It has been reported that this last bastion (bastard?) of entertainment is to cease his Norwich Performances outside Primark!
And some are pleased at the removal of the creepy old scrote from our streets!
It seems that he can't make enough cash In Norwich, so he's off to entertain young ladies in Londinium for a while before relaunching the Puppet Spectacular in Great Y'ha-nthlei, where there's a more appreciative audience (being web-fingered gormsters doused full of seaside Moonshine).
I, for one, especially took the time to see this final Tour-De-Force of entertainment, and was dismayed by the lack of a Sexy-Dave hat. Actually, his name is Dave Perry - and Perry is pear cider. Hmmm... Interesting!
I am contemplating replacing the position - after all, how hard can wobbling a sock about be? I just need to nip down ca$h converters to see if they got a karaoke machine in a pram first.
And an Elvis Wig.
On the plus side - I now have an excuse to lech at Naomi "Finger Tips" Wilkinson and Kirsten "SmArt" O'Brien on the pretext of trying to find out how to make a sock puppet of the calibre of Sexy Dave's. And Caliber is also the name of a lager/beer! Hmmmm... Interesting again!
And there's probably nowt better than to guzzle Perry* and Caliber whilst watching Presenter Pretties in your pants** on a Sat/Sun morn.
Or something.
* THE CIDER, NOT THE DAVE. YOU DON'T WANT TO BE GIVING ORAL PLEASURE TO SOME RANCID OLD FART OF A WEEKEND MORNING. UNLESS SOME LADY HAS A PENCHANT FOR URINE-STENCHED LOONS DANGLING THEIR PROWESS ON A STRING...
** I DON'T MEAN NAOMI & KIRSTEN IN MY PANTS. OBVIOUSLY, I MEANT ME, IN MY PANTS, WATCHING TELLY. ALTHOUGH, I THINK IT'S FAIR TO SAY, I'D MUCH RATHER BE IN THE PRESENTER PRETTIES PANTS, RATHER THAN WAITING FOR REPEATS OF SCRAPHEAP CHALLENGE OR FORMULA 1 TO START. THAT SAID, IT WOULD NEVER DO TO BE BOFFING NAOMI, OR UP TO ME PLUMS IN O'BRIEN IF THERE WAS A SUDDEN SURPRISE VISIT BY PURRRRRFECT PRETTIES***. UNLESS, OF COURSE, THEY WANT TO INDULGE IN A BIT OF 'SMART FINGER TIP' ACTION WITH THE ANGELIC ARTISTS.
OR SOMETHING...
*** BAD ENOUGH IF YOU'RE AWOKEN BY SAID PRETTY IN YOUR PJS AND A DRESSING DOWN, LET ALONE ON THE JOB WITH BABES OFF THE BOX. BURIED DEEP IN THEIR BOX. OR SOMETHING.
Sunday 31 August 2008
Sinema City...
I was checking what's on at the Cinema* on the teletext, and it would appear that there are special Parent And Baby screenings.
All very well, I hear you cry - why should childless folk have their movies spoilt by screaming babies and feral kids, just because some 14yr old chavscum can't keep her hands off her teachers cock? Let them sit in a room where their offspring run rampant and bellow, where it will be the norm with the other 12yr olds and their brood.
However, I was most surprised to find that Hellboy II, being a 12A, was one of these Parent and Baby screening.
Hmmmm... not entirely sure why any 9yr old scummy mummy would take their brat to experience Hellboy II. Maybe I'm reading it wrong, and it's an irresponsible parent and baby screening!
Still, I guess these are the muvvers who ain't, like, bovvered, and will take their spawn off to the latest spoof movie to teach then about shagging so they know how to do it when they get to secondary school, and how to play the council so they can have the best homes, mobile phones, PS3s and Hi-Def telly for wanton nobification.
Forget Scary Movie - it's Pervy Movie these ChavMums want!
* I'M OFF TO SEE 'THE STRANGERS' LATER. BEING A REMAKE OF US FILM 'FUNNY GAMES', BEING A REMAKE OF FRENCH FILM 'FUNNY GAMES', BEING A REMAKE OF FRENCH FILM ILS (THEM) WITH A TWIST.
All very well, I hear you cry - why should childless folk have their movies spoilt by screaming babies and feral kids, just because some 14yr old chavscum can't keep her hands off her teachers cock? Let them sit in a room where their offspring run rampant and bellow, where it will be the norm with the other 12yr olds and their brood.
However, I was most surprised to find that Hellboy II, being a 12A, was one of these Parent and Baby screening.
Hmmmm... not entirely sure why any 9yr old scummy mummy would take their brat to experience Hellboy II. Maybe I'm reading it wrong, and it's an irresponsible parent and baby screening!
Still, I guess these are the muvvers who ain't, like, bovvered, and will take their spawn off to the latest spoof movie to teach then about shagging so they know how to do it when they get to secondary school, and how to play the council so they can have the best homes, mobile phones, PS3s and Hi-Def telly for wanton nobification.
Forget Scary Movie - it's Pervy Movie these ChavMums want!
* I'M OFF TO SEE 'THE STRANGERS' LATER. BEING A REMAKE OF US FILM 'FUNNY GAMES', BEING A REMAKE OF FRENCH FILM 'FUNNY GAMES', BEING A REMAKE OF FRENCH FILM ILS (THEM) WITH A TWIST.
Saturday 30 August 2008
LOST BLOGS 4: Spread a little... A penis, as you go by...
OK, student walks past a housewife. He pervs in through the window, hoping she's doing her housework all nudie like Anneka Rice, he's disappointed to see her spreading muck on the top of her spuds (which may be a euphanism for boobs, but sadly, the advertisers kept with the potato element). Instead of hearing her moan in orgasmic pleasure whilst being rogered by the Milkman, she's listing to a song on the radio.
So, student gets on the bus, humming away. Suddenly, he's being eyed up by Footie mad Flash-With-Flashguard bloke. Now, his double life was hinted at when he & 'son' were washing up at half-time, when he started bleating on about using Flash, when any other many man would simply wipe an oily rag over the counter and get a tinny out and flop on the sofa ready for the second half.
So, after leering at his forbidden fruit, he picks up the whistle of the tune, and as he gets off the bus, it's heard by Husband of the 'Spread and Bake' woman (which must me a euphanism somewhere!).
So, hubby gets in, and wifey's just got her spuds out (whey-hey!)... whilst the husband is singing along to the song on the radio!
I, too, would give my head a shake - how the hell can a student lech at her, pick up the tune, wander down to the bus stop, wait for a bus, get in it, be perved over by a beefy bloke for a bus journey, for Beefy Bloke to reach his destination - the join the queue to wait for another bus GOING BACK IN THE SAME DIRECTION for the husband to pick up the tune, for hubby to arrive home not only in time for tea, but all in the same time as 2 verses of a song!
Clearly, time flies when you open your legs in the hot sun...
So, student gets on the bus, humming away. Suddenly, he's being eyed up by Footie mad Flash-With-Flashguard bloke. Now, his double life was hinted at when he & 'son' were washing up at half-time, when he started bleating on about using Flash, when any other many man would simply wipe an oily rag over the counter and get a tinny out and flop on the sofa ready for the second half.
So, after leering at his forbidden fruit, he picks up the whistle of the tune, and as he gets off the bus, it's heard by Husband of the 'Spread and Bake' woman (which must me a euphanism somewhere!).
So, hubby gets in, and wifey's just got her spuds out (whey-hey!)... whilst the husband is singing along to the song on the radio!
I, too, would give my head a shake - how the hell can a student lech at her, pick up the tune, wander down to the bus stop, wait for a bus, get in it, be perved over by a beefy bloke for a bus journey, for Beefy Bloke to reach his destination - the join the queue to wait for another bus GOING BACK IN THE SAME DIRECTION for the husband to pick up the tune, for hubby to arrive home not only in time for tea, but all in the same time as 2 verses of a song!
Clearly, time flies when you open your legs in the hot sun...
Friday 29 August 2008
LOST BLOGS 3: They call me quiet... But I’m a riot...
As if I wasn't miserable enough, The crystal attraction unit let me down*.
One of the advantages of working in an office, is that you can get your brekkie or dinner delivered direct to your door.
So, we took advantage of the TOGOs delivery service.
In turn, one would hope to be able to take advantage of the Delivery Pretty.
I was getting on really well, being the only one left ordering food in (purey as an excuse to meet said Delivery Pretty, and also because certain collegues wanted to admire Delivery Pretty's rear view as she left). But in a case of role reversal, I went into the shop to get me tea.
And she'd forgotten who I was. Only that she thought she knew me from somewhere.
Still, at least she didn't call me Hell. Or Stacey. Or Her. Or even Jane. But if she did, I would've been tempted to give her such a slap.
And not in the spanking sense either!
* ALTHOUGH, LATER, A BUNCH OF BABES POINTED ME OUT AND SAID I WAS SOOOOO COOL!
One of the advantages of working in an office, is that you can get your brekkie or dinner delivered direct to your door.
So, we took advantage of the TOGOs delivery service.
In turn, one would hope to be able to take advantage of the Delivery Pretty.
I was getting on really well, being the only one left ordering food in (purey as an excuse to meet said Delivery Pretty, and also because certain collegues wanted to admire Delivery Pretty's rear view as she left). But in a case of role reversal, I went into the shop to get me tea.
And she'd forgotten who I was. Only that she thought she knew me from somewhere.
Still, at least she didn't call me Hell. Or Stacey. Or Her. Or even Jane. But if she did, I would've been tempted to give her such a slap.
And not in the spanking sense either!
* ALTHOUGH, LATER, A BUNCH OF BABES POINTED ME OUT AND SAID I WAS SOOOOO COOL!
Thursday 28 August 2008
LOST BLOGS 2: Spearmint wino...
Now, there was that telly programme advertised recently, where the residents got to redesign the whole town.
Arseholeford, or something.
Anyhew, if Norwich City Council ever grant my request for a centrally heated dome and disco traffic lights see previous blogs), I have a new item for enhancing this fine city of ours.
There seems to be a proliferation of Homeless types at the moment, often badgering you for cash. However, some of them are taking the piss, for I was asked by one Brother Of The Gutter if I could spare him some change for a cup of coffee. I wouldn't mind, but the cheeky fucker wanted a coffee from the expensive coffe shop set up by that bloke out of the original Battlestar Gallactica!
Anyhoo, sometimes these tramps are literally tramps - saucy little minx's with a cute smear of dirt on the face, not unlike the Lady Door. Now, rather than have these homeless hotties hassling holidaymakers for cash down Prisoner of War road, they could be given jobs in then pole dancing places!
Of course, I'm not talking about those aged old crones who inhabit CFG and shout at feet, but there a couple of fair maidens about, selling Big Issue when they could be dancing in wild abandon for hard cash.
As for the other tramps.. well, they can be hired by that TRAMPle fetish place. Although, I'd reverse the rules, and you'd be allowed to stomp all over the evil smelling Knights Of The Road.
Pay 'em in Devils Advocaat, and everyone's happy!
Arseholeford, or something.
Anyhew, if Norwich City Council ever grant my request for a centrally heated dome and disco traffic lights see previous blogs), I have a new item for enhancing this fine city of ours.
There seems to be a proliferation of Homeless types at the moment, often badgering you for cash. However, some of them are taking the piss, for I was asked by one Brother Of The Gutter if I could spare him some change for a cup of coffee. I wouldn't mind, but the cheeky fucker wanted a coffee from the expensive coffe shop set up by that bloke out of the original Battlestar Gallactica!
Anyhoo, sometimes these tramps are literally tramps - saucy little minx's with a cute smear of dirt on the face, not unlike the Lady Door. Now, rather than have these homeless hotties hassling holidaymakers for cash down Prisoner of War road, they could be given jobs in then pole dancing places!
Of course, I'm not talking about those aged old crones who inhabit CFG and shout at feet, but there a couple of fair maidens about, selling Big Issue when they could be dancing in wild abandon for hard cash.
As for the other tramps.. well, they can be hired by that TRAMPle fetish place. Although, I'd reverse the rules, and you'd be allowed to stomp all over the evil smelling Knights Of The Road.
Pay 'em in Devils Advocaat, and everyone's happy!
Wednesday 27 August 2008
LOST BLOGS 1: Life is juicy...
They used to be satisfied with simply shaking it and waking it, but clearly the slight tilting of a bottle to swirl about the sediment is insufficient to entice Modern Folk to sample orangy delights.
Now, I'm all for sex on the telly (even if it is a but uncomfortable and the arial pokes you up the arse), but promoting beastiality in order to flog orange juice is a tad to far!
It's bad enough that they have grizzly bears seducing bikini clad antelopes, but to further eroticise it do they really need pole dancing flamingoes and Vegas Showgirl peacocks?
And then they go on for further demonise the Islamic community with the arrival of Suicide Cephalopds! All this forestry orgy is going on, when up creeps a Octopus with muslim mammaries that suddenly explode in a burst of citrussy freshness!
Praise be to Allah and his Jyhaddi jugs!
Now, I'm all for sex on the telly (even if it is a but uncomfortable and the arial pokes you up the arse), but promoting beastiality in order to flog orange juice is a tad to far!
It's bad enough that they have grizzly bears seducing bikini clad antelopes, but to further eroticise it do they really need pole dancing flamingoes and Vegas Showgirl peacocks?
And then they go on for further demonise the Islamic community with the arrival of Suicide Cephalopds! All this forestry orgy is going on, when up creeps a Octopus with muslim mammaries that suddenly explode in a burst of citrussy freshness!
Praise be to Allah and his Jyhaddi jugs!
Tuesday 26 August 2008
You can’t get bitter...
You may recall that I reported on them Italians hypnotising shop staff, and nicking all their wares while the poor clerk stands there like a lemon.
Well, it would appear this practise has spread to the UK and those garage mechanics are making the most of it!
Take Kwik-Fit - you take a child into the garage, when said child starts playing up. So, rather than ChavMum take responsibility for her feral brood, it's left to Mr Spanner to waggle his fingers in the childs face and put 'em into a deep sleep.
Now, why would an oily layman learn how to put a child into a sleepy trance? Kwik-Fit Fitter? Kidd-ie Fiddler, more like!
And what about poor, unchaperoned MILFs who break down in secluded leafy lanes? Out comes Mr Kwikie, a-waggles his fingers in the WaGs face, and ZAP! Into a trance she goes. Everythings now set for old pervy mechanic to get his nuts out, have a good check out of her airbags, get her bonnet up, get some lubricant on the go, flood her tanks with his 'bio fuel', then wake her up and demand payment! And when they decide on an unfeasibly large price, it's payment in even more sex they want, according to them Rogue Tradery type exposé shows!
Hypnosis?
Rhohypnolosis, more like! Damn mechanics hypnotising stranded strumpets, and nicking all their underwear while the poor MILF stands there like a trollop.
"We're the boys to trust"? Not likely!!
Well, it would appear this practise has spread to the UK and those garage mechanics are making the most of it!
Take Kwik-Fit - you take a child into the garage, when said child starts playing up. So, rather than ChavMum take responsibility for her feral brood, it's left to Mr Spanner to waggle his fingers in the childs face and put 'em into a deep sleep.
Now, why would an oily layman learn how to put a child into a sleepy trance? Kwik-Fit Fitter? Kidd-ie Fiddler, more like!
And what about poor, unchaperoned MILFs who break down in secluded leafy lanes? Out comes Mr Kwikie, a-waggles his fingers in the WaGs face, and ZAP! Into a trance she goes. Everythings now set for old pervy mechanic to get his nuts out, have a good check out of her airbags, get her bonnet up, get some lubricant on the go, flood her tanks with his 'bio fuel', then wake her up and demand payment! And when they decide on an unfeasibly large price, it's payment in even more sex they want, according to them Rogue Tradery type exposé shows!
Hypnosis?
Rhohypnolosis, more like! Damn mechanics hypnotising stranded strumpets, and nicking all their underwear while the poor MILF stands there like a trollop.
"We're the boys to trust"? Not likely!!
Monday 25 August 2008
Foiled again...
Dammit!
Another year gone, and once again I only realise the Notting Hill Carnival is on when it isn't any more.
Every year, I promise I'll take meself down to the Carnivale to see the Hairy Woman, The Dwarfs, The Fortune Tellers, The Strongman, the Mermaid people and the Freakshow. And go on the rickety ferris wheel.
And I always forget.
Still, from what I can see, the roving carnies and their pickpocketry are a thing of the past, and it's a never-ending stream of silvery spray painted ladies with big feathery hats a-wagglilng their bazookas every which way.
At least they've lept the tradition of knifing the marks, although these days they're left on the street for the Council to take away. Ah, I remember when carnies used to feed their victims to the deformed monstrosity kept in the funhouse.
Still, you pay your council tax, so might as well get your moneys worth!
Although the fortnightly collection may leave a few stiffs about a tad longer than necessary.... (probably all that leering at bare breasted beauties painted up by some lucky Games Workshop geek who's got an award for Best Warrior Woman Miniature decoration. Off his mum).
Still, I promise meself, I will go next year.
Another year gone, and once again I only realise the Notting Hill Carnival is on when it isn't any more.
Every year, I promise I'll take meself down to the Carnivale to see the Hairy Woman, The Dwarfs, The Fortune Tellers, The Strongman, the Mermaid people and the Freakshow. And go on the rickety ferris wheel.
And I always forget.
Still, from what I can see, the roving carnies and their pickpocketry are a thing of the past, and it's a never-ending stream of silvery spray painted ladies with big feathery hats a-wagglilng their bazookas every which way.
At least they've lept the tradition of knifing the marks, although these days they're left on the street for the Council to take away. Ah, I remember when carnies used to feed their victims to the deformed monstrosity kept in the funhouse.
Still, you pay your council tax, so might as well get your moneys worth!
Although the fortnightly collection may leave a few stiffs about a tad longer than necessary.... (probably all that leering at bare breasted beauties painted up by some lucky Games Workshop geek who's got an award for Best Warrior Woman Miniature decoration. Off his mum).
Still, I promise meself, I will go next year.
Sunday 24 August 2008
If you go down to the woods today...
... you're sure of a big surprise!
Apparently, in these woods every bear that ever there was should have been gathered there together, because today is allegedly the day that them there teddy bears have their picnic.
So it was certainly a big surprise to find no sign of any stuffed Steiff's scoffing salmon sandwiches and drinking dandelion & burdock cordial! (Cordial indeed - just sits there in a glass. No sense of manners or etiquette at all!)
Anyhoo, how can a picnic have 'every bear that ever there was' attending? Surely some have been destroyed over the millenia. Unless we're talking about the inclusion of Reanimated teddies, running amok and tearing the stuffing out of lesser teddies.
Be more like a Picnic Of The Living Dead Ted!
Which also begs the question, how are the existing teddies getting to the picnic... unless they're made of stuffing & fur over a metal endoskeleton, and end up massacring all the little John Connor teddies like The Toyminator!
Hold on a minute... maybe this explains the 'reanimated' teddies! Destroyed teddies simply reassemble themselves a-la that liquid metal terminator! That red glint on a button eye - not light relection at all, but a sophisticated scanning and targeting mechanism! How cool would that be, if Sarah Connor shot an impacable teddy*, then all the stuffing began to roll back across the floor into it's belly, before rising and waving a patterned paw in imitation of a waggling finger (having no opposable digits).
Anyhoo, that's all beside the point, for these bears are having a picnic! But teddies don't have mouths - just a line of sewn thread, so it's basically Guantanamo Bay style abuse - the presence & scent of lovely, lovely grub, but unable to eat any!
Even worse, is that fact that if you do go down to the woods, you have to go in disguise, just in case they think you're a paedo, because there's a line about catching them in their underwear**.
Ah! At least this explains Mr Brown's 'Special Relationship' with the Rent-Bear he picked up in the Paddington Station public pisspots... and didn't we recently cover using marmalade as a lubicant for entry into Darkest Peru (where the sun don't shine)??
Teddy Bears Picnic?
Bare Teddies Gay Pride rampant sex orgy more like!
* OR EVEN BETTER, SARAH CONNOR IN A TEDDY. ONE OF THEM LEOTURD TYPE AFFAIRS. FIGHTING ONE OF THEM FEMALE TERMINATORS, ALSO IN A TEDDY. TERMINATORS IN TEDDIES - NOW, THAT WOULD BE A MOVIE TO WATCH. PREFERABLY WITHOUT ARNIE IN A BORAT MANKINI THOUGH...
** A-HA! I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG! 'TEDDIES' IN THE UNDERGARMENT SENSE! ALL BECOMES CLEAR - DEPRAVED BEARS IN SAUCY LINGERIE! MAYBE THEY MEANT TO SING ABOUT PVC INSTEAD OF PICNIC.
Apparently, in these woods every bear that ever there was should have been gathered there together, because today is allegedly the day that them there teddy bears have their picnic.
So it was certainly a big surprise to find no sign of any stuffed Steiff's scoffing salmon sandwiches and drinking dandelion & burdock cordial! (Cordial indeed - just sits there in a glass. No sense of manners or etiquette at all!)
Anyhoo, how can a picnic have 'every bear that ever there was' attending? Surely some have been destroyed over the millenia. Unless we're talking about the inclusion of Reanimated teddies, running amok and tearing the stuffing out of lesser teddies.
Be more like a Picnic Of The Living Dead Ted!
Which also begs the question, how are the existing teddies getting to the picnic... unless they're made of stuffing & fur over a metal endoskeleton, and end up massacring all the little John Connor teddies like The Toyminator!
Hold on a minute... maybe this explains the 'reanimated' teddies! Destroyed teddies simply reassemble themselves a-la that liquid metal terminator! That red glint on a button eye - not light relection at all, but a sophisticated scanning and targeting mechanism! How cool would that be, if Sarah Connor shot an impacable teddy*, then all the stuffing began to roll back across the floor into it's belly, before rising and waving a patterned paw in imitation of a waggling finger (having no opposable digits).
Anyhoo, that's all beside the point, for these bears are having a picnic! But teddies don't have mouths - just a line of sewn thread, so it's basically Guantanamo Bay style abuse - the presence & scent of lovely, lovely grub, but unable to eat any!
Even worse, is that fact that if you do go down to the woods, you have to go in disguise, just in case they think you're a paedo, because there's a line about catching them in their underwear**.
And you don't want to be caught at 6pm ogling picnicking teddies in their underwear as they're being put to bed, due to being tired from 'gayly gadding'. Which I can only assume is some Bronski Bear equivalent of Small Town Bear:
You leave for the picnic with everything you need
In a little lunchbox
Alone on a platform, the wind and the rain
On his sad, and threadbare fur...
Ah! At least this explains Mr Brown's 'Special Relationship' with the Rent-Bear he picked up in the Paddington Station public pisspots... and didn't we recently cover using marmalade as a lubicant for entry into Darkest Peru (where the sun don't shine)??
Teddy Bears Picnic?
Bare Teddies Gay Pride rampant sex orgy more like!
* OR EVEN BETTER, SARAH CONNOR IN A TEDDY. ONE OF THEM LEOTURD TYPE AFFAIRS. FIGHTING ONE OF THEM FEMALE TERMINATORS, ALSO IN A TEDDY. TERMINATORS IN TEDDIES - NOW, THAT WOULD BE A MOVIE TO WATCH. PREFERABLY WITHOUT ARNIE IN A BORAT MANKINI THOUGH...
** A-HA! I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG! 'TEDDIES' IN THE UNDERGARMENT SENSE! ALL BECOMES CLEAR - DEPRAVED BEARS IN SAUCY LINGERIE! MAYBE THEY MEANT TO SING ABOUT PVC INSTEAD OF PICNIC.
Saturday 23 August 2008
I collect spores, moulds, and fungus...
'snot fair!
How come paranormal porker Ray Stanz gets sucked off by a succubus in a fire station, yet in a the secluded Reepham Chapel there's no banshee blowjobbers a-reaching for me belt?
You'd think these spectral sirens would we well up for it, after incorpreally inhabiting a musty old church, where the only action is watching Reverend P.Doe giving the altar by a bit of Alternative cummunion. "Eat this, for it is my body."
Not to mention being turned on by the marathon amphibious sex-sessions. Froggies and Toadies all in the midst of bump and grind - and there's nothing more intriguing than the sound of graveside grinding frogs.
Although, more often than not, it turns out to be the snoring of heifers, being awoken by torchlight shone into their dozing eyes.
And you don't want to wake a snoring heifer... unless you've still got your beer goggles on, that is!
And how come, when trekking through shrubbery paths and fields, does it take twice as long to return by the same path? You start off at point A, and trek for ages through foresty glades, over furlongs of fields, and eventually arrive at point B. This takes a certain amount of time.
Now, when returning from point B to A, although you take an identical route... you get back in half the time!
And that's with taking the route slower, so you can scan the glades with EMF in case some unbelievable behemoth from the spirit level tears through the fabric of reality and splats it's ectoplasmic residue all over yer face.
Unless, of course, on the way there, we passed through some Haunted Hedgerows*, where time elongates and we were actually walking The Paths Of The Dead without realising it!
Ah, that explains the Poltergeist Puma I encountered on the way back!
* ALTHOUGH, ON THE WAY BACK, ONE PERSON PISSED THROUGH THE HAUNTED HEDGES. FOXES SUBJECTED TO MIDNIGHT GOLDEN SHOWER MILKSHAKES. IT'S ALSO INADVISABLE TO ASK LADIES IF THEY'RE COMING, WHEN THEY'RE SQUATTING IN THE BUSHES WITH DROPPED PANTALOONS. WELL, IT IS IF I'M PRESENT...
How come paranormal porker Ray Stanz gets sucked off by a succubus in a fire station, yet in a the secluded Reepham Chapel there's no banshee blowjobbers a-reaching for me belt?
You'd think these spectral sirens would we well up for it, after incorpreally inhabiting a musty old church, where the only action is watching Reverend P.Doe giving the altar by a bit of Alternative cummunion. "Eat this, for it is my body."
Not to mention being turned on by the marathon amphibious sex-sessions. Froggies and Toadies all in the midst of bump and grind - and there's nothing more intriguing than the sound of graveside grinding frogs.
Although, more often than not, it turns out to be the snoring of heifers, being awoken by torchlight shone into their dozing eyes.
And you don't want to wake a snoring heifer... unless you've still got your beer goggles on, that is!
And how come, when trekking through shrubbery paths and fields, does it take twice as long to return by the same path? You start off at point A, and trek for ages through foresty glades, over furlongs of fields, and eventually arrive at point B. This takes a certain amount of time.
Now, when returning from point B to A, although you take an identical route... you get back in half the time!
And that's with taking the route slower, so you can scan the glades with EMF in case some unbelievable behemoth from the spirit level tears through the fabric of reality and splats it's ectoplasmic residue all over yer face.
Unless, of course, on the way there, we passed through some Haunted Hedgerows*, where time elongates and we were actually walking The Paths Of The Dead without realising it!
Ah, that explains the Poltergeist Puma I encountered on the way back!
* ALTHOUGH, ON THE WAY BACK, ONE PERSON PISSED THROUGH THE HAUNTED HEDGES. FOXES SUBJECTED TO MIDNIGHT GOLDEN SHOWER MILKSHAKES. IT'S ALSO INADVISABLE TO ASK LADIES IF THEY'RE COMING, WHEN THEY'RE SQUATTING IN THE BUSHES WITH DROPPED PANTALOONS. WELL, IT IS IF I'M PRESENT...
Friday 22 August 2008
Iron, like Drooper, in Zion...
Relax Brother!
Seems that everyones hairy cow militiaman was a-smoking too much of the ganja and scoffing too much goat curry and jerk chicken to realise what he was doing.
Between sips of Malibu and Lilt, one Jacob Marley gave up the rattling of chains, took the moniker of his favourite Boomtown Rat, and invented Reggie Music by nabbing it from 1970s Saturday morning telly!
"Yo yo yo, yo-y'yo yo. Yo yo yo, y'yo y'yo yo!" his wailers wail, clearly nicking Fleagle, Drooper, Snorky & Bingo's signature tune, and simply changing "Tra la la, la-la la la, Tra la la, la-la la-la la!" to a succession of "Yo"'s.
If I were a giant beagle in a huge pair of yellow sunglasses, I'd be suing the dreadlocks off him, if he hadn't been asphyxiated to death when his dreads wrapped around his neck and deaded him to death.
Xodus!
Meriahs impaled indeed - should be Maria Carey impaled!
On a big pointy barbed stick. Not my nob. For she is, in truth, a munter of the most horrendous visual 'appeal' with the voice of an angel. A fallen one. In the deepest pits of Dantes' Peak. With æons of torture aplied to the vocal chords, creating the caterwauling screechy harpyesque dulcet tones we all know and loathe.
Buffalo soldier in a buffalo stance?
Gruffalo, more like!
Seems that everyones hairy cow militiaman was a-smoking too much of the ganja and scoffing too much goat curry and jerk chicken to realise what he was doing.
Between sips of Malibu and Lilt, one Jacob Marley gave up the rattling of chains, took the moniker of his favourite Boomtown Rat, and invented Reggie Music by nabbing it from 1970s Saturday morning telly!
"Yo yo yo, yo-y'yo yo. Yo yo yo, y'yo y'yo yo!" his wailers wail, clearly nicking Fleagle, Drooper, Snorky & Bingo's signature tune, and simply changing "Tra la la, la-la la la, Tra la la, la-la la-la la!" to a succession of "Yo"'s.
One banana, Two banana, Three banana, four
Add a dash of coconut and over rum you pour!
No wonder he fled his homestead in fear of assassination - all the young kids took up their cricket bats in anger at the transgression of their becostumed aminals theme toon into some political ballad!
If I were a giant beagle in a huge pair of yellow sunglasses, I'd be suing the dreadlocks off him, if he hadn't been asphyxiated to death when his dreads wrapped around his neck and deaded him to death.
Xodus!
Meriahs impaled indeed - should be Maria Carey impaled!
On a big pointy barbed stick. Not my nob. For she is, in truth, a munter of the most horrendous visual 'appeal' with the voice of an angel. A fallen one. In the deepest pits of Dantes' Peak. With æons of torture aplied to the vocal chords, creating the caterwauling screechy harpyesque dulcet tones we all know and loathe.
Buffalo soldier in a buffalo stance?
Gruffalo, more like!
Thursday 21 August 2008
Jam don’t shake like that...
Thus sayeth the foul mouthed (and yet deceased) Roger Mellie, the Jazz Singer*.
Although, he seems to have gotten in somewhat wide of the mark, for I partook of Cupboard Jelly t'other night, and it was a most unstable fruity treat.
Solidification to a certain consistency is what is required of this most important consituent of trifles, but when the Jelly just can't be arsed to retain it's own rigidity, then the world is a poorer place for it.
There's nowt worse than being served up a quivering mass of wobbly gelatine... as them Indians found out when they switched on Indian Pig Botherer to find Jade Goody basking like a beached mass of blubber in the garden**.
And just why do them Americans insist on calling Jam 'Jelly' and Jelly 'Jell-o'? What do they call Jam - not a preserve, for that's a big Nature Park, where they send stupid people to live in huts in the woody bits, where gormsters bung on caped and cowskulls to go a-diving into spike pits***.
When I get offered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I expect crunchy beige goo topped with transluscent Rowntree fruity flavoured gelatine.
It's made from hooves, you know!
* NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE JIZZ SINGER, BEING THAT HOLLY JOHNSON AND HIS NOW LEGENDARY 'RELAX' HIT SINGLE...
** YEAH, LIKE ANYONE'S GOING TO GO TO ANOTHER COUNTRY TO STAR IN PIG BOTHERER WHEN YOUR TEST RESULTS ARE DUE IN TO SEE IF YOU GOT CANCER. IT'S ALL A PUBLICITY STUNT - ALL THE THICK TROUT NEEDED TO DO WAS TO TURN TO RUSSELL GRANT'S COLUMN, LOOK AT WHERE HER BIRTHDATE FALLS, AND GET HER STARSIGN. SIGN OF THE CRABS. 'NUFF SAID...
*** NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH SPIKE'S 'PITS, FOR EM KNIGHT CHARLATAN MADE NO MENTION OF UNDERARM SHENNANIGANS.... ALTHOUGH THE FILM IN QUESTION WAS AKIN TO DIVING INTO NENA'S PITS, AFTER A VIGEROUS PERFORMANCE OF 99 LUFTBALON. STILL, NOT AS BAD AS 'THE HAPPENING', WHICH WAS MORE AKIN TO DIVING INTO BETH DITKO'S HAIRY ARSE AFTER A LUMBERING ACROSS THE GLASTONBURY STAGE ON A HOT DAY AND NOT WIPING HER BOMB BAY DOORS COZ THERE'S NO BOG PAPER IN THE PORTALOOS.
Although, he seems to have gotten in somewhat wide of the mark, for I partook of Cupboard Jelly t'other night, and it was a most unstable fruity treat.
Solidification to a certain consistency is what is required of this most important consituent of trifles, but when the Jelly just can't be arsed to retain it's own rigidity, then the world is a poorer place for it.
There's nowt worse than being served up a quivering mass of wobbly gelatine... as them Indians found out when they switched on Indian Pig Botherer to find Jade Goody basking like a beached mass of blubber in the garden**.
And just why do them Americans insist on calling Jam 'Jelly' and Jelly 'Jell-o'? What do they call Jam - not a preserve, for that's a big Nature Park, where they send stupid people to live in huts in the woody bits, where gormsters bung on caped and cowskulls to go a-diving into spike pits***.
When I get offered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I expect crunchy beige goo topped with transluscent Rowntree fruity flavoured gelatine.
It's made from hooves, you know!
* NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE JIZZ SINGER, BEING THAT HOLLY JOHNSON AND HIS NOW LEGENDARY 'RELAX' HIT SINGLE...
** YEAH, LIKE ANYONE'S GOING TO GO TO ANOTHER COUNTRY TO STAR IN PIG BOTHERER WHEN YOUR TEST RESULTS ARE DUE IN TO SEE IF YOU GOT CANCER. IT'S ALL A PUBLICITY STUNT - ALL THE THICK TROUT NEEDED TO DO WAS TO TURN TO RUSSELL GRANT'S COLUMN, LOOK AT WHERE HER BIRTHDATE FALLS, AND GET HER STARSIGN. SIGN OF THE CRABS. 'NUFF SAID...
*** NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH SPIKE'S 'PITS, FOR EM KNIGHT CHARLATAN MADE NO MENTION OF UNDERARM SHENNANIGANS.... ALTHOUGH THE FILM IN QUESTION WAS AKIN TO DIVING INTO NENA'S PITS, AFTER A VIGEROUS PERFORMANCE OF 99 LUFTBALON. STILL, NOT AS BAD AS 'THE HAPPENING', WHICH WAS MORE AKIN TO DIVING INTO BETH DITKO'S HAIRY ARSE AFTER A LUMBERING ACROSS THE GLASTONBURY STAGE ON A HOT DAY AND NOT WIPING HER BOMB BAY DOORS COZ THERE'S NO BOG PAPER IN THE PORTALOOS.
Wednesday 20 August 2008
Bring on the strumpet...
Ahhh. Isn't is so cool that we contain only natural colors and natural flavours...
BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
Wha...?BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
It's got nothing to do with trumpets. I ws just talking about natural colors and natural flavours...BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
What does that mean???BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
Stop saying that!BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
...BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
I didn't say anything!HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
TRUMPETS.
Tuesday 19 August 2008
Reservoir Fogs...
Finally, I got to watch my DVD all the way through, although one cannot help but be mystified by the partial title.
Stephen King's The Mist... or, more accurately, The Mist(er men)!
Poor old Roger Hargreaves must be turning in his grave at this complete rip-off of his masterpiece of literature!
Of course, there will be those who state that The Arrowhead Project was a dimensional breach, creating a portal for all the hordes of Lovecraftian terrors to pass thru.
Not quite!
The clue lies in the title: Arrowhead Project - and who exactly are Arrowheads? Only Mr Rush and Mr Christmas!
A portal into a cartoon world, releasing the Mister Men from their horrible 2D realm into full 3D reality, and making the most of it!
And oh, the terrible havoc Mr Tickle wreaks once he gets his ticklish mitts on Norm the Bag Boy by the loading bay doors.
Don't Panic Mr Mainwairing, is then the order of the day, as the more negative Mister Men stalk through The Mist, with the gnashing and the wailing and the rending of flesh and the partaking of ever so many eggs in a wok.
Unless Little Miss Naughty has snaffled and scrambled 'em, the thieving chavtart. "Turkehy? Inna oven? Ahm fuckin' nickin' it inneye. Purple face? Bovvered?"
Still, it was worth it for the money shot of Mr Tall striding over hills and fields.
Strange thing about the Mister Men (and Little Misses) - is that they seem to be breeding. When I grews up, there was a certain number of the little buggers - Mr Bump, Mr Greedy, My Fussy, etc. Now, it seems that there has been an influx of Mister WhoTheFuckIsThat?
And how come they're all swingers? They must all live in Mister Men World, yet they're forever visiting each other and staying for a few days. It's like going on holiday, only spending it with the "liberated neighbours" down the road!
And it's all sex, sex sex! Apart from Mister Tickle* molesting schoolkids in class by way of his extremely long arms, there's schoolkids evading class by being temped out by paedophilic blue clouds, with the lure of getting a ride on a big bird, where there's room for one more up top.
I don't know. Next it'll be out with Mr Bump and Mr Fussy, and in with Mr Bondage and Mr Gimp. Not to mention Little Miss Dominatrix, or Little Miss Skank Ho Bitch Motherfucker.
With Kingpin Mr Pimp keeping them all in line...
But not line dancing...
Unless it's the Can Can...
* NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE OTHER MR (JON) TICKLE OFF'VE BRIANIAC, WHICH IS SCIENCE ABUSE, NOT CHILD ABUSE.
Stephen King's The Mist... or, more accurately, The Mist(er men)!
Poor old Roger Hargreaves must be turning in his grave at this complete rip-off of his masterpiece of literature!
Of course, there will be those who state that The Arrowhead Project was a dimensional breach, creating a portal for all the hordes of Lovecraftian terrors to pass thru.
Not quite!
The clue lies in the title: Arrowhead Project - and who exactly are Arrowheads? Only Mr Rush and Mr Christmas!
A portal into a cartoon world, releasing the Mister Men from their horrible 2D realm into full 3D reality, and making the most of it!
And oh, the terrible havoc Mr Tickle wreaks once he gets his ticklish mitts on Norm the Bag Boy by the loading bay doors.
Don't Panic Mr Mainwairing, is then the order of the day, as the more negative Mister Men stalk through The Mist, with the gnashing and the wailing and the rending of flesh and the partaking of ever so many eggs in a wok.
Unless Little Miss Naughty has snaffled and scrambled 'em, the thieving chavtart. "Turkehy? Inna oven? Ahm fuckin' nickin' it inneye. Purple face? Bovvered?"
Still, it was worth it for the money shot of Mr Tall striding over hills and fields.
Strange thing about the Mister Men (and Little Misses) - is that they seem to be breeding. When I grews up, there was a certain number of the little buggers - Mr Bump, Mr Greedy, My Fussy, etc. Now, it seems that there has been an influx of Mister WhoTheFuckIsThat?
And how come they're all swingers? They must all live in Mister Men World, yet they're forever visiting each other and staying for a few days. It's like going on holiday, only spending it with the "liberated neighbours" down the road!
And it's all sex, sex sex! Apart from Mister Tickle* molesting schoolkids in class by way of his extremely long arms, there's schoolkids evading class by being temped out by paedophilic blue clouds, with the lure of getting a ride on a big bird, where there's room for one more up top.
I don't know. Next it'll be out with Mr Bump and Mr Fussy, and in with Mr Bondage and Mr Gimp. Not to mention Little Miss Dominatrix, or Little Miss Skank Ho Bitch Motherfucker.
With Kingpin Mr Pimp keeping them all in line...
But not line dancing...
Unless it's the Can Can...
* NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE OTHER MR (JON) TICKLE OFF'VE BRIANIAC, WHICH IS SCIENCE ABUSE, NOT CHILD ABUSE.
Monday 18 August 2008
"Shut Up" or "Piss Off"...
In my ever expanding role of Guru, pilgrims seeking enlightenment are once again questing for knowledge.
Todays font of wisdom concerns the naming of children and pregnant fishies.
It seems that some are concerned that it's perfectly acceptable to name a spawining Goldfish by way of Twit, or Prat, and yet this moniker is not applied to the general human populace.
Of course, this isn't true, for I personally have named a heck of a lot of people as pratts. Not to mention twits. Or just complete fuckwits.
Anyhoo, Pratt and Twitt are accepted surnames, so it begs the question: When you name a fishie, are you giving it a surname only? And why is it only pregnant fish that get called Prat or Twit?
Coz they're a prat or a twit for not using contraception in the first place!
Mind you, they've only got a memory of about 3 seconds, which in effect is inbuilt Rhohypnol. So there's all these club 18-30 types nobbing about, and having no memory of it!! BUT... if a fish only has a 3 second memory, surely once mummy fishie has told them about the Prawns and the Whelks, they've forgotten how to have sex. BUT... surely mum wouldn't remember that she'd even had sex, let along pass on the knowledge, having forgotten 3 seconds after the event.
And if none of them remember how to do the dirty deed, then they would be unable to reproduce. And if they forgot how to reproduce, then there can't be any naturally born.
Proof enough, I think, that golfdish are not fish at all, but the evil hybrid offspring of those Carny types, which explains why they only come in plastic bags after winning on the Hook A Duck game.
And if they've got Hooker Ducks on the game, then it's no wonder they give birth to these mentally retarded orangey floaters with no retentive memory that die when you get them home. Probably because they're taken out of the 'oxygen tent' that they came in.
And if they've cum in the oxygen tent, I ain't cleaning out the tank...
Todays font of wisdom concerns the naming of children and pregnant fishies.
It seems that some are concerned that it's perfectly acceptable to name a spawining Goldfish by way of Twit, or Prat, and yet this moniker is not applied to the general human populace.
Of course, this isn't true, for I personally have named a heck of a lot of people as pratts. Not to mention twits. Or just complete fuckwits.
Anyhoo, Pratt and Twitt are accepted surnames, so it begs the question: When you name a fishie, are you giving it a surname only? And why is it only pregnant fish that get called Prat or Twit?
Coz they're a prat or a twit for not using contraception in the first place!
Mind you, they've only got a memory of about 3 seconds, which in effect is inbuilt Rhohypnol. So there's all these club 18-30 types nobbing about, and having no memory of it!! BUT... if a fish only has a 3 second memory, surely once mummy fishie has told them about the Prawns and the Whelks, they've forgotten how to have sex. BUT... surely mum wouldn't remember that she'd even had sex, let along pass on the knowledge, having forgotten 3 seconds after the event.
And if none of them remember how to do the dirty deed, then they would be unable to reproduce. And if they forgot how to reproduce, then there can't be any naturally born.
Proof enough, I think, that golfdish are not fish at all, but the evil hybrid offspring of those Carny types, which explains why they only come in plastic bags after winning on the Hook A Duck game.
And if they've got Hooker Ducks on the game, then it's no wonder they give birth to these mentally retarded orangey floaters with no retentive memory that die when you get them home. Probably because they're taken out of the 'oxygen tent' that they came in.
And if they've cum in the oxygen tent, I ain't cleaning out the tank...
Sunday 17 August 2008
Love is the slug (on Halloween)...
Oft has it been asked, but never truly answered, is why do some have an aversion to gastropods, yet a fondness for molluscs?
See, French folk guzzle garlic snails by the bucketload, yet the slug is rarely served up! And with gastronomy being the art of stuffing yer great fat face, you'd think gastropods would be top of the menu, ma!
Of course, the very word slug has negative connotations. Got a heated slug, at your brain (Dust) as they would have it in them thar westerns. Or even A slug of old Yellowbelly can often voiced by drunken gunslingers before the Big Shoot Out.
But the humble snail has a much more favourable presence in the world. Witness Le Manège enchanté, filmed in the UK as Le Menagé Trois* (and probably voiced by Brian Cunt) which we now fondly remember as The Magic Roundabout. Here we have Brian, a loveable, rouge-cheeked snail.
And so the indoctrination began - friendly snail on TV, teachers getting the kids to draw snails with colorful rainbow shells, and young girls are subliminally indoctrinated with the lure of Autumn Molluscs** to decorate their dainty digits.
With snails, you can make up friendly tales about the home on his back, which the slug does lack somewhat. In fact, people tend to overlook the fact that a snail is only a slug that someone's superglued a seahell on the top of!
And so, the lowly slug is left to wreak it's revenge by partaking of Pumpkins.
Pumpkins, of course, being yet another childrens tellyshow, where the heir of J.R.Hartley threw out 'Slug' in favour of Tortoise.
Now, something arose last night (oo-er!) concerning the said Samhainian fruit, but due to consumption of Jacques and Absinth, I cannot recall any details. I do remember my burgers sticking out their yellow tongues upon the BBQ, so mayhap it was to do with an Uprising of Pumpkin Carvery.***
Either that, or comparing a pair of pumpkins to a pair of busoms.
And you don't want slugs gnawing on yer norks and leaving slime trails all over your kle'varj...
* FAMED FOR IT'S WEEKLY PORTRAYAL OF FLORENCE BEING SPIT-ROASTED BY DYLAN (AKA "THE RABBIT", AFTER HIS VORACIOUS SEXUAL APPETITE AND STAMINA) AND ZEBEDEE, CRYING OUT "BOING!" WITH EVERY THRUST OF HIS SPRING. MR RUSTY, HOWEVER, WAS OFTEN SEEN VOYEURISTICALLY VIEWING THEM FROM THE BUSHES, AS HE WAS A RAMPANT DOGGER.
FLORENCE WENT ON TO TV DOCUMENTARIES, WHERE SHE TOSSED OFF DOUGAL ON CAMERA, LIKE THAT REBECCA LAVATORIES WHO PULLED OFF THAT PIG (DAVID BECKHAM, I THINK HE WAS CALLED)...
** FALL SNAILS... (FALL SNAILS... FALSE NAILS.. NO? WELL STUFF YOU THEN!)
*** ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT, A GROUP OF STUDENTS SNEAK AWAY FROM THE COLLEGE TO SPEND THE NIGHT IN A PUMPKIN PATCH. SURROUNDED BY THE CARVED FACES OF PUMPKINS, THEY SETTLE DOWN TO PARTY. BUT, AS THE SUN SETS, SOMETHING IS MOVING IN THE PATCH. ONE BY ONE, THEY ARE HUNTED DOWN BY AN ANCIENT EVIL BEYOND THEIR WORST NIGHTMARES. AS CANDLELIGHT STREAMS FROM CARVED TRIANGULAR EYES, AND THE CARVED TEETH ARE HUNGRY FOR FLESH, WHO CAN SURVIVE WHEN DEATH WEARS A CARVED PUMPKIN HEAD (not a Lazlo Woodbine thriller at all).
See, French folk guzzle garlic snails by the bucketload, yet the slug is rarely served up! And with gastronomy being the art of stuffing yer great fat face, you'd think gastropods would be top of the menu, ma!
Of course, the very word slug has negative connotations. Got a heated slug, at your brain (Dust) as they would have it in them thar westerns. Or even A slug of old Yellowbelly can often voiced by drunken gunslingers before the Big Shoot Out.
But the humble snail has a much more favourable presence in the world. Witness Le Manège enchanté, filmed in the UK as Le Menagé Trois* (and probably voiced by Brian Cunt) which we now fondly remember as The Magic Roundabout. Here we have Brian, a loveable, rouge-cheeked snail.
And so the indoctrination began - friendly snail on TV, teachers getting the kids to draw snails with colorful rainbow shells, and young girls are subliminally indoctrinated with the lure of Autumn Molluscs** to decorate their dainty digits.
With snails, you can make up friendly tales about the home on his back, which the slug does lack somewhat. In fact, people tend to overlook the fact that a snail is only a slug that someone's superglued a seahell on the top of!
And so, the lowly slug is left to wreak it's revenge by partaking of Pumpkins.
Pumpkins, of course, being yet another childrens tellyshow, where the heir of J.R.Hartley threw out 'Slug' in favour of Tortoise.
Now, something arose last night (oo-er!) concerning the said Samhainian fruit, but due to consumption of Jacques and Absinth, I cannot recall any details. I do remember my burgers sticking out their yellow tongues upon the BBQ, so mayhap it was to do with an Uprising of Pumpkin Carvery.***
Either that, or comparing a pair of pumpkins to a pair of busoms.
And you don't want slugs gnawing on yer norks and leaving slime trails all over your kle'varj...
* FAMED FOR IT'S WEEKLY PORTRAYAL OF FLORENCE BEING SPIT-ROASTED BY DYLAN (AKA "THE RABBIT", AFTER HIS VORACIOUS SEXUAL APPETITE AND STAMINA) AND ZEBEDEE, CRYING OUT "BOING!" WITH EVERY THRUST OF HIS SPRING. MR RUSTY, HOWEVER, WAS OFTEN SEEN VOYEURISTICALLY VIEWING THEM FROM THE BUSHES, AS HE WAS A RAMPANT DOGGER.
FLORENCE WENT ON TO TV DOCUMENTARIES, WHERE SHE TOSSED OFF DOUGAL ON CAMERA, LIKE THAT REBECCA LAVATORIES WHO PULLED OFF THAT PIG (DAVID BECKHAM, I THINK HE WAS CALLED)...
** FALL SNAILS... (FALL SNAILS... FALSE NAILS.. NO? WELL STUFF YOU THEN!)
*** ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT, A GROUP OF STUDENTS SNEAK AWAY FROM THE COLLEGE TO SPEND THE NIGHT IN A PUMPKIN PATCH. SURROUNDED BY THE CARVED FACES OF PUMPKINS, THEY SETTLE DOWN TO PARTY. BUT, AS THE SUN SETS, SOMETHING IS MOVING IN THE PATCH. ONE BY ONE, THEY ARE HUNTED DOWN BY AN ANCIENT EVIL BEYOND THEIR WORST NIGHTMARES. AS CANDLELIGHT STREAMS FROM CARVED TRIANGULAR EYES, AND THE CARVED TEETH ARE HUNGRY FOR FLESH, WHO CAN SURVIVE WHEN DEATH WEARS A CARVED PUMPKIN HEAD (not a Lazlo Woodbine thriller at all).
Saturday 16 August 2008
Bee-elzebub has a Breville put aside for tea...
Watching Pig Botherer last night, I was amazed to see The Housemates belting out the now legendary Queen classic Bohemian Rap sodomy.
Although I was amazed at the lyrics. I know people hear different lyrics in songs (such as Madge singing about Anna Friel in Ray of Light, and Sting going on about Sue Lawley), but all this time I was mistaken. Seems most of the words are actually "dum de dum de dum", eg
dum dum de dum dum, NO BODY LOVES ME
Honestly, grown men and women... well, men & women... OK, maybe a couple of adults and a bunch of brats, and none of them know the lyrics to one of (if not the) most famous song on the planet.
But it's a bit of an odd song though. What I don't understand, is if this bohemian bloke feels so much remorse over shooting some bloke in the bonce, why does he douse himself in marmalade?
Unless..., this is Freddie's sexual deviancy coming out. We've all heard about how these anal retentive types slather their shlongs in butter to ease their way up the back passage - but Marmalade?
Chivers down his spine... and dribbling down his arsecrack as well, I shouldn't wonder!
Golden Shred as a lubricant indeed! Still, I suppose after a full on mingemunching session, makes a change to extract slivers of orange peel rather than pubes wot are stuck 'twixt yer teeth.
As long as it's not marmite...apart from being foul tasting, it would just look like you shat yerself. My mate Marmite indeed. And if you're mating utiizing yeast extract products as a sex aid, then there's something seriously wrong.
Although I guess Vegemite is OK, coz that would be like pleasuring yourself with a cucumber.
Or something...
Although I was amazed at the lyrics. I know people hear different lyrics in songs (such as Madge singing about Anna Friel in Ray of Light, and Sting going on about Sue Lawley), but all this time I was mistaken. Seems most of the words are actually "dum de dum de dum", eg
dum dum de dum dum, NO BODY LOVES ME
dum dum de dum dum de MONSTROSITY!
Honestly, grown men and women... well, men & women... OK, maybe a couple of adults and a bunch of brats, and none of them know the lyrics to one of (if not the) most famous song on the planet.
But it's a bit of an odd song though. What I don't understand, is if this bohemian bloke feels so much remorse over shooting some bloke in the bonce, why does he douse himself in marmalade?
Unless..., this is Freddie's sexual deviancy coming out. We've all heard about how these anal retentive types slather their shlongs in butter to ease their way up the back passage - but Marmalade?
Chivers down his spine... and dribbling down his arsecrack as well, I shouldn't wonder!
Golden Shred as a lubricant indeed! Still, I suppose after a full on mingemunching session, makes a change to extract slivers of orange peel rather than pubes wot are stuck 'twixt yer teeth.
As long as it's not marmite...apart from being foul tasting, it would just look like you shat yerself. My mate Marmite indeed. And if you're mating utiizing yeast extract products as a sex aid, then there's something seriously wrong.
Although I guess Vegemite is OK, coz that would be like pleasuring yourself with a cucumber.
Or something...
Friday 15 August 2008
Ziggurats and alcohol...
Deep in the Peruvian rainforests, there is much to wonder at. Cyclopean masonry and Sun Gates abound, as well as marmalade munchings by the local ursine population.
Eric Van Dine Again wrote this book about it - Chariots of the Jogs. Seems that "way back then" these space monsters invaded the rainforests, much like Predator. However, the local yokels had yet to invent the now legendary General Electric Minigun, so the Olde Gods settle in a bit and took to the excercise to pass the time.
Of course, Macho Picakchu isn't exactly the best olympian site, so they relocated to Nazca. There are those greybeards (of the mental persuasion) who claim that there are many lines at Nazca, forming the shapes of aminals - humingbirds, monkeys, piedahs and the like.
Friend greybeard now weeps into his foolish follicle chin tresses, for it's clear to anyone that the lines are a circuit track, well worn into the sandy surface of the plains.
The modern runing track is ovoid in shape - which is dead boring, and not exactly challenging. These ancient athletes pushed themselves to the limit - instead of a constant slow circular route, they took sharp bends, long straights, doubling back, and pushing each other onto the Nazcan equivalent of the Cerne Abbas Giant's shlong.
Not unlike Formula 1!
But now, all these space athletes have gone. Deported back to the Outer Spheres for doping themselves up and spit roasting the gymnasts (literally, for there was not much to eat back then, apart from coconuts and cans of Lilt)
All that's left if their Olympian circuits, and a bevvy of beautiful warrior women. Bereft of their intergalactic love missile F1-11s, they sit in tropical bliss, drinking Um Bongo, slapping on each others busoms for bongos to accompany the singing the Iko Iko song, and order impractical daywear from Littlewoods.
Imagine some face painted Amazonian goddess leaping out of a bush, spear in hand, all bedecked in a scanty flouncy mini-skirt and a Bench crop-top, leaping on top of a wild bore and wrestling it to the ground...
Hold on, that's Booze Britain CCTV on More4 on a Saturday night...
Eric Van Dine Again wrote this book about it - Chariots of the Jogs. Seems that "way back then" these space monsters invaded the rainforests, much like Predator. However, the local yokels had yet to invent the now legendary General Electric Minigun, so the Olde Gods settle in a bit and took to the excercise to pass the time.
Of course, Macho Picakchu isn't exactly the best olympian site, so they relocated to Nazca. There are those greybeards (of the mental persuasion) who claim that there are many lines at Nazca, forming the shapes of aminals - humingbirds, monkeys, piedahs and the like.
Friend greybeard now weeps into his foolish follicle chin tresses, for it's clear to anyone that the lines are a circuit track, well worn into the sandy surface of the plains.
The modern runing track is ovoid in shape - which is dead boring, and not exactly challenging. These ancient athletes pushed themselves to the limit - instead of a constant slow circular route, they took sharp bends, long straights, doubling back, and pushing each other onto the Nazcan equivalent of the Cerne Abbas Giant's shlong.
Not unlike Formula 1!
But now, all these space athletes have gone. Deported back to the Outer Spheres for doping themselves up and spit roasting the gymnasts (literally, for there was not much to eat back then, apart from coconuts and cans of Lilt)
All that's left if their Olympian circuits, and a bevvy of beautiful warrior women. Bereft of their intergalactic love missile F1-11s, they sit in tropical bliss, drinking Um Bongo, slapping on each others busoms for bongos to accompany the singing the Iko Iko song, and order impractical daywear from Littlewoods.
Imagine some face painted Amazonian goddess leaping out of a bush, spear in hand, all bedecked in a scanty flouncy mini-skirt and a Bench crop-top, leaping on top of a wild bore and wrestling it to the ground...
Hold on, that's Booze Britain CCTV on More4 on a Saturday night...
Thursday 14 August 2008
Be afraid... Bee very afraid...
Now, we're all very familiar with the remake of The Fly, where Jeff Goldblum bungs Formula 1 Commentator Martin Brundle into a teleporter with Seth Armstrong off've Emmerdale.
Of course, the emergent Seth Brundle slowly deteriorates into a quivering mass of insectile mandibles and acidic vomit, as it rampages amongst Jack Sugden's cows and takes a bite out of Kimi's Ferrai Rocher.
But consider the original, for there is a perplexing conundrum that puzzles me somewhat.
OK, so Vincent Price goes into a teleporter, and comes out with a great big fly's head on his shoulders and a pair of pincers on the end of his arm. He then rationalises aout his plight, performing experiments to get his bonce back. Which is all well and good... until we get to the now legendary "Help meeee!" ending.
Now, if The Fly has a human noggin, and can speak, but the human has a flies fizzog but can still think like a human... where did the second human brain come from, and where did the flies brain get to?
If The Fly had the human head and brain, surely the mad experimenting professor with the antennae looming out his cranium should have the fly's brain and be in the toilet, sucking up poo.
Of course, it may not be pleasant viewing, but that's what flies do! Flies do not sit about in laboratories performing complex computations and chemical analysis. Unless...
...yet another breed of Illuminati!!
Reptillian overlords, Carapaced Conquerers, and now Insectoid Intellegensia!
Will their evil, tyrannical rule never be brought to an end?
Of course, the emergent Seth Brundle slowly deteriorates into a quivering mass of insectile mandibles and acidic vomit, as it rampages amongst Jack Sugden's cows and takes a bite out of Kimi's Ferrai Rocher.
But consider the original, for there is a perplexing conundrum that puzzles me somewhat.
OK, so Vincent Price goes into a teleporter, and comes out with a great big fly's head on his shoulders and a pair of pincers on the end of his arm. He then rationalises aout his plight, performing experiments to get his bonce back. Which is all well and good... until we get to the now legendary "Help meeee!" ending.
Now, if The Fly has a human noggin, and can speak, but the human has a flies fizzog but can still think like a human... where did the second human brain come from, and where did the flies brain get to?
If The Fly had the human head and brain, surely the mad experimenting professor with the antennae looming out his cranium should have the fly's brain and be in the toilet, sucking up poo.
Of course, it may not be pleasant viewing, but that's what flies do! Flies do not sit about in laboratories performing complex computations and chemical analysis. Unless...
...yet another breed of Illuminati!!
Reptillian overlords, Carapaced Conquerers, and now Insectoid Intellegensia!
Will their evil, tyrannical rule never be brought to an end?
Wednesday 13 August 2008
Chariots of fiery biscuits...
Blimey, I ne'er realised the depths to which these young trollops will stoop to get their hands on a lads lunchbox.
A tug of war may not exactly be fair on the fairer sex, being somewhat less muscular than blokes. Apart from them of the dumping of lard into beer persuasion*. But diversionary techniques of a mammarian nature?
Foul, foul play indeed!
There's all the boys, tugging away, when along jogs Nubile Teacher in her tight white top, all bouncing busoms in slo-mo causing the lads to drop their rope and offering up the change for the girls to snaffle their lunchboxes.
'snot fair - I never had any teachers like that!
Let alone girls grabbing me lunchbox.
Still - could be worse. The thought of hiring the vast bloated paedophilic Jabbaesque chemistry teacher to lumber past in a banana hammock in order to distract the girls just to get a ham and piccalilly sarnie and some Hedgehog crisps is more than enough to put the frighteners on.
Urgh. Unfettered bouncing moobs...
* FAT IN MY WHITBREAD (WHITBREAD BEING A FAMOUS BEER OOP NORF)
A tug of war may not exactly be fair on the fairer sex, being somewhat less muscular than blokes. Apart from them of the dumping of lard into beer persuasion*. But diversionary techniques of a mammarian nature?
Foul, foul play indeed!
There's all the boys, tugging away, when along jogs Nubile Teacher in her tight white top, all bouncing busoms in slo-mo causing the lads to drop their rope and offering up the change for the girls to snaffle their lunchboxes.
'snot fair - I never had any teachers like that!
Let alone girls grabbing me lunchbox.
Still - could be worse. The thought of hiring the vast bloated paedophilic Jabbaesque chemistry teacher to lumber past in a banana hammock in order to distract the girls just to get a ham and piccalilly sarnie and some Hedgehog crisps is more than enough to put the frighteners on.
Urgh. Unfettered bouncing moobs...
* FAT IN MY WHITBREAD (WHITBREAD BEING A FAMOUS BEER OOP NORF)
Tuesday 12 August 2008
Monday 11 August 2008
We shall bite them on the features...
Well, my car insurance is up for renewal next month, and I'm a tad swayed by them tellybox commercials!
Seems that Churchill is offering a free WeatherTart with every policy! Not only that, there's a stipulation in the clauses that means the madame from the met office has to lie there feeding you sausages like some roman Bacchus!
Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Now, there may be some who'll not take kindly to having Sian Lloyd and Ulrika Jonnson lounging about the Chaise Longue saucily poking bratwurst at you, but I'm sure there's something for The Ladies.
Fred Talbot perhaps. In a toga, instead of a pullover. Or perhaps they can get you a totally different Kettley of Fish - feeding you their fishery fingers and blowing off like a hurricaine in the bedroom.
Think I'll have to take out a loan, and get a free Carol Phwoarrderman as well. Although I think I'll pass on the Over 50 plan - apart from being too young, I'm not having that Gloria Hunnymonster littering up the living room.
Ah, but if it was her lovely daughter Caron in 1987, it's be a completely different matter! Oh, the irony, there's her mum flogging You're-Gonna-Die (no questions asked) Insurance, and the Blue Peter babe turned blue before she got a chance for her mum to flog her one.
Still, given half the chance, I wouldn't mind "flogging her one".
Although not now, due to the advanced state of cancerous decay...
Seems that Churchill is offering a free WeatherTart with every policy! Not only that, there's a stipulation in the clauses that means the madame from the met office has to lie there feeding you sausages like some roman Bacchus!
Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Now, there may be some who'll not take kindly to having Sian Lloyd and Ulrika Jonnson lounging about the Chaise Longue saucily poking bratwurst at you, but I'm sure there's something for The Ladies.
Fred Talbot perhaps. In a toga, instead of a pullover. Or perhaps they can get you a totally different Kettley of Fish - feeding you their fishery fingers and blowing off like a hurricaine in the bedroom.
Think I'll have to take out a loan, and get a free Carol Phwoarrderman as well. Although I think I'll pass on the Over 50 plan - apart from being too young, I'm not having that Gloria Hunnymonster littering up the living room.
Ah, but if it was her lovely daughter Caron in 1987, it's be a completely different matter! Oh, the irony, there's her mum flogging You're-Gonna-Die (no questions asked) Insurance, and the Blue Peter babe turned blue before she got a chance for her mum to flog her one.
Still, given half the chance, I wouldn't mind "flogging her one".
Although not now, due to the advanced state of cancerous decay...
Sunday 10 August 2008
Peyote Ugly...
Normally, one of the unspoken rules of The Horror Movies is that the ones that get deaded to death are all fuelled up on sex and booze.
So, imaging my suprise when following my rant about Halloween:H2O, I sees an advert for the scary follow up: Fuit Shoot: H2O.
Apart from having a little Wii Mii of my mate Chez dancing in puddles, it seems to be linked to other fruit based beverages.
Oh, Arses! 'Springs' to mind! Hold on... wellsprings! And who springs up from wells... only bloody Sadako/Samara with her hideous glaring eye of fright! Oh arses indeed!
Murderous Mayhem due to watery liquid refreshement by a Victor Carune human/plant hybrid on the rampage. Abducting daughters and quaffing Fruits of the Forest cordial in roadside diners whilst on the run from The Feds, intent on seeding his spores into the atmos, as well as seeding his whores to bring about an army of cactii-kids, sucking the chlorophyll out of the neighboring foliage, and when that runs out, resorting to feasting on the blood of hitch-hikers.
And as for Ribena... well, it seems those gentically modified blackcurrants aren't safe from the wrath of vimto-lipped psychopaths - chasing the poor fruit around the kitchen until they can squish them in a horrifying manner!
Fruit Shoot: H2O - The Night She Poured Some...
So, imaging my suprise when following my rant about Halloween:H2O, I sees an advert for the scary follow up: Fuit Shoot: H2O.
Apart from having a little Wii Mii of my mate Chez dancing in puddles, it seems to be linked to other fruit based beverages.
Oh, Arses! 'Springs' to mind! Hold on... wellsprings! And who springs up from wells... only bloody Sadako/Samara with her hideous glaring eye of fright! Oh arses indeed!
Murderous Mayhem due to watery liquid refreshement by a Victor Carune human/plant hybrid on the rampage. Abducting daughters and quaffing Fruits of the Forest cordial in roadside diners whilst on the run from The Feds, intent on seeding his spores into the atmos, as well as seeding his whores to bring about an army of cactii-kids, sucking the chlorophyll out of the neighboring foliage, and when that runs out, resorting to feasting on the blood of hitch-hikers.
And as for Ribena... well, it seems those gentically modified blackcurrants aren't safe from the wrath of vimto-lipped psychopaths - chasing the poor fruit around the kitchen until they can squish them in a horrifying manner!
Fruit Shoot: H2O - The Night She Poured Some...
Saturday 9 August 2008
What’s Gilbert Grape eating...
Yay! I received my Mystical Charm last night, all spelled up and ready to attract the Ladies!
Ladies of a chubby chavster stuff-yer-face-full-of-Krabby-Patty types it would seem, for The Charm* has been doused with the essence of Burger Bar**!
And it works too! Strolling around the city, I've never had so many Pretties smile at me - or even shyly saying "Hi" on their way past. Although, somewhat disconcertingly, it prompted those of a similar gender to mine to engage in random chitchat, rather than the usual nod-of-heads-in-passing.
On the downside, the scent of burger bar is wearing off, and being replaced by the the aroma of fat mans belly, so methinks I shall have to pop into Banana's Festival and stock up on them there essential oils.
Essential oils? Just how essential are these oils, for I'm got through many a year without having to purchase any! No wonder I'm a sad, fat, lonely old miseryarse, for I've clearly missed out on the essentialness of oils!
But what exactly is an essential oil? Crude oil? Vegetable oil? Ah, of course! Vegetable Oil - Burger Bar! I haven't missed out on the essentiality at all! Hot melted lard - now THERE'S an essential oil for you!!!
Apparently, to get all the benefits of the healing powers of crystals, you need to coat your rocks in oils and give them a damn good rubbing. Trouble is, I tried it in The Marquee, and apparently, I looked "somewhat sinister". So, all the benefits of this love attracting crystal is offset by the sight of a lardy porkbucket rubbing his rocks and leering at the ladies.
So no change there then!
* "SO, YOU RECKON THAT'S THE CHARM, DO YOU?"
- "YES"
"WELL, I HAVE TO SAY, IT LOOKS - TO ME - LIKE, UH, HALF A BRICK"
- "NOT REALLY. WELL. A BIT. MAYBE."
"IT IS HALF A BRICK, ISN'T IT?"
- "ER....."
"WELL, GOOD TRY. THANK YOU FOR COMING. NEXT!"
- "THE CHARM."
"NO... THAT'S ACTUALLY A CHICKEN..."
- "THE CHARM!"
"I KNOW THIS MUST BE VERY PAINFUL FOR YOU, BUT... CHICKEN."
- "SQUARK! I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL HIM. HE JUST DOESN'T LISTEN!"
** FOR FUCKS SAKE XYMON! FOR THE LAST TIME, IT'S BERGERMOT, NOT BURGER BAR! <-- READERS VOICE - WELL, EXASPERATED VOICE OF JOOLZ)
Ladies of a chubby chavster stuff-yer-face-full-of-Krabby-Patty types it would seem, for The Charm* has been doused with the essence of Burger Bar**!
And it works too! Strolling around the city, I've never had so many Pretties smile at me - or even shyly saying "Hi" on their way past. Although, somewhat disconcertingly, it prompted those of a similar gender to mine to engage in random chitchat, rather than the usual nod-of-heads-in-passing.
On the downside, the scent of burger bar is wearing off, and being replaced by the the aroma of fat mans belly, so methinks I shall have to pop into Banana's Festival and stock up on them there essential oils.
Essential oils? Just how essential are these oils, for I'm got through many a year without having to purchase any! No wonder I'm a sad, fat, lonely old miseryarse, for I've clearly missed out on the essentialness of oils!
But what exactly is an essential oil? Crude oil? Vegetable oil? Ah, of course! Vegetable Oil - Burger Bar! I haven't missed out on the essentiality at all! Hot melted lard - now THERE'S an essential oil for you!!!
Apparently, to get all the benefits of the healing powers of crystals, you need to coat your rocks in oils and give them a damn good rubbing. Trouble is, I tried it in The Marquee, and apparently, I looked "somewhat sinister". So, all the benefits of this love attracting crystal is offset by the sight of a lardy porkbucket rubbing his rocks and leering at the ladies.
So no change there then!
* "SO, YOU RECKON THAT'S THE CHARM, DO YOU?"
- "YES"
"WELL, I HAVE TO SAY, IT LOOKS - TO ME - LIKE, UH, HALF A BRICK"
- "NOT REALLY. WELL. A BIT. MAYBE."
"IT IS HALF A BRICK, ISN'T IT?"
- "ER....."
"WELL, GOOD TRY. THANK YOU FOR COMING. NEXT!"
- "THE CHARM."
"NO... THAT'S ACTUALLY A CHICKEN..."
- "THE CHARM!"
"I KNOW THIS MUST BE VERY PAINFUL FOR YOU, BUT... CHICKEN."
- "SQUARK! I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL HIM. HE JUST DOESN'T LISTEN!"
** FOR FUCKS SAKE XYMON! FOR THE LAST TIME, IT'S BERGERMOT, NOT BURGER BAR! <-- READERS VOICE - WELL, EXASPERATED VOICE OF JOOLZ)
Friday 8 August 2008
Drag queen Lady Bracknell was half in Ernest...
Although this "knife culture" slashathon that's sweeping Londinium is all the rage, I can't help but feel a lack of pity for the latest victim who got skewered for not giving up his Gucci man-bag.
Altogther now, in high pitched ladysqueak of Oscar the wild grouch speak:
"A MAN BAAAAAAG?!?!?!"
For heavens sake, it's a bag. Handbag, satchel, call it it what you will. Apart from a man-bag. That's just so beyond naff it just screams "knife me now"... translated to "poke me with your phallic symbol like the rabid queen I am". Ooooh get her, manbags at dawn.
And now, not satisfied with Guyliner, they've just brought out Manscara! Another excuse for a good slasheroo. A man scarer, one who inflicts scars upon blokes for wearing make up.
Manscara indeed. It's bloody mascara. "Butching" it up just makes it sound more effeminate than if you'd called it Rampant Homosexuals Tarting Up Juice.
Call it mascara and bloody well live with it.
Jesus. Wearing eyeliner doen't make you gay - wearing eyeliner and calling it guyliner - now that is gay. What next, some EMO boy too scared to whiten his face coz his mates might think he's a bit puffy? Oh, he'll have to wear Fellas Foundation or Loggers Lippy on the lips.
Although Fellas Foundation may hint at a school for rentboy pink oboeists, so maybe not!
Manscara! It beggars belief!!
Mark my words - False Guylashes are on the way! And if they are, I want royalties, coz I just came up with the idea!!!!
False guylashes my best hat!
Ranty ranty rantypants.
Talking of which - it's only a matter of time before these "real men" start purchasing little lacey frilly ladies scanty panties, because some bright spark will come up with the name "Manties" (oooh, I am that bright spark! Get me dragons' Den*!). Conan Camiknickers and... well, I would say thongs, but they already have them. Banana hammocks indeed - it's a tarts arseflosser to avoid VPL so everyone thinks she's gone commando and therefore a right old slaaaaaaaag who's "well up for it"....
Or something.
* HI, MY NAME'S XYMON, AND I'M LOOKING FOR £250,000 TO INVEST IN AN EXCITING AND INNOVATIVE NEW ARENA IN MENSWEAR. MEN OFTEN FIND IT EMBARASSING TO GO INTO A DEPARTMENT STORE AND BUY THEIR LADIES VARIOUS LACY FRILLY UNDERGARMENTS. WELL, WHAT BETTER WAY TO GET MEN TO OVERCOME THAT EMBARASSMENT THAT TO HAVE THEIR OWN RANGE OF PANTIES. "MANTIES" GIVE THE EMO THAT CONFIDENCE TO WEAR WHAT IS ESSENTIALLY A PAIR OF WOMENS KNICKERS, BUT IN THE FULL KNOWLEGE THAT THESE ARE GRUNDIES FOR A MAN. MANTIES - PUTTING THE MAN BACK INTO PANTIES. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME AND HAVE OVER THE LOOT YOU TIGHTFISTED AVARICIOUS FUCKWITS. ESPECIALLY YOU, YOU OLD TART, YOU NEVER INVEST. KNACKERS IN KNICKERS CAN'T BREATHE, SO LET THEM CASCADE OUTSIDE THE SPLIT-CROTCH MANTIES IN THE COOL BREEZE...
Altogther now, in high pitched ladysqueak of Oscar the wild grouch speak:
"A MAN BAAAAAAG?!?!?!"
For heavens sake, it's a bag. Handbag, satchel, call it it what you will. Apart from a man-bag. That's just so beyond naff it just screams "knife me now"... translated to "poke me with your phallic symbol like the rabid queen I am". Ooooh get her, manbags at dawn.
And now, not satisfied with Guyliner, they've just brought out Manscara! Another excuse for a good slasheroo. A man scarer, one who inflicts scars upon blokes for wearing make up.
Manscara indeed. It's bloody mascara. "Butching" it up just makes it sound more effeminate than if you'd called it Rampant Homosexuals Tarting Up Juice.
Call it mascara and bloody well live with it.
Jesus. Wearing eyeliner doen't make you gay - wearing eyeliner and calling it guyliner - now that is gay. What next, some EMO boy too scared to whiten his face coz his mates might think he's a bit puffy? Oh, he'll have to wear Fellas Foundation or Loggers Lippy on the lips.
Although Fellas Foundation may hint at a school for rentboy pink oboeists, so maybe not!
Manscara! It beggars belief!!
Mark my words - False Guylashes are on the way! And if they are, I want royalties, coz I just came up with the idea!!!!
False guylashes my best hat!
Ranty ranty rantypants.
Talking of which - it's only a matter of time before these "real men" start purchasing little lacey frilly ladies scanty panties, because some bright spark will come up with the name "Manties" (oooh, I am that bright spark! Get me dragons' Den*!). Conan Camiknickers and... well, I would say thongs, but they already have them. Banana hammocks indeed - it's a tarts arseflosser to avoid VPL so everyone thinks she's gone commando and therefore a right old slaaaaaaaag who's "well up for it"....
Or something.
* HI, MY NAME'S XYMON, AND I'M LOOKING FOR £250,000 TO INVEST IN AN EXCITING AND INNOVATIVE NEW ARENA IN MENSWEAR. MEN OFTEN FIND IT EMBARASSING TO GO INTO A DEPARTMENT STORE AND BUY THEIR LADIES VARIOUS LACY FRILLY UNDERGARMENTS. WELL, WHAT BETTER WAY TO GET MEN TO OVERCOME THAT EMBARASSMENT THAT TO HAVE THEIR OWN RANGE OF PANTIES. "MANTIES" GIVE THE EMO THAT CONFIDENCE TO WEAR WHAT IS ESSENTIALLY A PAIR OF WOMENS KNICKERS, BUT IN THE FULL KNOWLEGE THAT THESE ARE GRUNDIES FOR A MAN. MANTIES - PUTTING THE MAN BACK INTO PANTIES. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME AND HAVE OVER THE LOOT YOU TIGHTFISTED AVARICIOUS FUCKWITS. ESPECIALLY YOU, YOU OLD TART, YOU NEVER INVEST. KNACKERS IN KNICKERS CAN'T BREATHE, SO LET THEM CASCADE OUTSIDE THE SPLIT-CROTCH MANTIES IN THE COOL BREEZE...
Thursday 7 August 2008
And the children dance to the Pipes of Pan...
Now, I was reading one of them companion piece compendium type books about Ringu when it referred to the grandeur of the saga to the cyclopean site of Stonehenge.
I dunno about you, but I have driven past Stonehenge in a coach, and let me tell you, cyclopean is not exactly how I'd describe it!
To me, cyclopean masonry is towering blocks of hewn rock, rising high to near impossible heights. All obscure angles and a vexation as to how these monolithic walls could be constructed.
Stonehenge is a shed made from matchsticks in comparison!
So, cyclopean is ain't. But what is it? Well, them druidy types will tell you it's a sacred site that heralds the new gold dawn upon solstice and equinox, meaning they have to perform a blood sacrifice. Probably burning southern Louisiana plantation workers, whilst dolled up in their druidic robes. Druidic robes my arse - that's a Klan outfit, if ever there was one in the UK!
Of course, that theory has a lot going for it - as long as you stand in just the right position to get the correct stellar and solar alignments.
Others will tell you it's a supercomputer - which is bollocks, coz if it were, there would be an early version of Atik Atak or PacMan running on it. And porn. Although people go up there and nob a lot in some "fertility rite" (or "dogging" as it's now known).
Still more others will tell you it's a landing pad for the landing craft of space monsters, with the now legendary circular saucer shape precariously balancing on the top of the stone circle.
And then there are those with sense, who reckon it's a load of early scaffolding for the construction of some crude rude hut*. Trouble was, like modern day builders, Cro-Magnon Chippie started the job, then has pressing Business Elsewhere, meaning the scaffolding remained awaiting their return.
They really need a time machine to send Matt Alwright back for Stone Age Rogue Traders, sticking pins in their voodoo childs and washing on oz soaps.
Cyclopean indeed! 12in tall with cantering cyclopean shortarses, more like!
* PROBABLY A BROTHEL, BEING BOTH CRUDE AND VERY RUDE INDEED.
I dunno about you, but I have driven past Stonehenge in a coach, and let me tell you, cyclopean is not exactly how I'd describe it!
To me, cyclopean masonry is towering blocks of hewn rock, rising high to near impossible heights. All obscure angles and a vexation as to how these monolithic walls could be constructed.
Stonehenge is a shed made from matchsticks in comparison!
So, cyclopean is ain't. But what is it? Well, them druidy types will tell you it's a sacred site that heralds the new gold dawn upon solstice and equinox, meaning they have to perform a blood sacrifice. Probably burning southern Louisiana plantation workers, whilst dolled up in their druidic robes. Druidic robes my arse - that's a Klan outfit, if ever there was one in the UK!
Of course, that theory has a lot going for it - as long as you stand in just the right position to get the correct stellar and solar alignments.
Others will tell you it's a supercomputer - which is bollocks, coz if it were, there would be an early version of Atik Atak or PacMan running on it. And porn. Although people go up there and nob a lot in some "fertility rite" (or "dogging" as it's now known).
Still more others will tell you it's a landing pad for the landing craft of space monsters, with the now legendary circular saucer shape precariously balancing on the top of the stone circle.
And then there are those with sense, who reckon it's a load of early scaffolding for the construction of some crude rude hut*. Trouble was, like modern day builders, Cro-Magnon Chippie started the job, then has pressing Business Elsewhere, meaning the scaffolding remained awaiting their return.
They really need a time machine to send Matt Alwright back for Stone Age Rogue Traders, sticking pins in their voodoo childs and washing on oz soaps.
Baby, Baby, Babaaaaaaaaay
Sacrifice it on the stone altar to Baphomet!
Cyclopean indeed! 12in tall with cantering cyclopean shortarses, more like!
* PROBABLY A BROTHEL, BEING BOTH CRUDE AND VERY RUDE INDEED.
Wednesday 6 August 2008
I want to break wind...
I want to break wind
I want to break wind this one time
On this starting line
I don't need two (hundred metre sprint with extra thrust gas)
Thanks to the Baywatch Oiled Limp Pigs, there seems to be a rash of Sporticus activity going on. It's seems that the pink pop princess and her muscular paeodophile have inspired the world of music and sport to collide.
And what better musicallity is there, than the music of Queen!
And in homage to the greatest queen of all, adverts galore are cashing in by having their athletic types sporting the now legendary Freddie Mercury 'tash.
From Superstars to Go Free with Daily Thompson* there are people of all ages and genders balancing the infamous hairy slug atop their lips.
Exactly how donning a bushy lipwig makes you excel at sports I am yet to learn. Obviously, the wearing of a skin tight lycra onepiece is already the fashion for them gymnasts, but I can't see them strutting up and down the beam with a relay baton in the hand, belting out "Radio Ga Ga" for a gold medal.
Great fat arsed wenches may well make the rocking world go rumble as the earth quakes under their vast tonnage as they lumber across the earth, but it won't get them beating the drugged addled skeletors in the 100m hurdles.
But by far the best application of the FMT is the inspired usage of said facial foliage to distinguish between The Narrator and The Narrator's Brother in Timmy's WotW. 'tash on - Narrator, 'tash off - Brother! You'd never know they were related:
And on that note, I shall leave you with last pure Freddie pose from War of the Worlds - shame you can't see below the water, where he's holding his Mike at a jaunty angle and Striking The Pose. You can just imagine him there in the water, bellowing out a stream of random notes for the fleeing throng to chant back at him.
Adversity in the face of death by martian tripods - that's what makes us British... well, British, I guess!
Is this the real life, or is this just Battersea...
* WHICH APPEARS TO BE GETTING HEALTHY BY STUFFING YOUR FACE FULL OF CEREAL, CHOCOLATE, HOT DOGS AND FRUIT GUMS. OH, AND YOU GET A VOUCHER FOR A FREE SPORTS SESSION. YEAH, LIKE, YOU'RE GONNA PIG OUT ON MILKY BAR BUTTONS, THEN GO FOR A RIGOUROUS FREE GOLFING SESSION TO BURN IT OFF!!
Tuesday 5 August 2008
WARNING. This blog contains scenes of mild peril...
Honestly, how thick do you need to be to get on Pig Botherer?
Rachel the Wastrel was advised not to do the dishes "at her own peril", which left her somewhat nonplussed.
After leaving the dairy room and puzzling over it, she had to ask other housemates what Peril means.
WHAT?!?!
And some of the others were a bit stuck to explain!!
Now, I'm wondering about this peril they're putting in - a new housemate called Beryl perhaps? Ah, no - look at them opening titles... shadowy white masked figure lurking about the shadows in a menacing fashion - the 'eye' logo made up of shards of broken mirror... or knife blades???
To my mind, there's only one white masked murderous shadowy figure with a penchant for slicery-uppy kitchen utensils, and that's Mike Myers, star of Waynes World and Steve Austin's Bionic Powers.
Wait a minute... reality TV contestants, locked in a house with Mikey Myers doing a death to all and sundry on live telly... I make that Pimms o'clock! Not to mention the plot of Halloween: Resurrection, sequel to Halloween:HTwenty*!
Yikes, the blind boy is gonna embark the now legendary Killing Spree, leaving a Trail Of Destruction in his wake. All to win a measly 100K. Well, If we're gonna have a trail of mutilated bodies, I think we (as viewers) should be entitled to have the obligatory masses of gratuitous sex and violence, as well as the final rooftop showdown. Although it doesn't come cheap.
Ah, but how would Lazlo Woodbine** corner the killer in the house, for in the house there is no office where clients meet him, no bar to talk toot with the barman, nor an alleyway (with retractable ladder at base of fire escape) where people get killed. Let alone an actual rooftop.
But stuff Laz coming to get The Killer- how come Davina always bellows "Say you're goodbyes... I'm coming to get you!" - when she doesn't! She stands there flouncing her freshly dyed hair that she's always on the phone to her mum about, and lets them come to her! Bloody bone idle trollop gurning into camera, can't even be arsed to go and get the housemates herself!
Then again, can't blame her, for who'd want to enter the Pig Botherer house where Death Stalks in a Blind Man's Mask***
* THERE ARE SOME GORMSTERS THAT INSIST ON CALLING IT HALLOWEEN: AITCH TWO OH, FORGETTING THAT THE 2O IS ACTUALLY 20, BEING TWENTY YEARS LATER, AND H2O IS ACTUALLY WATER, AND THERE'S NO UNDERWATERY SHENANNIGANS IN THIS MOVE. ANTIDILUVIAN ANTICS ARE BEST LEFT TO JASON VORHEES, COZ HE CAN BREATH UNDERWATER. AND IN SPACE. IF ANYTHING, IT'S AITCH TWO ZERO - NOT OH.
** SOME CALL HIM LAZ:
*** A LAZLO WOODBINE THRILLER (ALTHOUGH NOT A LEGITIMATE ONE.)
Rachel the Wastrel was advised not to do the dishes "at her own peril", which left her somewhat nonplussed.
After leaving the dairy room and puzzling over it, she had to ask other housemates what Peril means.
WHAT?!?!
And some of the others were a bit stuck to explain!!
Now, I'm wondering about this peril they're putting in - a new housemate called Beryl perhaps? Ah, no - look at them opening titles... shadowy white masked figure lurking about the shadows in a menacing fashion - the 'eye' logo made up of shards of broken mirror... or knife blades???
To my mind, there's only one white masked murderous shadowy figure with a penchant for slicery-uppy kitchen utensils, and that's Mike Myers, star of Waynes World and Steve Austin's Bionic Powers.
Wait a minute... reality TV contestants, locked in a house with Mikey Myers doing a death to all and sundry on live telly... I make that Pimms o'clock! Not to mention the plot of Halloween: Resurrection, sequel to Halloween:HTwenty*!
Yikes, the blind boy is gonna embark the now legendary Killing Spree, leaving a Trail Of Destruction in his wake. All to win a measly 100K. Well, If we're gonna have a trail of mutilated bodies, I think we (as viewers) should be entitled to have the obligatory masses of gratuitous sex and violence, as well as the final rooftop showdown. Although it doesn't come cheap.
Ah, but how would Lazlo Woodbine** corner the killer in the house, for in the house there is no office where clients meet him, no bar to talk toot with the barman, nor an alleyway (with retractable ladder at base of fire escape) where people get killed. Let alone an actual rooftop.
But stuff Laz coming to get The Killer- how come Davina always bellows "Say you're goodbyes... I'm coming to get you!" - when she doesn't! She stands there flouncing her freshly dyed hair that she's always on the phone to her mum about, and lets them come to her! Bloody bone idle trollop gurning into camera, can't even be arsed to go and get the housemates herself!
Then again, can't blame her, for who'd want to enter the Pig Botherer house where Death Stalks in a Blind Man's Mask***
* THERE ARE SOME GORMSTERS THAT INSIST ON CALLING IT HALLOWEEN: AITCH TWO OH, FORGETTING THAT THE 2O IS ACTUALLY 20, BEING TWENTY YEARS LATER, AND H2O IS ACTUALLY WATER, AND THERE'S NO UNDERWATERY SHENANNIGANS IN THIS MOVE. ANTIDILUVIAN ANTICS ARE BEST LEFT TO JASON VORHEES, COZ HE CAN BREATH UNDERWATER. AND IN SPACE. IF ANYTHING, IT'S AITCH TWO ZERO - NOT OH.
** SOME CALL HIM LAZ:
"CAN'T GET ENOUGH STUFF,
DON'T WANT NO ROUGH STUFF
NO SUGAR PUFF STUFF
DIVIN' INTO MUFF STUFF
JUST WANT YOU TO GIMME SOME OF THAT GOOD STUFF, PLEASE"
*** A LAZLO WOODBINE THRILLER (ALTHOUGH NOT A LEGITIMATE ONE.)
Hong Kong Gardening the aer(ator)...
Well, to tell the truth, in all the excitement I kind of lost track myself!
On Sunday, I forgot to include the The Hoosiers being seriously worried about rakes.
Not Bryonesque rampant shaggery types, but the leaf gathering apparatus. Although, to be fair, they should really be worried about syphilis ridden beanpole male groupies.
Even worse if said sex-hungry groupie was Barry "George" Scott, leaping out of the shrubbery behind the Marshall amps, and doing them a death with a shot of clit bang (allegedly, based on a miniscule atom of the powerful cleaning agent in his pocket).
Bang! And the fannybatters gone (from Ms Leeming's dildo)...
On Sunday, I forgot to include the The Hoosiers being seriously worried about rakes.
Not Bryonesque rampant shaggery types, but the leaf gathering apparatus. Although, to be fair, they should really be worried about syphilis ridden beanpole male groupies.
Even worse if said sex-hungry groupie was Barry "George" Scott, leaping out of the shrubbery behind the Marshall amps, and doing them a death with a shot of clit bang (allegedly, based on a miniscule atom of the powerful cleaning agent in his pocket).
Bang! And the fannybatters gone (from Ms Leeming's dildo)...
Monday 4 August 2008
Come with me if you want to drive...
I am perplexed!
I've just seen this advert for Santa Dares, and apparently, the ever popular youthful F1 driver Linda Hamilton is naught but an airfix kit!
Now, I'm all for bunging Leona in a high powered Malcom and firing her into the concrete walls of a grand prix circuit, but surely using painted plastic peoples with decals stuck on their belly smacks of cheating!
I doubt very much that Mattel have created make-em-yourself drivers in a Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 realistic stylee to drive about at umpteen miles an hour, so I recken they've got some hidden remote control going on, and getting extra speed by having an empty blow up dolly in the driving seat!
Not only that, from the scales on the tellybox, Louis is a pygmy! Either that, or he's having his make up put on by the 50ft woman!
And I don't mean the Bhudda of the Western Paradise, with Great Sage (Equal of Heaven) piss all over her fingers!
You know how you get "official this" and "official that" of various events (eg Scrumpy Jack, Official Cider of the England Cricket Team, etc), well, it seems the Baywatch Olympics have an official opera!
Official opera! And not just any old opera - Damon AllBran has done a Grilliaz stylee version of Wu Chêng-ên's Journey To The West.
Or Monkey! to thems not as educated as me!
Although if them dirty old sneak Chinese think they're going to win medals by sneaking in simian types using golden clasped wishing staffs from the underwater lairs of the Dragon Kings in the pole vault, they've got another thing coming!
I'll challenge Pigsy to the pastry eating competition though...
Ah, pretty lady!!!
I've just seen this advert for Santa Dares, and apparently, the ever popular youthful F1 driver Linda Hamilton is naught but an airfix kit!
Now, I'm all for bunging Leona in a high powered Malcom and firing her into the concrete walls of a grand prix circuit, but surely using painted plastic peoples with decals stuck on their belly smacks of cheating!
I doubt very much that Mattel have created make-em-yourself drivers in a Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 realistic stylee to drive about at umpteen miles an hour, so I recken they've got some hidden remote control going on, and getting extra speed by having an empty blow up dolly in the driving seat!
Not only that, from the scales on the tellybox, Louis is a pygmy! Either that, or he's having his make up put on by the 50ft woman!
And I don't mean the Bhudda of the Western Paradise, with Great Sage (Equal of Heaven) piss all over her fingers!
You know how you get "official this" and "official that" of various events (eg Scrumpy Jack, Official Cider of the England Cricket Team, etc), well, it seems the Baywatch Olympics have an official opera!
Official opera! And not just any old opera - Damon AllBran has done a Grilliaz stylee version of Wu Chêng-ên's Journey To The West.
Or Monkey! to thems not as educated as me!
Although if them dirty old sneak Chinese think they're going to win medals by sneaking in simian types using golden clasped wishing staffs from the underwater lairs of the Dragon Kings in the pole vault, they've got another thing coming!
I'll challenge Pigsy to the pastry eating competition though...
Ah, pretty lady!!!
Sunday 3 August 2008
Refridgerator. Reeeee. Fridgerator...
OK, with the Marquis warbling on about cooling apparatus, and Madge going on about everyone coming over all vacuous, how come we don't get the cover versions we deserve?
There was that Bone Idol, what slaughtered The Doorses "Light My Fire". Stuff that naffness - where's Chaka Demus singing "Light My Pliers"? After all, it would make a great song!
For in the DIY modern B&Q world, what could be more fitting that a ballad about having to use your tool in the dark (fnarr fnarr!). In fact, there are too few Home Improvement utensil songs about. Where's "The Braddle" by Nick Kershaw, about an old bloke in an arran sweater poking holes in his belt? Or Neneh Cherry and Yousson N'Dour's* "Sven's Secateurs Away", a saga like Eminem's Stan, but where the footbal coach goes on a Boys Toys rampage in Homebase, clipping back various appendages of the ever helpful and knowledgeable staff (He's on the rampage, put Sven's secateurs away, just as long as he slays, I'll be waiting {in the toilet until it's over}).
I guess Chakka Khan't!
And so forth...
* YOUSSON N'DOUR MY BEST HAT! SOUNDS MORE LIKE SOMETHING THAT JAR JAR STINKS WOULD SAY!
There was that Bone Idol, what slaughtered The Doorses "Light My Fire". Stuff that naffness - where's Chaka Demus singing "Light My Pliers"? After all, it would make a great song!
For in the DIY modern B&Q world, what could be more fitting that a ballad about having to use your tool in the dark (fnarr fnarr!). In fact, there are too few Home Improvement utensil songs about. Where's "The Braddle" by Nick Kershaw, about an old bloke in an arran sweater poking holes in his belt? Or Neneh Cherry and Yousson N'Dour's* "Sven's Secateurs Away", a saga like Eminem's Stan, but where the footbal coach goes on a Boys Toys rampage in Homebase, clipping back various appendages of the ever helpful and knowledgeable staff (He's on the rampage, put Sven's secateurs away, just as long as he slays, I'll be waiting {in the toilet until it's over}).
I guess Chakka Khan't!
You know that it would be untrue
You know that I'm no DIYer
If I'm in a darkened room
And I cannot see the wires
Come on baby, light my pliers
Come on baby, light my pliers
So that I can strip the wire
Try to shine the torch on t'pliers!
On so on...And so forth...
* YOUSSON N'DOUR MY BEST HAT! SOUNDS MORE LIKE SOMETHING THAT JAR JAR STINKS WOULD SAY!
"MEESA GETTIN A VERY SCARED. YOUSSON THINKIN WEESA GONNA DIE?"
Saturday 2 August 2008
If you go, will you send back a lettuce from America...
Postman Twat
Postman Twat
Postman Twat and his black & white stripey jumper
With a gimpy eyemask
And a postbag with Royal Mail crossed out and SWAG written on top
OK, so I get's the now legendary "You were out, trek out to the Wastelands of Roundtree Way to get your package"... even though I wasn't expecting one! Well, at least nothing that wouldn't fit in me letterbox.
So I expends liquid money in fuel terms getting up there, only to find Dozy Counter Wench can't find me package (oo-er!!). So, she disappears to talk to her manager (who's away at the moment).
A-ha! They can use the reference number on the card to look it up on the pewter. Oh, Postie Plod didn't fill it in. Hmmmm. Which postie was it, he should have writ it by the route number! We can ask him what he did with that days mail. Oh, he's left his name blank. Double Hmmmmm.!!!!!
Not to worry, she can look him up on the rota, then give him a bell! Sorted! Ah, no, he's gone AWOL*. MEGA HMMMMMMM!!!!!!
Absconded! With all my delivery goods! OK, I know things are tight with the credit crunch**, but making off with my purchases (or gifts from my many {imaginary} admirers) is beyond belief! Why, it could have contained a cross like medallion with curious markings, and he could become a tortured soul with an oversized bonce, obsessed with joining the shoal, and waging war on the makers of arrows.
You know what, I reckon that my stamp gnome has diversified into the realms of pixie postage! Not satisfied I outed him for the hoarding of stamps, he's moved out of the house and taking his pilfering pleasures onto a wider platform!!
He held onto my watch for a whole week last week, the little bugger. Now I'll never know what my package was. And if they do find it, I'll not know what time to pick it up, for today, whilst inquisitioning the postmistress, he made off with me watch yet again!
Not only that, he cast his Evil Spell on me in the city, causing me to eject bright blue fairy phlegm from within.
And in this heat, sitting on a bus, splattered with spew, ponging of puke, with a barf scented beard, is not the most pleasant way to journey home.
I just hope his sickly spell wears off in time for me to get ready to go down The Golden Star*** tonight.
* ABSENT WITHOUT OFFICIAL LEAVE. THERE ARE GORMSTERS OUT THERE WHO THINK AWOL MEAN ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE, FORGETTING THAT THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR THE LETTER O, AS WITHOUT IS ALL ONE WORD. ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE IS AWL, AS YOU'RE ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE, BUT MANAGEMENT ARE AWARE OF ANY MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES. AWOL MEANS YOU'VE GONE OFF, AND NO-ONE KNOWS WHY.
** A BREAKFAST CEREAL, I DO BELIEVE
*** A CHINESE RESTAURANT BY THE SOUNDS OF IT. BUT IT'S NOT. IT'S A TOOTHPASTEY PUB.
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