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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?