will be fucking funny. Unfortunately I don't know in which box the camera is, as I was watching TV when my girlfriend did all the packing.
But the handshake ends without my girlfriend passing out, which has worked out for the better, as I still had no idea where the camera was. My girlfriend was softly wringing her hand as she heads back to the car to take the next heavy load into the house.
I approach Jane and hold out my hand and introduce myself. She smiles sweetly and grips my hand in what feels like the jaws of life. Her tiny little wrinkled hand, has the power of an angry bulldozer. Mild tempered bulldozers know nothing about handshakes.
She's crushing my hand, while smiling sweetly and telling me about her cat. A mild sweat has broken out on my brow and I try to fight the pain. I attempt to make mild chit-chat about her cat, but can only think about the pain.
Eventually she lets go and I'm able to breathe normally again. She waddles off to her house and I try and regain some blood back into my pulverised hand.
I sit down on the little wall outside our new home, while the girlfriend carries boxes and makes me something to eat and drink. How is it possible that a little old lady can develop so much power in her hand? Is it possibly a disease that makes her hand clamp down so fiercely? When should I ask for a hand-job?
On the weekend of the move, I was busy supervising my girlfriend, who was carrying heavy boxes from the car to the house, when a little old lady from next door appeared to welcome us to the neighbourhood.
She walked up to my girlfriend and held out her ninety year old wrinkled hand, saying "Hi, I'm Jane. Welcome."
My girlfriend introduced herself while chatting about the lovely street and lovely trees and lovely day and lovely cats, while the handshake continued. This seems strange, but I'm too handsome to comment.
Near the end of the conversation, my girlfriend's voice becomes shaky and she looks like she's about to pass out. I quickly try to locate the camera, because filming her passing out while shaking hands with a little old lady will be fucking funny. Unfortunately I don't know in which box the camera is, as I was watching TV when my girlfriend did all the packing.
But the handshake ends without my girlfriend passing out, which has worked out for the better, as I still had no idea where the camera was. My girlfriend was softly wringing her hand as she heads back to the car to take the next heavy load into the house.
I approach Jane and hold out my hand and introduce myself. She smiles sweetly and grips my hand in what feels like the jaws of life. Her tiny little wrinkled hand, has the power of an angry bulldozer. Mild tempered bulldozers know nothing about handshakes.
She's crushing my hand, while smiling sweetly and telling me about her cat. A mild sweat has broken out on my brow and I try to fight the pain. I attempt to make mild chit-chat about her cat, but can only think about the pain.
Eventually she lets go and I'm able to breathe normally again. She waddles off to her house and I try and regain some blood back into my pulverised hand.
I sit down on the little wall outside our new home, while the girlfriend carries boxes and makes me something to eat and drink. How is it possible that a little old lady can develop so much power in her hand? Is it possibly a disease that makes her hand clamp down so fiercely? When should I ask for a hand-job?
Monday 21 September 2009
Evolutionary jump
Rape statistics in South Africa:
From X-Men:
The Answer:
It is estimated that a woman born in South Africa has a greater chance of being raped than learning how to read. One in three of the 4,000 women questioned by the Community of Information, Empowerment and Transparency said they had been raped in the past year.
From X-Men:
In every organism on Earth there exists a mutator gene - the X-factor, as it has come to be known. It is the basic building block of evolution - the reason we have evolved from homo habilus to homo erectus, to homo sapiens Neanderthals, and finally, to homo sapiens.
Taking its cues from the climate, terrain, various sources of nourishment, the mutator gene tells the body when it needs to change to adapt to a new environment. The process is subtle, normally taking thousands of years.
Only in the last few thousand years did mankind begin to make clothes for himself, build shelters, use heat and grow food in large quantities. With this man-made environment remaining relatively stable, the X-factor became dormant.
Until now.
The Answer:
Wednesday 16 September 2009
NHS nose best
On 29 August 2009, I was attempting to play cricket and had a cricket ball smash into my face. For those of you who aren't aware of the rules of cricket, this is not what is supposed to happen in cricket.
I was bleeding from the nose and a cut above my left eyebrow. Anyway, an ambulance was called out, they examined me and, because I'm such a brave trooper, I opted to not go to the hospital, but instead drove home, throwing up only once on the way home.
On 31 August my nose started bleeding again and my girlfriend insisted that we head down to A & E, to have it checked out.
After a thirty minute wait, I had a young doctor have a look at my nose and shined a light in my eye. He said that all looks fine and he'll just double check with the senior doctor on duty, if it's okay to send me home.
He returned about thirty minutes later to tell me that the senior would like me to take a precautionary CT scan. Doctors know best, so thirty minutes later I was led to radiology and my head was made radio-active. About thirty minutes later, the young doctor returned with the results of the scan, I had a skull fracture above my left eye and there was internal bleeding. I was then examined by another doctor, who told me that my nose was broken, but as it appeared to not be out of shape, I didn't need to worry about this. The doctor then booked an appointment for me to see a broken skull doctor in three days time.
Two days later and I have another nose bleed, this one is more of a fountain than a leaking tap, so off to A & E again. I'm told to pinch my nose to stop the bleeding. I tell them between gasps that this just redirects the blood flow down my throat. So they get a bucket and put it under my mouth while I lose over a litre of blood in half an hour. There's a junior doctor type person holding the bucket whose job is to look on the bright side of life. He calmly remarks, "Your blood looks a healthy colour." I say "Good to know", spraying blood over his trousers. He stops talking to me.
Eventually another doctor arrives with a device called a "pack" which is designed to stop nose bleeds after it's shoved to the back of the the nose and down my throat. This pack looks like a small tampon, but feels like a tank when it's shoved up a broken, bleeding nose. The doctor who performs this operation isn't happy with his first attempt, so pulls it out again and shoves another one up my burning, bloody nostril again. Even though the right nostril isn't bleeding, he decides to shove a pack up that nostril too. The bleeding stops. Hooray.
I'm then taken to a little room to monitor my vitals. This is a room where I'm ignored and my vitals aren't monitored. It appears to be more of a place to clean the blood off my face, as I was scaring the other people in A & E.
While waiting in this room, I'm informed that I'll have to be seen by an ENT (Ear nose and throat specialist), but they didn't have one at the hospital I went to, so they'll have to transfer me to St Bart's hospital. They've arranged for an ambulance to take me there within the next hour.
Four hours later and after waiting in three different rooms and one corridor, an ambulance driver appears in my new ward calling out my name, as there's no staff available to tell him where I am. I raise my weak hand, to let him know that I'm the patient he needs to rush over to another hospital before I die. He grabs my chart and says, "Follow me." Hooray! Walking!
I'm taken to the outside of his ambulance, where he informs me that he doesn't have the keys and he has to go look for his mate, who probably has the keys. I'm left in the hospital's main reception, in a hospital gown, in front of the main doors, where a lovely breeze in quite rapidly lowering my body temperature. This is probably standard procedure to help stop the bleeding. About thirty minutes later, the keys are found and I'm rushed to the waiting ENT specialist... after he drops a mate off at home first.
I arrive at St Bart's hospital and informed that they didn't know I was coming and I've probably been brought to the wrong ward. I'm asked to stand around until they can find somebody who knows something about anything or anything about something, I forget which.
I'm then informed that I was in fact at the correct ward and that they'll put me in a bed. Hooray! I finally get to lie down again.
Within an hour of being in my new ward, the ENT specialist arrives and tells me that he can't do anything, because the packs have to stay in for 24 hours before they can be removed and he can examine me.
So looks like I'm stuck in hospital until the next day. Wrong! He doesn't work on Thursdays, and does surgery on Friday morning, so he'll only be able to examine me on Friday afternoon.
What can I do? He's the specialist. He knows best. Let's fight through the next 48 hours and get this sorted.
Thursday comes and goes through pain killers and self-pity.
Friday finally arrives and I look forward to having the specialist return and make the world a better for a sad muppet. The specialist of course doesn't show up and Doctor Nick from the Simpson's removes my packs. He's happy that there's no further bleeding and says that I can go home. What? Isn't somebody supposed to examine me and tell me why I'm bleeding so much? Isn't this the reason, I've been kept in this ward for an additional 24 hours?
Dr Nick looks at my chart and sees that I was admitted because my nose was bleeding, but my nose isn't bleeding anymore. This means his job is done. I'm tired and weak and I'm still on pain killers and I want to go home. I go home.
I'm rescheduled to go see the broken skull doctors and an eye doctor back at the original hospital I went to in three days time.
Three days later and I haven't had any nose bleeds and I'm off to see the eye doctor. I arrive at the hospital's main reception and ask where the eye doctor's building is. Reception informs me that they've given me the wrong details and that I have to go to their ENT clinic first. Fine, let's go there. Of course there's nobody at the ENT clinic and a nurse tells me that they're probably on lunch, but will be back shortly. Thirty minutes later, a nurse from ENT tells me that they can't help me because there's no ENT clinic today. I tell him that I was supposed to go to the eye doctor today, but reception sent me to them. ENT informs me that I couldn't go to the eye doctor today, because their clinic isn't open today either. Come back tomorrow.
I go home and have another nose bleed. My girlfriend returns from work to find me bleeding and we head off to A & E for the third time. By the time I finally get seen at A & E, the bleeding has stopped. The A & E doctor says that they don't have an ENT specialist, but he could get me admitted to St Bart's who will probably just pack my nose. I opt to go home.
We decide that it's time to go private, but for the private health care doctor to see me, he'll need to see my CT scan. How difficult could it be to get a copy of my own CT scan? After a few calls to different departments, I'm finally put through to radiology who inform me that I have to go come to their department, fill out a request form, pay £25 and merely wait two weeks for my copy of the CT scan to be done. Private doctor plans are put on hold.
Two days later and I'm off to see the NHS's broken skull doctor. He informs me that my skull will heal by itself, over the next three months, but interestingly he shows me a picture of my nose from my CT scan which shows a bone pointing sharply to the left inside my nose and informs me that this is most probably the reason for my nose bleeds. I tell skull doctor my NHS sob story and the reason why I can't go see a private doctor. Skull doctor apologises on behalf of the NHS and says he'll organise a copy for me that day, which he does! I can now go private! Hooray.
Private:
- Examination.
- Will need surgery, in six weeks time, if bleeding stops.
- That weekend, more bleeding.
- Monday, surgery and private room for recovery.
So looks like I'm over the worst of it. I still have to go see the eye doctor at the NHS, but what's the worst that could possibly happen when I go see them?
I was bleeding from the nose and a cut above my left eyebrow. Anyway, an ambulance was called out, they examined me and, because I'm such a brave trooper, I opted to not go to the hospital, but instead drove home, throwing up only once on the way home.
On 31 August my nose started bleeding again and my girlfriend insisted that we head down to A & E, to have it checked out.
After a thirty minute wait, I had a young doctor have a look at my nose and shined a light in my eye. He said that all looks fine and he'll just double check with the senior doctor on duty, if it's okay to send me home.
He returned about thirty minutes later to tell me that the senior would like me to take a precautionary CT scan. Doctors know best, so thirty minutes later I was led to radiology and my head was made radio-active. About thirty minutes later, the young doctor returned with the results of the scan, I had a skull fracture above my left eye and there was internal bleeding. I was then examined by another doctor, who told me that my nose was broken, but as it appeared to not be out of shape, I didn't need to worry about this. The doctor then booked an appointment for me to see a broken skull doctor in three days time.
Two days later and I have another nose bleed, this one is more of a fountain than a leaking tap, so off to A & E again. I'm told to pinch my nose to stop the bleeding. I tell them between gasps that this just redirects the blood flow down my throat. So they get a bucket and put it under my mouth while I lose over a litre of blood in half an hour. There's a junior doctor type person holding the bucket whose job is to look on the bright side of life. He calmly remarks, "Your blood looks a healthy colour." I say "Good to know", spraying blood over his trousers. He stops talking to me.
Eventually another doctor arrives with a device called a "pack" which is designed to stop nose bleeds after it's shoved to the back of the the nose and down my throat. This pack looks like a small tampon, but feels like a tank when it's shoved up a broken, bleeding nose. The doctor who performs this operation isn't happy with his first attempt, so pulls it out again and shoves another one up my burning, bloody nostril again. Even though the right nostril isn't bleeding, he decides to shove a pack up that nostril too. The bleeding stops. Hooray.
I'm then taken to a little room to monitor my vitals. This is a room where I'm ignored and my vitals aren't monitored. It appears to be more of a place to clean the blood off my face, as I was scaring the other people in A & E.
While waiting in this room, I'm informed that I'll have to be seen by an ENT (Ear nose and throat specialist), but they didn't have one at the hospital I went to, so they'll have to transfer me to St Bart's hospital. They've arranged for an ambulance to take me there within the next hour.
Four hours later and after waiting in three different rooms and one corridor, an ambulance driver appears in my new ward calling out my name, as there's no staff available to tell him where I am. I raise my weak hand, to let him know that I'm the patient he needs to rush over to another hospital before I die. He grabs my chart and says, "Follow me." Hooray! Walking!
I'm taken to the outside of his ambulance, where he informs me that he doesn't have the keys and he has to go look for his mate, who probably has the keys. I'm left in the hospital's main reception, in a hospital gown, in front of the main doors, where a lovely breeze in quite rapidly lowering my body temperature. This is probably standard procedure to help stop the bleeding. About thirty minutes later, the keys are found and I'm rushed to the waiting ENT specialist... after he drops a mate off at home first.
I arrive at St Bart's hospital and informed that they didn't know I was coming and I've probably been brought to the wrong ward. I'm asked to stand around until they can find somebody who knows something about anything or anything about something, I forget which.
I'm then informed that I was in fact at the correct ward and that they'll put me in a bed. Hooray! I finally get to lie down again.
Within an hour of being in my new ward, the ENT specialist arrives and tells me that he can't do anything, because the packs have to stay in for 24 hours before they can be removed and he can examine me.
So looks like I'm stuck in hospital until the next day. Wrong! He doesn't work on Thursdays, and does surgery on Friday morning, so he'll only be able to examine me on Friday afternoon.
What can I do? He's the specialist. He knows best. Let's fight through the next 48 hours and get this sorted.
Thursday comes and goes through pain killers and self-pity.
Friday finally arrives and I look forward to having the specialist return and make the world a better for a sad muppet. The specialist of course doesn't show up and Doctor Nick from the Simpson's removes my packs. He's happy that there's no further bleeding and says that I can go home. What? Isn't somebody supposed to examine me and tell me why I'm bleeding so much? Isn't this the reason, I've been kept in this ward for an additional 24 hours?
Dr Nick looks at my chart and sees that I was admitted because my nose was bleeding, but my nose isn't bleeding anymore. This means his job is done. I'm tired and weak and I'm still on pain killers and I want to go home. I go home.
I'm rescheduled to go see the broken skull doctors and an eye doctor back at the original hospital I went to in three days time.
Three days later and I haven't had any nose bleeds and I'm off to see the eye doctor. I arrive at the hospital's main reception and ask where the eye doctor's building is. Reception informs me that they've given me the wrong details and that I have to go to their ENT clinic first. Fine, let's go there. Of course there's nobody at the ENT clinic and a nurse tells me that they're probably on lunch, but will be back shortly. Thirty minutes later, a nurse from ENT tells me that they can't help me because there's no ENT clinic today. I tell him that I was supposed to go to the eye doctor today, but reception sent me to them. ENT informs me that I couldn't go to the eye doctor today, because their clinic isn't open today either. Come back tomorrow.
I go home and have another nose bleed. My girlfriend returns from work to find me bleeding and we head off to A & E for the third time. By the time I finally get seen at A & E, the bleeding has stopped. The A & E doctor says that they don't have an ENT specialist, but he could get me admitted to St Bart's who will probably just pack my nose. I opt to go home.
We decide that it's time to go private, but for the private health care doctor to see me, he'll need to see my CT scan. How difficult could it be to get a copy of my own CT scan? After a few calls to different departments, I'm finally put through to radiology who inform me that I have to go come to their department, fill out a request form, pay £25 and merely wait two weeks for my copy of the CT scan to be done. Private doctor plans are put on hold.
Two days later and I'm off to see the NHS's broken skull doctor. He informs me that my skull will heal by itself, over the next three months, but interestingly he shows me a picture of my nose from my CT scan which shows a bone pointing sharply to the left inside my nose and informs me that this is most probably the reason for my nose bleeds. I tell skull doctor my NHS sob story and the reason why I can't go see a private doctor. Skull doctor apologises on behalf of the NHS and says he'll organise a copy for me that day, which he does! I can now go private! Hooray.
Private:
- Examination.
- Will need surgery, in six weeks time, if bleeding stops.
- That weekend, more bleeding.
- Monday, surgery and private room for recovery.
So looks like I'm over the worst of it. I still have to go see the eye doctor at the NHS, but what's the worst that could possibly happen when I go see them?
Thursday 27 August 2009
Lifeless flashing
This morning, as I was preparing to go to work, my kitten attacked me and my life flashed before my eyes.
I've heard this term used before, but I've never actually experienced it. It happened in a flash (hence the term), but I made out most of the details. I presume that in times of near certain death, the human mind likes to relive the highlights.
The following events were the highlights of my life:
- Three years old, I rode a tricycle.
- Six years old, I punched a girl for the first time.
- Sixteen years old, my first kiss.
- Twenty three years old, my first kiss with a living person.
- Thirty one years old, Xbox.
- Thirty three years old, coming second in monopoly.
That's it.
I didn't swim with dolphins. I didn't climb Mount Everest. I didn't murder a prostitute. I didn't find a cure for cancer. I didn't build one of the wonders of the world with my bare hands. I didn't push an old lady down some stairs.
At least I've jumped on a kitten's head.
I've heard this term used before, but I've never actually experienced it. It happened in a flash (hence the term), but I made out most of the details. I presume that in times of near certain death, the human mind likes to relive the highlights.
The following events were the highlights of my life:
- Three years old, I rode a tricycle.
- Six years old, I punched a girl for the first time.
- Sixteen years old, my first kiss.
- Twenty three years old, my first kiss with a living person.
- Thirty one years old, Xbox.
- Thirty three years old, coming second in monopoly.
That's it.
I didn't swim with dolphins. I didn't climb Mount Everest. I didn't murder a prostitute. I didn't find a cure for cancer. I didn't build one of the wonders of the world with my bare hands. I didn't push an old lady down some stairs.
At least I've jumped on a kitten's head.
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Sale fale
Sales marketing in the old days wasn't nearly as good as it is today. Just look at this classic (I say classic, I mean shit) nursery rhyme.
So the deal you're presenting to me is to either buy a hot cross bun for only one penny, which is a good deal and you've perked my interest, but then you tell me that I can choose to have two hot cross buns for the same price... what's the catch?
Is the second option, buy one get one free, or is the entire transaction two for the price of three? Sounds like you're possibly just trying to move old stock.
You sexist fuck! How dare you tell me how I should feed my children? It might be a fact that girls enjoy sugar more than boys, but how do you expect my daughters to find husbands with your fatty sexist products?
Your business is never going to make money and your sexist values will lead to law suits.
I'm sorry I'm out.
Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!
One a penny two a penny - Hot cross buns
So the deal you're presenting to me is to either buy a hot cross bun for only one penny, which is a good deal and you've perked my interest, but then you tell me that I can choose to have two hot cross buns for the same price... what's the catch?
Is the second option, buy one get one free, or is the entire transaction two for the price of three? Sounds like you're possibly just trying to move old stock.
If you have no daughters, give them to your sons
You sexist fuck! How dare you tell me how I should feed my children? It might be a fact that girls enjoy sugar more than boys, but how do you expect my daughters to find husbands with your fatty sexist products?
One a penny two a penny - Hot cross buns
Your business is never going to make money and your sexist values will lead to law suits.
I'm sorry I'm out.
Tuesday 18 August 2009
War is probably wrong
In order to get my point across I've decided to write a poem about war. I hope it helps to open up your minds to the truth that has been hidden from you for so many years.
It's called:
Hope
Please take a few minutes to think over these words.
Thank you.
It's called:
Hope
When there are two countries who hate each others.
They declare a war and kill babies and mothers.
But is it right to kill these babies?
Especially the ones who don't have rabies.
What have these babies done to deserve this?
They just lie in their cribs and smell like piss.
I'm aware that some babies cry more than others.
But it's still not right to kill sisters and brothers.
I realise that war takes place in many poor places?
But sometimes rich people holiday there and they blow up their faces.
It's not fair that these rich people should have to die.
Their families will be sad and insurance companies will ask why.
But it's not only the rich who suffer in war.
There are hundreds of films made that are quite a bore.
Some of them are really cool with bombs and shit.
But many others are boring and get on my tit.
We forget so quickly that soldiers have family and friends.
Their grief continues after their life ends.
I watched a documentary about a soldier who was killed.
His family were sad, in fact they weren't thrilled.
So at the end of the day, is war right?
Should we invade countries and force them to fight?
Or should we just ask them to give us their money.
Especially if it means saving a baby and its mummy.
Please take a few minutes to think over these words.
Thank you.
Friday 14 August 2009
It's official - I'm gorgeous
I've never considered myself to be an incredibly good looking guy. Yes, I know I'm good looking and yes, I know that most women would rather sleep with me rather than be punched in the face, but "incredibly" good looking? Gosh, I guess I'm just too modest to even think about it.
This all changed yesterday, as I was walking home. When I say walk, I obviously mean strut. I'm a strutter. It's part of my handsomeness.
As I approached the block of flats where I live and poo, I noticed two elderly fat ladies sitting on the curb. As I approached, one of them saw me, stumbled to her fat feet and approached me.
I strut on by.
So I'm officially incredibly good looking. Women are practically throwing themselves at me to be my girlfriend. I don't blame them. Now just imagine how hot I would be if I had 50p to spend on prostitutes!
This must be how Brad Pitt feels.
This all changed yesterday, as I was walking home. When I say walk, I obviously mean strut. I'm a strutter. It's part of my handsomeness.
As I approached the block of flats where I live and poo, I noticed two elderly fat ladies sitting on the curb. As I approached, one of them saw me, stumbled to her fat feet and approached me.
Elderly fat lady: Hi. Do you want a massage?
Handsome Muppet: Um, no thanks.
Efl: Want me to be your girlfriend?
HM: Um, no thanks.
Efl: Do you have 50p for me please?
HM: Sorry.
I strut on by.
So I'm officially incredibly good looking. Women are practically throwing themselves at me to be my girlfriend. I don't blame them. Now just imagine how hot I would be if I had 50p to spend on prostitutes!
This must be how Brad Pitt feels.
Thursday 6 August 2009
Losing my virginity
I was twenty eight years old and on holiday with my parents at a romantic weekend they organised to get "away from it all". I decided to tag along.
She was also on holiday with her parents.
We didn't want to be stuck with the oldies, so we went to go play in the park. She initially came across as very shy, but I could tell that she had a carefree attitude towards life, as she played in the sand-pit. She wanted to go on the swings and I pushed her higher and higher. We fell breathless to the floor laughing. Everybody else seemed to have left the park. Our emotions got the better of us and we kissed. She initially struggled to get away, but after a while she relaxed when she realised I was much stronger than her.
I took her hand and led her to a romantic bunch of bushes. She was nervous and cried a lot. I undressed her in the moonlight, as she pushed her body up against mine, as I held her arm firmly up against her back.
I whispered secrets in her ear about this being our little secret. She was unable to control her ecstasy and screamed out loud that she wanted her mother. I had no idea she was that kinky.
I told her that this was our time and maybe later we can let others join in. She wriggled her body beneath mine, as she tried to experiment with different angles, but I was inexperienced and decided to stay on top.
Her words said "no", but her body said "yes." Tears of joy streamed down her face.
Afterwards we lay together, content. She just stared up at the beautiful night sky, no doubt thinking about our future together. We held each others hand so tight, it almost felt like I was hurting her.
We kissed good-bye and she gathered up her torn clothes and ran as fast as her tiny legs could carry her. She was obviously on a high.
I never heard from her again, but I'll never forget her.
She was also on holiday with her parents.
We didn't want to be stuck with the oldies, so we went to go play in the park. She initially came across as very shy, but I could tell that she had a carefree attitude towards life, as she played in the sand-pit. She wanted to go on the swings and I pushed her higher and higher. We fell breathless to the floor laughing. Everybody else seemed to have left the park. Our emotions got the better of us and we kissed. She initially struggled to get away, but after a while she relaxed when she realised I was much stronger than her.
I took her hand and led her to a romantic bunch of bushes. She was nervous and cried a lot. I undressed her in the moonlight, as she pushed her body up against mine, as I held her arm firmly up against her back.
I whispered secrets in her ear about this being our little secret. She was unable to control her ecstasy and screamed out loud that she wanted her mother. I had no idea she was that kinky.
I told her that this was our time and maybe later we can let others join in. She wriggled her body beneath mine, as she tried to experiment with different angles, but I was inexperienced and decided to stay on top.
Her words said "no", but her body said "yes." Tears of joy streamed down her face.
Afterwards we lay together, content. She just stared up at the beautiful night sky, no doubt thinking about our future together. We held each others hand so tight, it almost felt like I was hurting her.
We kissed good-bye and she gathered up her torn clothes and ran as fast as her tiny legs could carry her. She was obviously on a high.
I never heard from her again, but I'll never forget her.
Wednesday 5 August 2009
Good morning dragons
Today I would like to explore the age old question of "Why do fake breasts look so fake?"
The reason that fake breasts look fake is because they are fake. By that I mean they are made from materials other than boob.
Has this stopped dull-chested women from getting fake breasts? No. They continue to have bits of plastic and aluminium (I think) inserted in their chest area, to make their breasts get a promotion, or become a prostitute.
So how does one solve this problem?
The answer is easy. Dead hot girls.
That's right. There are thousands of dead boobs, just rotting away, which could be used to make stupid-breasted women, bearable to men.
I used to work in a morgue so I have plenty of experience in assessing these types of things. A dead boob feels no different to a living boob.
Do organ donor cards limit doctors from taking just the donors livers and hearts? Would it really be so bad to slice off their jubblies and stick them onto an underdeveloped fourteen year old girl, with self esteem issues?
Better boobs make the world a better place. I know this for a fact because I often walk around my office and tell the girls I work with that they have shit boobs and they always seem upset about this.
Obviously you're all thinking that this is a great idea, but why should we just limit this ingenious idea to just boobs. There are also many women out there who have downstairs operations, because their drapes are hanging a bit close to the ground. Instead of getting your doctor to trim away a pound of flesh, why not remove the whole hole and replace it with a brand spanking new lady axe-wound?
In my time working in a morgue I can also confirm that a dead lady's downstairs area feels better than a living prostitutes foo-foo.
There are probably hundreds of women killing themselves due to their broken boobs, which in turn, means that their lady garden has gone untouched, until they died.
Imagine the fantastic choice one could get from a tragic school bus/train accident.
Finally, I'd like to leave you with one last thought. What if your wife or daughter died. Wouldn't you want to have a part of her live on, on your girlfriend or other daughter?
The reason that fake breasts look fake is because they are fake. By that I mean they are made from materials other than boob.
Has this stopped dull-chested women from getting fake breasts? No. They continue to have bits of plastic and aluminium (I think) inserted in their chest area, to make their breasts get a promotion, or become a prostitute.
So how does one solve this problem?
The answer is easy. Dead hot girls.
That's right. There are thousands of dead boobs, just rotting away, which could be used to make stupid-breasted women, bearable to men.
I used to work in a morgue so I have plenty of experience in assessing these types of things. A dead boob feels no different to a living boob.
Do organ donor cards limit doctors from taking just the donors livers and hearts? Would it really be so bad to slice off their jubblies and stick them onto an underdeveloped fourteen year old girl, with self esteem issues?
Better boobs make the world a better place. I know this for a fact because I often walk around my office and tell the girls I work with that they have shit boobs and they always seem upset about this.
Obviously you're all thinking that this is a great idea, but why should we just limit this ingenious idea to just boobs. There are also many women out there who have downstairs operations, because their drapes are hanging a bit close to the ground. Instead of getting your doctor to trim away a pound of flesh, why not remove the whole hole and replace it with a brand spanking new lady axe-wound?
In my time working in a morgue I can also confirm that a dead lady's downstairs area feels better than a living prostitutes foo-foo.
There are probably hundreds of women killing themselves due to their broken boobs, which in turn, means that their lady garden has gone untouched, until they died.
Imagine the fantastic choice one could get from a tragic school bus/train accident.
Finally, I'd like to leave you with one last thought. What if your wife or daughter died. Wouldn't you want to have a part of her live on, on your girlfriend or other daughter?
Thursday 30 July 2009
Getting tardy
Until recently, I haven't given to charities. I've never helped a charity. I've never promoted a charity. I was under the impression that most charities were run by selfish people who don't care about others.
And I was right.
But I'm open minded enough to realise that if I did "do my bit", as they call it, I might be able to make some money for myself.
It's difficult to ignore the charity collections going on around us every day. At every London train station, you see these entrepreneurs collecting for all kinds of things. There are old people collecting for children. There are young people collecting for the aged. There are even wheelchair people collecting for "the disabled", which I think is a term relating the Welsh.
But I've stood behind my principles as these people approached me, asking for my money, and I've never been afraid to punch the old or wheelchair bound and told the younger collectors that I'm not interested.
There are however stupid people out there who give these people their money, despite them not getting anything in return. This got me thinking. Why are people so stupid. I forgot what the answer was that I came to because I walked into a wall while staring at tits.
Anyway, I decided to start collecting for a charity. The only question was, which charity should I collect for?
After doing some research, it appears that I'm not the first person to think of this. There are more that 150,000 charities in the UK. I would obviously need a target market. The following were already taken:
- Cancer
- Aids
- Heart
- Physically challenged
- Mentally challenged
- Deaf
- Blind
- Cats & dogs
- Goat deliveries
The list goes on and on, so I had to find something that they missed. I composed a short list of possibilities:
- The dead
- Ugly chicks
- People with stupid faces
- Fat chicks
- Animals that are annoying
- Lesbians
- Celebrities who need to be cocked
These were all great, but I needed something that most people could identify with. Something that makes people stop, take notice and want to depart with their money. It also had to be simple. That was when I realised who I would collect for.
I took out my charity bucket and wrote, in large capital letters on it's side, "RETARDS", and headed out to a central London tube station.
Now you probably won't believe me, but there are many rude people out there, who don't want to help retards. Most people just stared at me, probably thinking about my selflessness. Unfortunately after 30 minutes of stares, nobody gave me their money. I changed my tactics and started shouting, "Save the Tards!", at people walking by.
A few people stopped and asked me what tards were and I gave some great impressions in order to get my point across, but they still didn't give me money.
The problem is that people are selfish. People don't care about retards. Tomorrow I'll try my new charity. "CUNTS." Everybody like cunts.
And I was right.
But I'm open minded enough to realise that if I did "do my bit", as they call it, I might be able to make some money for myself.
It's difficult to ignore the charity collections going on around us every day. At every London train station, you see these entrepreneurs collecting for all kinds of things. There are old people collecting for children. There are young people collecting for the aged. There are even wheelchair people collecting for "the disabled", which I think is a term relating the Welsh.
But I've stood behind my principles as these people approached me, asking for my money, and I've never been afraid to punch the old or wheelchair bound and told the younger collectors that I'm not interested.
There are however stupid people out there who give these people their money, despite them not getting anything in return. This got me thinking. Why are people so stupid. I forgot what the answer was that I came to because I walked into a wall while staring at tits.
Anyway, I decided to start collecting for a charity. The only question was, which charity should I collect for?
After doing some research, it appears that I'm not the first person to think of this. There are more that 150,000 charities in the UK. I would obviously need a target market. The following were already taken:
- Cancer
- Aids
- Heart
- Physically challenged
- Mentally challenged
- Deaf
- Blind
- Cats & dogs
- Goat deliveries
The list goes on and on, so I had to find something that they missed. I composed a short list of possibilities:
- The dead
- Ugly chicks
- People with stupid faces
- Fat chicks
- Animals that are annoying
- Lesbians
- Celebrities who need to be cocked
These were all great, but I needed something that most people could identify with. Something that makes people stop, take notice and want to depart with their money. It also had to be simple. That was when I realised who I would collect for.
I took out my charity bucket and wrote, in large capital letters on it's side, "RETARDS", and headed out to a central London tube station.
Now you probably won't believe me, but there are many rude people out there, who don't want to help retards. Most people just stared at me, probably thinking about my selflessness. Unfortunately after 30 minutes of stares, nobody gave me their money. I changed my tactics and started shouting, "Save the Tards!", at people walking by.
A few people stopped and asked me what tards were and I gave some great impressions in order to get my point across, but they still didn't give me money.
The problem is that people are selfish. People don't care about retards. Tomorrow I'll try my new charity. "CUNTS." Everybody like cunts.
Tuesday 28 July 2009
The gift of giving love
Girlfriend: Guess what.
Handsome Muppet: What?
Gf: Guess!
HM: You're fat.
Gf: No silly.
HM: You've found out I'm cheating on you?
Gf: What?
HM: Nothing.
Gf: Guess what I've got you.
HM: It better start with "D" and end with "inner".
Gf: No silly. It's a present.
HM: Dinner can be a present.
Gf: It's a goat!
HM: What?
Gf: I've got you a goat.
HM: Oh... Thanks. How did you know I like goats?
Gf: It's for an African family.
HM: What?
Gf: I've bought a goat from Oxfam, in your name and they're going to deliver it to Africa.
HM: Couldn't you find a better delivery company. I live in the UK.
Gf: No silly, the goat is suppose to go to Africa.
HM: But you said you bought ME a goat.
Gf: Yes the goat is in your name.
HM: So the goat is legally mine?
Gf: Well technically speaking, I suppose so.
HM: So I can choose to not send my goat to Africa?
Gf: That's not how it works.
HM: Oh I'm sorry. When did receiving presents mean I don't get anything.
Gf: You get the gift of knowing that you're helping people less fortunate than yourself.
HM: So you bought me bullshit as a present?
Gf: Sorry?
HM: You walk in here, without my dinner, then tell me that you've got me a goat, then tell me that I will never be able to fuck this goat.
Gf: What?
HM: Well it doesn't seem like a present to me.
Gf: Did you say "fuck the goat"?
HM: Maybe next time, instead of saying that you bought me a gift, you could just say that you're full of shit and you enjoy wasting my time.
Gf: But you're helping people less fortunate than yourself!
HM: Am I really? Do you have their bank statement? Let's see how bad they're suffering.
Gf: They don't have bank statements. They don't have clean water. They don't even have a house to sleep in.
HM: Ah. So what you're saying is that you've sent MY goat to some layabout bums.
Gf: They're not bums, they live in terrible conditions.
HM: It's so awful, yet they're still able to fuck goats.
Gf: What?
HM: Let's face it, the goat isn't probably too happy to be sent there. Why doesn't the goat get a say in the matter.
Gf: But the goat provides food to the family.
HM: What? They're going to eat my goat?
Gf: Well, they might be starving.
HM: Wouldn't it be easier to send them some burgers?
Gf: But it's not just the meat they need. They use the milk too.
HM: Oh it's like that is it. They want posh goat cheese.
Gf: No, they just want the milk to drink.
HM: This seems like an elaborate way of topping off their tea.
Gf: And they can use the goat's skin and hair to make clothes.
HM: They won't be getting much milk from a skinless goat.
Gf: And they'll want to breed the goats.
HM: That's all I wanted to do with it.
Gf: You're making a difference, by helping these people.
HM: These people who skin goats and then try to milk them. Why don't they just buy their own goats if they like goats so much?
Gf: They can't afford goats.
HM: They should talk to their union about a pay increase.
Gf: They don't have jobs.
HM: What?
Gf: They're simple people.
HM: They're retarded?
Gf: No. I mean they don't have any jobs available.
HM: So that makes them retarded?
Gf: I mean that the whole community is suffering because of the extreme poverty.
HM: My mate Dave doesn't have a job, but I'm not delivering goats to his home.
Gf: Dave has clean water and a bed to sleep on.
HM: How come you know so much about Dave's bed?
Gf: Shit! Bust. I'm sorry.
HM: Why does this always happen to me?
Handsome Muppet: What?
Gf: Guess!
HM: You're fat.
Gf: No silly.
HM: You've found out I'm cheating on you?
Gf: What?
HM: Nothing.
Gf: Guess what I've got you.
HM: It better start with "D" and end with "inner".
Gf: No silly. It's a present.
HM: Dinner can be a present.
Gf: It's a goat!
HM: What?
Gf: I've got you a goat.
HM: Oh... Thanks. How did you know I like goats?
Gf: It's for an African family.
HM: What?
Gf: I've bought a goat from Oxfam, in your name and they're going to deliver it to Africa.
HM: Couldn't you find a better delivery company. I live in the UK.
Gf: No silly, the goat is suppose to go to Africa.
HM: But you said you bought ME a goat.
Gf: Yes the goat is in your name.
HM: So the goat is legally mine?
Gf: Well technically speaking, I suppose so.
HM: So I can choose to not send my goat to Africa?
Gf: That's not how it works.
HM: Oh I'm sorry. When did receiving presents mean I don't get anything.
Gf: You get the gift of knowing that you're helping people less fortunate than yourself.
HM: So you bought me bullshit as a present?
Gf: Sorry?
HM: You walk in here, without my dinner, then tell me that you've got me a goat, then tell me that I will never be able to fuck this goat.
Gf: What?
HM: Well it doesn't seem like a present to me.
Gf: Did you say "fuck the goat"?
HM: Maybe next time, instead of saying that you bought me a gift, you could just say that you're full of shit and you enjoy wasting my time.
Gf: But you're helping people less fortunate than yourself!
HM: Am I really? Do you have their bank statement? Let's see how bad they're suffering.
Gf: They don't have bank statements. They don't have clean water. They don't even have a house to sleep in.
HM: Ah. So what you're saying is that you've sent MY goat to some layabout bums.
Gf: They're not bums, they live in terrible conditions.
HM: It's so awful, yet they're still able to fuck goats.
Gf: What?
HM: Let's face it, the goat isn't probably too happy to be sent there. Why doesn't the goat get a say in the matter.
Gf: But the goat provides food to the family.
HM: What? They're going to eat my goat?
Gf: Well, they might be starving.
HM: Wouldn't it be easier to send them some burgers?
Gf: But it's not just the meat they need. They use the milk too.
HM: Oh it's like that is it. They want posh goat cheese.
Gf: No, they just want the milk to drink.
HM: This seems like an elaborate way of topping off their tea.
Gf: And they can use the goat's skin and hair to make clothes.
HM: They won't be getting much milk from a skinless goat.
Gf: And they'll want to breed the goats.
HM: That's all I wanted to do with it.
Gf: You're making a difference, by helping these people.
HM: These people who skin goats and then try to milk them. Why don't they just buy their own goats if they like goats so much?
Gf: They can't afford goats.
HM: They should talk to their union about a pay increase.
Gf: They don't have jobs.
HM: What?
Gf: They're simple people.
HM: They're retarded?
Gf: No. I mean they don't have any jobs available.
HM: So that makes them retarded?
Gf: I mean that the whole community is suffering because of the extreme poverty.
HM: My mate Dave doesn't have a job, but I'm not delivering goats to his home.
Gf: Dave has clean water and a bed to sleep on.
HM: How come you know so much about Dave's bed?
Gf: Shit! Bust. I'm sorry.
HM: Why does this always happen to me?
Friday 17 July 2009
Dirty old ladies
One day, while googling "old ladies, swallowing and horses", I came across this nursery rhyme. I doubt if you've ever heard it, as it's horrific!
Fair enough. This could happen. An old lady is having a nap. Her mouth is open. A fly flies into her mouth. She wakes up gagging on the fly and swallows it. Nothing weird there, except for the threat of death, which seems a bit weird as it was just a fly.
Okay. Starting to get weird. Old lady realises that she's swallowed a fly and instead of possibly having a drink of water, she opts to swallow a spider, which she happens to have handy.
It's true that spiders eat flies, but this seems to be an extreme reaction.
And why is the spider wiggling and tickling her. Surely stomach acids would kill the spider quite quickly. Was the spider inserted in the mouth?
Is it absurd to eat chicken? No, not really. How about if you swallowed a live bird in order to eat a spider that you "swallowed" earlier. Not really absurd, more psychotic.
Of course the use of the word "bird" could be used as slang for her lady friend.
Staying with the lady friend theme, she's now obviously eating pussy.
Do parents explain this to the kids, when reading the nursery rhyme to them?
OK, so apparently the lady friend isn't much of a looker, but this seems a bit harsh.
Not only is her lady friend fucking ugly, she also obese.
But let's go back a few steps and imagine that we're trying to take this literally again. Spiders eat flies. Birds eat spiders. Cats eat birds. Dogs do NOT eat cats, but might well kill them. But I have never heard of a cow chasing a dog, let alone eating it. Mad cow disease possibly, but she shouldn't be eating that!
So now she's either sucking off a horse, or she believes that horses eat cows.
If we look at the translation, so far, we have an old lady, who pulled down somebody's fly, shoved a spider up her arse, ate her ugly, fat friend's pussy and then sucked off a horse.
Could this rhyme get any more twisted?
WHAT?
There was an old lady who swallowed a fly
I don't know why she swallowed a fly - perhaps she'll die!
Fair enough. This could happen. An old lady is having a nap. Her mouth is open. A fly flies into her mouth. She wakes up gagging on the fly and swallows it. Nothing weird there, except for the threat of death, which seems a bit weird as it was just a fly.
There was an old lady who swallowed a spider,
That wriggled and wiggled and tiggled inside her;
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly;
I don't know why she swallowed a fly - Perhaps she'll die!
Okay. Starting to get weird. Old lady realises that she's swallowed a fly and instead of possibly having a drink of water, she opts to swallow a spider, which she happens to have handy.
It's true that spiders eat flies, but this seems to be an extreme reaction.
And why is the spider wiggling and tickling her. Surely stomach acids would kill the spider quite quickly. Was the spider inserted in the mouth?
There was an old lady who swallowed a bird;
How absurd to swallow a bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider,
Is it absurd to eat chicken? No, not really. How about if you swallowed a live bird in order to eat a spider that you "swallowed" earlier. Not really absurd, more psychotic.
Of course the use of the word "bird" could be used as slang for her lady friend.
There was an old lady who swallowed a cat;
Fancy that to swallow a cat!
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
Staying with the lady friend theme, she's now obviously eating pussy.
Do parents explain this to the kids, when reading the nursery rhyme to them?
There was an old lady that swallowed a dog;
What a hog, to swallow a dog;
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat,
OK, so apparently the lady friend isn't much of a looker, but this seems a bit harsh.
There was an old lady who swallowed a cow,
I don't know how she swallowed a cow;
She swallowed the cow to catch the dog,
Not only is her lady friend fucking ugly, she also obese.
But let's go back a few steps and imagine that we're trying to take this literally again. Spiders eat flies. Birds eat spiders. Cats eat birds. Dogs do NOT eat cats, but might well kill them. But I have never heard of a cow chasing a dog, let alone eating it. Mad cow disease possibly, but she shouldn't be eating that!
There was an old lady who swallowed a horse...
So now she's either sucking off a horse, or she believes that horses eat cows.
If we look at the translation, so far, we have an old lady, who pulled down somebody's fly, shoved a spider up her arse, ate her ugly, fat friend's pussy and then sucked off a horse.
Could this rhyme get any more twisted?
She's dead, of course!
WHAT?
Tuesday 24 March 2009
Awesome PI
Max Awesome was a private dick. This meant that he was an investigator, who could be hired to investigate private matters and not anything pornographic involving penises.
Max was incredibly handsome, like a full furred goat basting in a low carbon footprint with an ambivalent piece of toast. He had a body that appeared sculpted out of hot college girls’ dreams, but not the type of dream that involved shopping for shoes. Max was also incredibly intelligent like a satellite dish that knew how to program a VCR without a remote control.
He was resting in his office, after translating Tolstoy’s War and Peace into Russian, which he did in his spare time, for orphaned children, when she walked into the room.
She was strikingly beautiful like a drunken teenager lost in a dark park. Her hair bounced with every step she took like an obese seven year old running on a treadmill and flowed down her back like a river of hair, that ended about half way down her back. Her back was like a normal back, but sexier.
She stopped as she reached Max’s solid oak desk, which had been given to him by the Dalai Lama, after Max saved Mr Lama’s life after his bungee cord snapped.
“I want you,” she purred like a cat who could speak English.
“I know,” said Max, handsomely.
“My name is Tatiana Moscowvich. I need your help.” She spoke in a foreign accent. Max suspected that she was Russian.
“Are you Russian?” Max queried, with one raised eyebrow, which hinted at promises of multiple orgasms and free beer.
“How did you know?” She enquired, while her breasts bounced gently like two small puppies killing a kitten with mange.
“I can speak twenty three different languages, Miss Moscowvich. Including Swedish, Switzerland, English and Russian,” Max said with an air of confidence that made him win the Nobel Peace Prize for making women want to have sex with him, despite them not really taking the time to get to know him.
“You’re amazing,” said Tatiana, who was a part time super model, but spent the most of her time working as a scientist on top secret stuff.
Max stood up, stretching his muscular legs and perfect six-pack, which held Tatiana’s eyes briefly, before she stared lustily at his crotch which bulged in his jeans, despite him not having to put socks down there.
To be continued...
Max was incredibly handsome, like a full furred goat basting in a low carbon footprint with an ambivalent piece of toast. He had a body that appeared sculpted out of hot college girls’ dreams, but not the type of dream that involved shopping for shoes. Max was also incredibly intelligent like a satellite dish that knew how to program a VCR without a remote control.
He was resting in his office, after translating Tolstoy’s War and Peace into Russian, which he did in his spare time, for orphaned children, when she walked into the room.
She was strikingly beautiful like a drunken teenager lost in a dark park. Her hair bounced with every step she took like an obese seven year old running on a treadmill and flowed down her back like a river of hair, that ended about half way down her back. Her back was like a normal back, but sexier.
She stopped as she reached Max’s solid oak desk, which had been given to him by the Dalai Lama, after Max saved Mr Lama’s life after his bungee cord snapped.
“I want you,” she purred like a cat who could speak English.
“I know,” said Max, handsomely.
“My name is Tatiana Moscowvich. I need your help.” She spoke in a foreign accent. Max suspected that she was Russian.
“Are you Russian?” Max queried, with one raised eyebrow, which hinted at promises of multiple orgasms and free beer.
“How did you know?” She enquired, while her breasts bounced gently like two small puppies killing a kitten with mange.
“I can speak twenty three different languages, Miss Moscowvich. Including Swedish, Switzerland, English and Russian,” Max said with an air of confidence that made him win the Nobel Peace Prize for making women want to have sex with him, despite them not really taking the time to get to know him.
“You’re amazing,” said Tatiana, who was a part time super model, but spent the most of her time working as a scientist on top secret stuff.
Max stood up, stretching his muscular legs and perfect six-pack, which held Tatiana’s eyes briefly, before she stared lustily at his crotch which bulged in his jeans, despite him not having to put socks down there.
To be continued...
Monday 9 March 2009
The dark alley of dreams
Now I’m not gay or anything like that, but on the weekend I dreamt about producing my very own West End Musical.
Is that gay? I don’t think that’s gay. I think it’s a good financial investment. Top musicals are worth millions. Andrew Lloyd Webber isn’t gay and he’s done tons of musicals. So I’m pretty sure it’s not gay. The name of my dream musical is “Knob-rash – The Musical”.
That’s still not gay, is it? I don’t think so. So the dream wasn’t too specific about where the lead actor picked up his knob-rash, but it itched like an angry dragon, which is depicted in the play as actors lying underneath a large piece of green canvas and shaking it vigorously, in the form of an angry dragon.
Urban dictionary’s definition of the angry dragon:
I think if you do that to a guy instead of a girl, it might be considered gay, but I don’t think about such things, because I’m probably not gay.
Anyway... we’ve established that I’m not gay even though I dream about West End musicals and sucking off dead pirates.
Is that gay? I don’t think that’s gay. I think it’s a good financial investment. Top musicals are worth millions. Andrew Lloyd Webber isn’t gay and he’s done tons of musicals. So I’m pretty sure it’s not gay. The name of my dream musical is “Knob-rash – The Musical”.
That’s still not gay, is it? I don’t think so. So the dream wasn’t too specific about where the lead actor picked up his knob-rash, but it itched like an angry dragon, which is depicted in the play as actors lying underneath a large piece of green canvas and shaking it vigorously, in the form of an angry dragon.
Urban dictionary’s definition of the angry dragon:
Immediately after you blow your load in a girl's mouth, smack the back of her head and make it come out her nose. When she gets up she'll look like an angry dragon.
I think if you do that to a guy instead of a girl, it might be considered gay, but I don’t think about such things, because I’m probably not gay.
Anyway... we’ve established that I’m not gay even though I dream about West End musicals and sucking off dead pirates.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Kouple Karaoke
A nice way of introducing a bit of romance into a relationship is by singing a duet with that special girl in your life. There are some classic hits that are great for duets. So pull up your karaoke machine, plug in the microphone and set the machine to Elton John and Kiki Dee's "Don't go breaking my heart".
Her - Don't go breaking my heart
Him - I don’t really care
Her - Honey if I get restless
Him – I’ll presume it’s that time of the month
Her - Don't go breaking my heart
Him – Yeah I think you’ve already mentioned that
Her - Honey when you knock on my door
Him – I’ll probably want a blow-job
Her - Nobody knows it
Him – I want you to go down
Her - I was your clown
Him – She’s into role-play
Her - Right from the start
Her - I gave you my heart
Him - I spunked on your tits
Her - So don't go breaking my heart
Him – Oh for fuck’s sake! This again!
Her - Don't go breaking my heart
Her - And nobody told us
Him – Why are you still singing?
Her - And now it's up to us babe
Him – Fetch me a beer
Her - So don't misunderstand me
Him – I’m still waiting for my beer
Her - You put the sparks to the flame
Him – I fucked your mum
Her - Don't go breaking my heart
Him - I don’t really care
Her - Honey if I get restless
Him – I’ll presume it’s that time of the month
Her - Don't go breaking my heart
Him – Yeah I think you’ve already mentioned that
Her - Honey when you knock on my door
Him – I’ll probably want a blow-job
Her - Nobody knows it
Him – I want you to go down
Her - I was your clown
Him – She’s into role-play
Her - Right from the start
Her - I gave you my heart
Him - I spunked on your tits
Her - So don't go breaking my heart
Him – Oh for fuck’s sake! This again!
Her - Don't go breaking my heart
Her - And nobody told us
Him – Why are you still singing?
Her - And now it's up to us babe
Him – Fetch me a beer
Her - So don't misunderstand me
Him – I’m still waiting for my beer
Her - You put the sparks to the flame
Him – I fucked your mum
Friday 13 February 2009
Valentine's pay
A valentine's day present is never easy to buy. Unlike a birthday or Christmas present, it has to be more personal than recycled tampons.
Women can be quite irrational if you give her the wrong thing on what is scientifically the most romantic day of the year.
If you buy her chocolates, she’ll think that you think she’s fat, even though she stuffs kilograms of the stuff in her fat trap every other day of the year. If you buy her a cute, soft toy, she’ll think that you’re a paedophile. If you buy her a vacuum cleaner, she’ll think that you’re going to use it on your cock when she’s out. This is all true, but it doesn’t make buying a present any easier.
This year I’ve gone all out to impress. I’ve killed her boss, whom she hates and left his severed head in the fridge. Then I tracked down her first boyfriend and after some flirting and role play games, extracted a cup of his sperm for her to drink, to make her feel young again.
It’s not easy being romantic, in fact it’s a pain in the arse.
Women can be quite irrational if you give her the wrong thing on what is scientifically the most romantic day of the year.
If you buy her chocolates, she’ll think that you think she’s fat, even though she stuffs kilograms of the stuff in her fat trap every other day of the year. If you buy her a cute, soft toy, she’ll think that you’re a paedophile. If you buy her a vacuum cleaner, she’ll think that you’re going to use it on your cock when she’s out. This is all true, but it doesn’t make buying a present any easier.
This year I’ve gone all out to impress. I’ve killed her boss, whom she hates and left his severed head in the fridge. Then I tracked down her first boyfriend and after some flirting and role play games, extracted a cup of his sperm for her to drink, to make her feel young again.
It’s not easy being romantic, in fact it’s a pain in the arse.
Friday 6 February 2009
How to pick up chicks - lesson 9
Role-play
Every relationship suffers lags from time to time. Even I, the great Sad Muppet, greatest lover in the world, literary genius and other stuff I’m also well at, occasionally needs to ignite the fire of lust in my bitch.
That’s why one needs to mix things up a bit, not only in the bedroom, but also in the kitchen, when cooking. Like when you’re adding spices to a meal or making a salads. You can toss a salad, but mixing it is also allowed, but the lettuce leaves might snap, so be warned. In this case however, I’m only referring to mixing things up in the bedroom.
If a relationship has become long-term (more than two weeks), things may become dull in bed. She might not be interested in sex as much as she used to be and even pretend that the mere prospect makes her physically sick. Sometimes she will literally vomit when you touch her. This might because she’s shy or dying of a deadly disease. In either case, it’s up to you to make her feel better, by having sex with her. I know this will work, because I usually feel better while having sex, except during that bear incident.
A very popular way of igniting the flame of lurve is through role-play. There are different types of role-play one can try. Here are a few suggestions.
- Dress up like a fireman and show up at her place with your hose out ready to save a damsel in distress. Please note: Check to see when she’s having her parents round for dinner before doing this.
- Dress up like a policeman and show up at her place, suggesting that you’ve been tipped off that she’s hiding drugs on her person and she’ll have to be thoroughly examined. Please note: Do not bring a fake police dog with you that attacks under the command word “Hitler”.
- Dress up like Osama Bin Laden and threaten to blow up her flat if she doesn’t do as you say. Please note: If you’re taking public transport to her place, remember to only get changed into the outfit when you arrive.
- Dress up like her father and ask her who her daddy is. Please note: Do not do this if she was molested by her father when she was a child.
- Dress up like Godzilla and threaten to destroy the city if she doesn’t suck you off. Please note: This one can be very expensive and you’ll need at least thirty people to help control the robot.
- Dress up like a school principal, who will cane her for being a bad, bad girl. Please note: Do not do this if she’s still at school at the time or dead.
- Dress up like her ex-boyfriend, who use to beat her up a lot, if she didn’t give him money to support his drug habit. Please note: Do not do this, if her ex-boyfriend is visiting her at the time. Wait until he’s gone.
- Dress up like a catholic school girl, who wants to be naughty. Please note: Do not get horrendously drunk before going over to her place and accidentally end up in a gay bar in Soho instead.
- Dress up like the man of her dreams. Please note: Make sure you distinguish her dreams from her nightmares before buying the costume. Chainsaws can be expensive.
- Dress up like surrealism. Please note: Time is fish.
- Dress up like Batman and show up at her place to protect the innocent from evil doers. Please note: Do not bring a homeless man with you and tell him to rape her, so that you can beat him up, if he’s much stronger than you.
But the favourite role-play that my girlfriend and I like to play is just by going to a pub that we’ve never been to before and pretend that we don’t know one another. I will go up to her and introduce myself while offering to buy her a drink. She will introduce herself to me and accept my offer and then go have sex with somebody else in the toilet.
Every relationship suffers lags from time to time. Even I, the great Sad Muppet, greatest lover in the world, literary genius and other stuff I’m also well at, occasionally needs to ignite the fire of lust in my bitch.
That’s why one needs to mix things up a bit, not only in the bedroom, but also in the kitchen, when cooking. Like when you’re adding spices to a meal or making a salads. You can toss a salad, but mixing it is also allowed, but the lettuce leaves might snap, so be warned. In this case however, I’m only referring to mixing things up in the bedroom.
If a relationship has become long-term (more than two weeks), things may become dull in bed. She might not be interested in sex as much as she used to be and even pretend that the mere prospect makes her physically sick. Sometimes she will literally vomit when you touch her. This might because she’s shy or dying of a deadly disease. In either case, it’s up to you to make her feel better, by having sex with her. I know this will work, because I usually feel better while having sex, except during that bear incident.
A very popular way of igniting the flame of lurve is through role-play. There are different types of role-play one can try. Here are a few suggestions.
- Dress up like a fireman and show up at her place with your hose out ready to save a damsel in distress. Please note: Check to see when she’s having her parents round for dinner before doing this.
- Dress up like a policeman and show up at her place, suggesting that you’ve been tipped off that she’s hiding drugs on her person and she’ll have to be thoroughly examined. Please note: Do not bring a fake police dog with you that attacks under the command word “Hitler”.
- Dress up like Osama Bin Laden and threaten to blow up her flat if she doesn’t do as you say. Please note: If you’re taking public transport to her place, remember to only get changed into the outfit when you arrive.
- Dress up like her father and ask her who her daddy is. Please note: Do not do this if she was molested by her father when she was a child.
- Dress up like Godzilla and threaten to destroy the city if she doesn’t suck you off. Please note: This one can be very expensive and you’ll need at least thirty people to help control the robot.
- Dress up like a school principal, who will cane her for being a bad, bad girl. Please note: Do not do this if she’s still at school at the time or dead.
- Dress up like her ex-boyfriend, who use to beat her up a lot, if she didn’t give him money to support his drug habit. Please note: Do not do this, if her ex-boyfriend is visiting her at the time. Wait until he’s gone.
- Dress up like a catholic school girl, who wants to be naughty. Please note: Do not get horrendously drunk before going over to her place and accidentally end up in a gay bar in Soho instead.
- Dress up like the man of her dreams. Please note: Make sure you distinguish her dreams from her nightmares before buying the costume. Chainsaws can be expensive.
- Dress up like surrealism. Please note: Time is fish.
- Dress up like Batman and show up at her place to protect the innocent from evil doers. Please note: Do not bring a homeless man with you and tell him to rape her, so that you can beat him up, if he’s much stronger than you.
But the favourite role-play that my girlfriend and I like to play is just by going to a pub that we’ve never been to before and pretend that we don’t know one another. I will go up to her and introduce myself while offering to buy her a drink. She will introduce herself to me and accept my offer and then go have sex with somebody else in the toilet.
Tuesday 27 January 2009
Please form an orderly queue
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Sad Muppet Male Relationship Agency provides not only an escort, but ALL the extras that come along with being with a man.
The problem with most escort agencies is that their escort will merely escort the client to her company’s yearend function, for example, and leave her with a happy ending. This is unrealistic.
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I will not only escort you to your yearend function, but I will also get horrendously drunk and embarrass you in front of your boss. When you eventually drag me home, I will pass out in a pool of my own vomit.
Furthermore, part of my realistic duties will be to:
- Get you to cook and clean for me
- Leave the toilet seat up
- Watch sport all day while drinking beer
- Unsatisfying sex
- Burp and fart
- Flirt with your sister
- Keep you awake with my snoring
- Never show appreciation
- Mock your stupid girly ways
- Fuck your grandmother
- Make you watch action films with me
And
- Forget important dates
Book now! First twenty customers get naked photos taken of themselves and the photos shown to all my friends.
Male Escort for hire
==================
Ladies! Are you single? Are you lonely? Are you carrying some weight and therefore unable to attract a man? When you go to bed at night do you pray for a man instead of trying to help starving children in Africa?
Wait no more, because Sad Muppet Male Relationship Agency is here to help.
Sad Muppet Male Relationship Agency provides not only an escort, but ALL the extras that come along with being with a man.
The problem with most escort agencies is that their escort will merely escort the client to her company’s yearend function, for example, and leave her with a happy ending. This is unrealistic.
Sad Muppet Male Relationship Agency provides a more realistic escort agency.
I will not only escort you to your yearend function, but I will also get horrendously drunk and embarrass you in front of your boss. When you eventually drag me home, I will pass out in a pool of my own vomit.
Furthermore, part of my realistic duties will be to:
- Get you to cook and clean for me
- Leave the toilet seat up
- Watch sport all day while drinking beer
- Unsatisfying sex
- Burp and fart
- Flirt with your sister
- Keep you awake with my snoring
- Never show appreciation
- Mock your stupid girly ways
- Fuck your grandmother
- Make you watch action films with me
And
- Forget important dates
Book now! First twenty customers get naked photos taken of themselves and the photos shown to all my friends.
Friday 23 January 2009
Add it up
The top ten reasons why basic maths skills are dying out:
7. The age of computers
3. Teenage pregnancy
9. The recession
And finally,
3. Global warming
7. The age of computers
3. Teenage pregnancy
9. The recession
And finally,
3. Global warming
Thursday 22 January 2009
Happy Stalker's Day
There are people in this world who are desperate and lonely. They don’t know how to interact with other people in a social environment. These people are unable to be in a stable relationship and therefore resort to the time honoured tradition of stalking.
Stalking is generally frowned upon by most country’s judicial systems and a few hot girls I know, but does that make it wrong? No. Stalking is just misunderstood, like fat people having feelings or IKEA furniture.
Stalking wouldn’t be such a problem if more people were open minded or enjoyed the attention they’re getting from some handsome/suicidal stranger lurking in the dark. People are sometimes too quick to point their accusatory fingers at a stranger with a telescope on the opposite building’s roof from their bedroom window, who’s wearing nothing but a trench coat and masturbating, for example. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for this person doing this. Why do half naked women immediately think that they’re being stared at when there might be a funny program on the television behind them, that this person might be trying to watch, Felicity!
We live in a society of fear. Mothers think that every middle aged man, in a panel van, parked outside a school, giving away free sweets, is up to something. Whenever a white person walks through a black neighbourhood late at night and they see a group of youths approach him or her, they automatically think that they’re going to play some awful rap music to them. Whenever we see a terrorist climb onto a plane with a bomb, we start having second thoughts about taking the same flight.
The news has made us scared to live in our own homes/flats/battered spouse institutes and why? It’s because fear sells! Valentines day. Mother’s day. Father’s day. Christmas day. Rape a fat chick day. New Year’s day. These are all examples of Big Brother controlling us and making us spend our hard earned cash on junk we don’t need in our lives.
So when the government inevitably introduces “Be aware of stalkers day”, just say no. Ignore the guy following you through the park, late at night. Ignore the man following in the dark alley, whose footsteps are getting closer and closer, but for the love of God, stop ignoring the heavy breathing phone calls. Have some compassion! I have asthma and I’m wanking while imagining you naked, tied up to my bed, with goats’ horns and pigeon feet.
Stalking is generally frowned upon by most country’s judicial systems and a few hot girls I know, but does that make it wrong? No. Stalking is just misunderstood, like fat people having feelings or IKEA furniture.
Stalking wouldn’t be such a problem if more people were open minded or enjoyed the attention they’re getting from some handsome/suicidal stranger lurking in the dark. People are sometimes too quick to point their accusatory fingers at a stranger with a telescope on the opposite building’s roof from their bedroom window, who’s wearing nothing but a trench coat and masturbating, for example. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for this person doing this. Why do half naked women immediately think that they’re being stared at when there might be a funny program on the television behind them, that this person might be trying to watch, Felicity!
We live in a society of fear. Mothers think that every middle aged man, in a panel van, parked outside a school, giving away free sweets, is up to something. Whenever a white person walks through a black neighbourhood late at night and they see a group of youths approach him or her, they automatically think that they’re going to play some awful rap music to them. Whenever we see a terrorist climb onto a plane with a bomb, we start having second thoughts about taking the same flight.
The news has made us scared to live in our own homes/flats/battered spouse institutes and why? It’s because fear sells! Valentines day. Mother’s day. Father’s day. Christmas day. Rape a fat chick day. New Year’s day. These are all examples of Big Brother controlling us and making us spend our hard earned cash on junk we don’t need in our lives.
So when the government inevitably introduces “Be aware of stalkers day”, just say no. Ignore the guy following you through the park, late at night. Ignore the man following in the dark alley, whose footsteps are getting closer and closer, but for the love of God, stop ignoring the heavy breathing phone calls. Have some compassion! I have asthma and I’m wanking while imagining you naked, tied up to my bed, with goats’ horns and pigeon feet.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Milking a riddle
About three weeks ago, I was running low on milk, so I thought I’d do a quick dash to the corner shop, which is about four minutes walk from my flat and pick up one or two pints of milk. It was quite cold out, so I had to first spend five minutes wrapping myself in about eight layers of clothing. I locked all six locks on my door and descended the ten stairs to the ground floor, before exiting my apartment complex, which is called “nine”. Um... I saw seven elephants while on route to the shop.
Now for the clever part.
If you reread the top paragraph, you’ll notice that I very cleverly hid some words which separate, don’t make much sense, but if you put them together and in the correct order, you’ll be amazed by your discovery.
Have a look.
Got it yet?
Still looking?
Don’t give up!
Scroll down for the answer.
Don’t scroll down if you don’t know the answer.
I presume you now have the answer, because you’re scrolling down.
Unless you’re cheating.
Cheating is wrong.
Unless you really have to cheat, like on an exam or an aids test.
The answer is....
You’ll be amazed!
In the top paragraph the words “milk, elephant, complex, eight and stairs“ are used in no specific order, but if you change the words around to:
Stairs
Complex
Elephant
Milk
Eight
... and you take the first letter from each of these words, you’re left with the word “sceme”, which is my own clever sceme which you all have fallen into! Ha ha! Don’t you all feel foolish for falling into my word trap game thing! Unless you worked out the answer before I gave it to you. Then well done to you, because you’re quite clever, but to the rest, you didn't and therefore aren't as clever.
So there.
Go away.
Now for the clever part.
If you reread the top paragraph, you’ll notice that I very cleverly hid some words which separate, don’t make much sense, but if you put them together and in the correct order, you’ll be amazed by your discovery.
Have a look.
Got it yet?
Still looking?
Don’t give up!
Scroll down for the answer.
Don’t scroll down if you don’t know the answer.
I presume you now have the answer, because you’re scrolling down.
Unless you’re cheating.
Cheating is wrong.
Unless you really have to cheat, like on an exam or an aids test.
The answer is....
You’ll be amazed!
In the top paragraph the words “milk, elephant, complex, eight and stairs“ are used in no specific order, but if you change the words around to:
Stairs
Complex
Elephant
Milk
Eight
... and you take the first letter from each of these words, you’re left with the word “sceme”, which is my own clever sceme which you all have fallen into! Ha ha! Don’t you all feel foolish for falling into my word trap game thing! Unless you worked out the answer before I gave it to you. Then well done to you, because you’re quite clever, but to the rest, you didn't and therefore aren't as clever.
So there.
Go away.
Monday 19 January 2009
Whoreding your pride
What would you do for £1 million?
Jump off a double story building? Eat a kilogram of cat poo? Wrestle an alligator? Chat to an old person for more than five minutes? These are all crazy ideas that a person wouldn’t normally consider, but if a carrot is dangled in front of their pride, they might be tempted.
We’re all prostitutes at heart, it’s just a matter of how high your asking price is.
I once shagged a slightly chubby girl for a six-pack of beer. Now I’m not proud of this fact, but I needed beer. Some people would have done it for a million pounds, because some people need a million pounds.
In my defence, I was quite drunk when this happened and the girl was already dead, so it wasn’t like she was going to run off and tell people about it.
Another point in my favour is that she had decomposed quite a bit when I got to her, so she wasn't as fat as she use to be.
Six beers though! Score!
Jump off a double story building? Eat a kilogram of cat poo? Wrestle an alligator? Chat to an old person for more than five minutes? These are all crazy ideas that a person wouldn’t normally consider, but if a carrot is dangled in front of their pride, they might be tempted.
We’re all prostitutes at heart, it’s just a matter of how high your asking price is.
I once shagged a slightly chubby girl for a six-pack of beer. Now I’m not proud of this fact, but I needed beer. Some people would have done it for a million pounds, because some people need a million pounds.
In my defence, I was quite drunk when this happened and the girl was already dead, so it wasn’t like she was going to run off and tell people about it.
Another point in my favour is that she had decomposed quite a bit when I got to her, so she wasn't as fat as she use to be.
Six beers though! Score!
Monday 12 January 2009
Queuing pains
Women love shopping, because they're stupid.
I can't think of any other reason why they would enjoy spending time in a place where all staff members are on minimum wage and you have to compete for your purchases against the dreaded general public.
I hate the general public. They’re rude. They smell. They cry to mummy if you touch them there. They’re weak!
Clothes shopping for men is simple. Go into shop look for jeans in your size. Take jeans to cashier. Give cashier money. Walk out of shop. This is what must be done, even if the man is shopping for a new shirt. Jeans are simpler. Deal with it. I own many jeans.
But clothes shops are relatively simple compared to supermarkets. For the love of God, why are so many stupid people drawn to supermarkets?
These aren’t just conventionally stupid people. These are people who meander up and down the aisles staring off into space, ignoring other shoppers. They are fascinated by household detergents. They gawk at vegetables as if they’re recognising a long distant relative, which appears to be a fair reflection on the situation. If you’re standing behind them and waiting for them to move out of the way and softly suggest to them that they either put the fucking carrots in their trolley or move along, they look at you as though you’re the rude one. It’s bizarre.
If this isn’t bad enough, here’s another great idea for mums to do while shopping. Bring the fucking kids! Especially if they’re still toddlers. Hooray. I’m sure they’ll behave. I’m sure they won’t be a nuisance.
There should be a law passed which allows shoppers to kick children in supermarkets if they’re not in a one meter radius of their parent.
To top off one’s shopping experience at the supermarket is the queuing behind brain dead fucks, for thirty minutes to pay for your shopping.
If I’m in a queue with at least three people in it, I can rest assured that one of the people ahead of me will want to discuss the price of certain objects with the cashier before paying. This person will also not pack their bags until all the items have been rung up by the cashier and this person will want to pay by cash. Not just any cash, but the exact fucking amount to the last fucking penny, which the person keeps in a very small purse at the bottom of his/her handbag. This person will also only start looking for this purse after the full amount has been rung up. I fucking hate these people.
My precious life is ticking by because stupid people are fucking stupid.
NO I DIDN’T BRING MY OWN BAGS! GIVE ME SOME FUCKING PLASTIC SO THAT I CAN KILL THIS WORLD WITH ALL ITS STUPID FUCKING PEOPLE IN IT.
I can't think of any other reason why they would enjoy spending time in a place where all staff members are on minimum wage and you have to compete for your purchases against the dreaded general public.
I hate the general public. They’re rude. They smell. They cry to mummy if you touch them there. They’re weak!
Clothes shopping for men is simple. Go into shop look for jeans in your size. Take jeans to cashier. Give cashier money. Walk out of shop. This is what must be done, even if the man is shopping for a new shirt. Jeans are simpler. Deal with it. I own many jeans.
But clothes shops are relatively simple compared to supermarkets. For the love of God, why are so many stupid people drawn to supermarkets?
These aren’t just conventionally stupid people. These are people who meander up and down the aisles staring off into space, ignoring other shoppers. They are fascinated by household detergents. They gawk at vegetables as if they’re recognising a long distant relative, which appears to be a fair reflection on the situation. If you’re standing behind them and waiting for them to move out of the way and softly suggest to them that they either put the fucking carrots in their trolley or move along, they look at you as though you’re the rude one. It’s bizarre.
If this isn’t bad enough, here’s another great idea for mums to do while shopping. Bring the fucking kids! Especially if they’re still toddlers. Hooray. I’m sure they’ll behave. I’m sure they won’t be a nuisance.
There should be a law passed which allows shoppers to kick children in supermarkets if they’re not in a one meter radius of their parent.
To top off one’s shopping experience at the supermarket is the queuing behind brain dead fucks, for thirty minutes to pay for your shopping.
If I’m in a queue with at least three people in it, I can rest assured that one of the people ahead of me will want to discuss the price of certain objects with the cashier before paying. This person will also not pack their bags until all the items have been rung up by the cashier and this person will want to pay by cash. Not just any cash, but the exact fucking amount to the last fucking penny, which the person keeps in a very small purse at the bottom of his/her handbag. This person will also only start looking for this purse after the full amount has been rung up. I fucking hate these people.
My precious life is ticking by because stupid people are fucking stupid.
NO I DIDN’T BRING MY OWN BAGS! GIVE ME SOME FUCKING PLASTIC SO THAT I CAN KILL THIS WORLD WITH ALL ITS STUPID FUCKING PEOPLE IN IT.
Thursday 8 January 2009
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Fuck off!
What's so fucking happy about it? Do people only say this because it hasn't been as crap as their previous year, yet? Well guess what, I bet this new year is going to be crap again and you'll be wishing for a happy new year next year again.
Cunt!
What's so fucking happy about it? Do people only say this because it hasn't been as crap as their previous year, yet? Well guess what, I bet this new year is going to be crap again and you'll be wishing for a happy new year next year again.
Cunt!
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