The Welsh are a funny old lot. Spending their time either down mines, or chorally singing in chapels, they rarely get to see The Sky, and therefore gett somewhat spooked by it's contents.
And with the ever present fear of space monsters abducting their sheep for genetic experimentation (as lamb based sexual experimentation is left to the Welshman), it's no wonder they call the policy when a strange phenonema appear in the heavens.
Take this transcript from a 999 call back in May, from an anxious Welsy who's concerned a UFO is present, but doesn't want to appear foolish:
Police : "South Wales Police. What's your emergency?"
Welshman: "It's not really. I just need to inform you that across the mountains there's a bright, stationary object."
Police : "Right."
Welshman: "If you've got a couple of minutes, perhaps you could find out what it is. It's been there at least half an hour, and it's still there."
Police : "It's been there for half an hour. Right. Is it actually on the mountain, or in the sky?"
Welshman: "It's in the air."
Police : "I will send someone up there now to check it out."
All well and good. The Welshman is a tad concerned about something in the sky. The police have been professional, not laughing at the request but checking if it's not a light on in a building on the mountain. Everyone's happy - but the police didn't just say they'd check it out to humour the caller. Oh, no. They did actually check it out.
And here's the transcript when despatch checked with the car they sent out later on:
Despatch : "Alpha Zulu 20. This object in the sky. Did anyone have a look at it?"
Unit AZ20: "Yes. It's the moon. Over."
There's lovely!
Thursday 30 October 2008
Wednesday 29 October 2008
Run DMZimmerframe...
Forget Hip-Hop, Hip Op is the new Gansta!
Or should that be Nansta!
Seems that over in the good ole US of A, over at Lake Worth, there are rappin' wrinkies poppin' a cap at 'da pigs' in MTV stylee music videos.
Grannies should be loveable kindly white haired old ladies eating Baklava, not gansta granies charging around in balaclava's givin' it all da dizzle an' shit.
Naturally, when the fun lovin' centarian criminal got posted on YouTube, flashing da cash an' da bling and waving a shoota at da camera, yeah, she like, totally claims that it's her grandson blood wot is like, pimpin' her out as a video moll.
Now, people are up in arms over this, but just why is it unacceptable for octogenarian mafiosi to keep on going? They don't all die from being whacked (a few enjoy in on a regular basis. In dungeons. And in nasty nazi uniforms...). But it surely must make the Sunday trip to visit Nan a tad scary.
"Hi Gran, what's for tea"
"Spaghetti Bollocknaise"
"Ha ha gran. You gettin' old! It's bolognaise!"
"Nah blood, Phallus "The Nadgers" Nobmuncher tried to take me out, so he's now Plums in Pasta."
"Shit gramma, we don't do that shit no more!"
"Yeah, I know you all 'Goodfellas' now, placing Barry White dolls in breadbins instead of Mousse in the bed. Eeeeh, I remember Fingers 'The Digit' Clitflicker, oooh he's in hospital with arthritis now..."
Nanna's in Da Hood! or Nanna's in Da Ward?
Check it!
Word.
[EDIT]: After a bit of thought, rappin' nannas are all very well, but you don't want one visiting your candyshop and a-tasting of your lollipop.
And getting a milkshake off your Gran is just plain wrong! They say that you can't teach your grandmother to suck eggs, to which I would advise against in case she offers to teach you in the ways of titwank love. But then, she'd have to charge.
And just why would anyone even WANT to have the skill of egg-sucking, let alone train your grannie in such activity? Is there some underground ovarial fetish club where geisha grannies gather to perfect the art of sucking without breaking the shell.
Who knows?
Gran, probably!
Or should that be Nansta!
Seems that over in the good ole US of A, over at Lake Worth, there are rappin' wrinkies poppin' a cap at 'da pigs' in MTV stylee music videos.
Grannies should be loveable kindly white haired old ladies eating Baklava, not gansta granies charging around in balaclava's givin' it all da dizzle an' shit.
Naturally, when the fun lovin' centarian criminal got posted on YouTube, flashing da cash an' da bling and waving a shoota at da camera, yeah, she like, totally claims that it's her grandson blood wot is like, pimpin' her out as a video moll.
Now, people are up in arms over this, but just why is it unacceptable for octogenarian mafiosi to keep on going? They don't all die from being whacked (a few enjoy in on a regular basis. In dungeons. And in nasty nazi uniforms...). But it surely must make the Sunday trip to visit Nan a tad scary.
"Hi Gran, what's for tea"
"Spaghetti Bollocknaise"
"Ha ha gran. You gettin' old! It's bolognaise!"
"Nah blood, Phallus "The Nadgers" Nobmuncher tried to take me out, so he's now Plums in Pasta."
"Shit gramma, we don't do that shit no more!"
"Yeah, I know you all 'Goodfellas' now, placing Barry White dolls in breadbins instead of Mousse in the bed. Eeeeh, I remember Fingers 'The Digit' Clitflicker, oooh he's in hospital with arthritis now..."
Nanna's in Da Hood! or Nanna's in Da Ward?
Check it!
Word.
[EDIT]: After a bit of thought, rappin' nannas are all very well, but you don't want one visiting your candyshop and a-tasting of your lollipop.
And getting a milkshake off your Gran is just plain wrong! They say that you can't teach your grandmother to suck eggs, to which I would advise against in case she offers to teach you in the ways of titwank love. But then, she'd have to charge.
And just why would anyone even WANT to have the skill of egg-sucking, let alone train your grannie in such activity? Is there some underground ovarial fetish club where geisha grannies gather to perfect the art of sucking without breaking the shell.
Who knows?
Gran, probably!
Tuesday 28 October 2008
It smells like fingering in here...
I think that quote sums up the 'Quality' of E4's latest 'drama'!
Oh the irony of brain dead zombies at the Pig Botherer eviction...
...being eaten by brain dead zombies!
Dear oh dear oh dear....
Of course, not many would turn their noses up at munching on McCall, but I'd rather not have her reanimating and biting me neck to death!
"You've got 30 seconds to say your goodbyes - I'm coming to get you Barbara... and rip yer throat out in some lesbic necking scene."
An' suchlike.
Trouble is, you can't tell if she's a deadite or not, coz she's always gurning at the camera! Even before Zombification her facial expressions make you think she's about to dive out the telly and feast on yer flesh.
Although that's more of a fantasy of Davina diving on your down below in the 30 minute wait before the evictee leaves the house.
And how come Zombies can run as swift as the elk, bringing down their prey in supersonic speed, yet some lone chavvy gornstress is the only one who can easily out-run them like some Bionic Woman? And just why would you leave the safety of a building to risks the hordes of the undead... assuming 3 counts as a horde, with all the others presumably gone home to watch the late night movie, with a Domino's Brain Pizza (four unique meats, from selected parts of the body!)
Noooooooooo! There's 4 more episodes of this drudgery to go - oh well, at least Simon Quinlanc's in The House!
Perhaps he can fend off them undead with some weak lemon drink!
Oh the irony of brain dead zombies at the Pig Botherer eviction...
...being eaten by brain dead zombies!
Dear oh dear oh dear....
Of course, not many would turn their noses up at munching on McCall, but I'd rather not have her reanimating and biting me neck to death!
"You've got 30 seconds to say your goodbyes - I'm coming to get you Barbara... and rip yer throat out in some lesbic necking scene."
An' suchlike.
Trouble is, you can't tell if she's a deadite or not, coz she's always gurning at the camera! Even before Zombification her facial expressions make you think she's about to dive out the telly and feast on yer flesh.
Although that's more of a fantasy of Davina diving on your down below in the 30 minute wait before the evictee leaves the house.
And how come Zombies can run as swift as the elk, bringing down their prey in supersonic speed, yet some lone chavvy gornstress is the only one who can easily out-run them like some Bionic Woman? And just why would you leave the safety of a building to risks the hordes of the undead... assuming 3 counts as a horde, with all the others presumably gone home to watch the late night movie, with a Domino's Brain Pizza (four unique meats, from selected parts of the body!)
Noooooooooo! There's 4 more episodes of this drudgery to go - oh well, at least Simon Quinlanc's in The House!
Perhaps he can fend off them undead with some weak lemon drink!
Monday 27 October 2008
I ain’t gettin’ on no plane...
No sirree,
And no amount of milky beverage laced with Rhohypnol will get me on one either.
Not while Norwich Airport is Under Seige from space monsters, ramraiding our aircraft with their boy racer saucers.
And where's Steven Seagull when you need him?
Probably with that Jizzy Jeff and his French Prince in the Arizona Dessert, punching betentacled beasties upon the bonce, whilst East Anglia falls pray to nightmarish stop-motion extratesticles.
Being so close to the Airport, I fear for me safety - I'll have to get online and download some Slim Whitman for protection.
And now I have to face Brian Ferry on Sunday, with huge tripods arising out of washing machines. Drinking lots of Calpol as it makes them live longer and tipping me out into the briny.
Where no doubt I'll get savaged by sea serpents.
I tell you, if it's not one thing, it's another...
And no amount of milky beverage laced with Rhohypnol will get me on one either.
Not while Norwich Airport is Under Seige from space monsters, ramraiding our aircraft with their boy racer saucers.
And where's Steven Seagull when you need him?
Probably with that Jizzy Jeff and his French Prince in the Arizona Dessert, punching betentacled beasties upon the bonce, whilst East Anglia falls pray to nightmarish stop-motion extratesticles.
Being so close to the Airport, I fear for me safety - I'll have to get online and download some Slim Whitman for protection.
And now I have to face Brian Ferry on Sunday, with huge tripods arising out of washing machines. Drinking lots of Calpol as it makes them live longer and tipping me out into the briny.
Where no doubt I'll get savaged by sea serpents.
I tell you, if it's not one thing, it's another...
Sunday 26 October 2008
Concrete bath slippers...
Now, it's well documented that Certain Celebs only got their celebrity status through their underworld Mafiosi connections, such as Frank Sinatra (allegedly), but who would've though that these shady Dons would still try and get cash out of their stooges after death?
Seems that some Godfather was a bit miffed when The Walrus Of Lurve died from being fat, and was addicted to the gravy train (unlike Baz who was addicted to the gravy boat).
So, in order to keep the bankroll flowing, they called in The Tall Man. Now, as everyone knows, The Tall Man is famous for two things. His balls, and... OK then, three things. His balls, and his ability to take deaded folks, shrink them to miniature size, resurrect them and force them into slavery. Unfortunately, The Tall Man has a bit of a geekasm over Star Wars, and had a fetish for dolling up his dwarves as Jawas*.
Luckily, The Mob insisted that the Oompa-Loompa'd Baz kept his trademark outfit - but something went wrong. All his rotundity got removed, and he can't adapt to being suddenly slim, so he's quite stiff in his movements. Or rigor mortis set in, so he's a tad rigid in places.
Of course, due to him now looking & moving like Little Frank with an moveable cakehole, they couldn't get him back on the musical circuit, so now he's been added to the pantheon of threats.
Overdue on your protection money? They used to bung an antelopes head in yer bed or something as a warning, but not any more. Given his moniker of The Walrus Of Lurve, they play on this by placing him in bathtubs to perform oral sex on yer missus before giving her a damn good nobbing.
Now, pudenda pleasurement by puppets may be all very well for bathing beauties, but it's puts the blokes nose out of joint when his missus is forced into necrophliac dwarf mannequin lovin' just coz he's 50p short!
Not to mention the vetriloquistical taunting of the hubby.
There's missus, squiming about in ecstacy, when up he pops up from his watery mingemunch lunch to announce "That's gooooooooood" then proceeding to engage in fornication with his rigor motis'd rod.
And then they broadcast the event during You've Been Framed!
Oooooh, how those untouchable mafia types like to poor scorn upon the law...
Unlike The Untouchables who liked to score porn off the Mafia...
Or something...
* I CAN'T ABIDE THOSE JAWAS! DISGUSTING CREATURES!
Seems that some Godfather was a bit miffed when The Walrus Of Lurve died from being fat, and was addicted to the gravy train (unlike Baz who was addicted to the gravy boat).
So, in order to keep the bankroll flowing, they called in The Tall Man. Now, as everyone knows, The Tall Man is famous for two things. His balls, and... OK then, three things. His balls, and his ability to take deaded folks, shrink them to miniature size, resurrect them and force them into slavery. Unfortunately, The Tall Man has a bit of a geekasm over Star Wars, and had a fetish for dolling up his dwarves as Jawas*.
Luckily, The Mob insisted that the Oompa-Loompa'd Baz kept his trademark outfit - but something went wrong. All his rotundity got removed, and he can't adapt to being suddenly slim, so he's quite stiff in his movements. Or rigor mortis set in, so he's a tad rigid in places.
Of course, due to him now looking & moving like Little Frank with an moveable cakehole, they couldn't get him back on the musical circuit, so now he's been added to the pantheon of threats.
Overdue on your protection money? They used to bung an antelopes head in yer bed or something as a warning, but not any more. Given his moniker of The Walrus Of Lurve, they play on this by placing him in bathtubs to perform oral sex on yer missus before giving her a damn good nobbing.
Now, pudenda pleasurement by puppets may be all very well for bathing beauties, but it's puts the blokes nose out of joint when his missus is forced into necrophliac dwarf mannequin lovin' just coz he's 50p short!
Not to mention the vetriloquistical taunting of the hubby.
There's missus, squiming about in ecstacy, when up he pops up from his watery mingemunch lunch to announce "That's gooooooooood" then proceeding to engage in fornication with his rigor motis'd rod.
And then they broadcast the event during You've Been Framed!
Oooooh, how those untouchable mafia types like to poor scorn upon the law...
Unlike The Untouchables who liked to score porn off the Mafia...
Or something...
* I CAN'T ABIDE THOSE JAWAS! DISGUSTING CREATURES!
Saturday 25 October 2008
Fat boy slimming...
Hmmm...
There be posterage upon the bus-stop for a new slimming class in Catton. £5 membership fee, and you get a free 1lb pack of sausages when you join!
Clearly, it seems the organizer of this gut thinning class is Marjorie Dawes, for I'm at a loss as how to the consumption of a whole pound of pigs testes gets you slim!
A-ha! You pays yer money to lose weight - they bulk you up with trotters, you haven't lost weight, you pays yer money top lose weight... Excellent business plan!
And clearly, those that sign up for free pigs entrails are disposing of their healthy fruits, and using them as currency.
I have no idea why they got the idea that 'enc' goes into the curry, and not the basis for whining, but it seems that the Bus Driver accepts grapes as payment for fare instead of cold hard cash!
You pays your extorionate fare, and see him rummaging about the coin holder. Pound coins, 50ps, 20ps, 10ps, 5ps and Grapes.
Now, I've heard of taxi drivers getting a ride for a ride off've these midnight strumpets down Prisoner Of War Road after a night on the piss (the drunken dollies, that is - not the taxi drivers. Although, judging by some of their driving, I suspect one or two may also have been partaking of certain beverages along the way), but I've never heard of accepting a fruit for payment.
Apart from gay taxi drivers - a ride for a ride down the Kinder Egg highway and laying a coating of creamy whiteness on the brown exterior. Grapes for payment - arsegrapes, more like - haemmeroids!
I've heard of a pile-up on the road, but that takes the biscuit
Haemmertime!
No wonder he had to wear baggy trews with his dangleberries a-drooping from his bomb bay doors. Y'can't touch this? Let me assure you MC, no-one wants to touch yer chalfonts, and re-insert them where the sun don't shine.
Especially not on TV - and no-one wants another underage pile poking incident with misogynistic* rap stars caught on camera, do they!
Well, not unless they get £250 off've Harry Hilll...
* Here, I lie to a lost and lonely skanky ho hound
And so on, and so forth...
There be posterage upon the bus-stop for a new slimming class in Catton. £5 membership fee, and you get a free 1lb pack of sausages when you join!
Clearly, it seems the organizer of this gut thinning class is Marjorie Dawes, for I'm at a loss as how to the consumption of a whole pound of pigs testes gets you slim!
A-ha! You pays yer money to lose weight - they bulk you up with trotters, you haven't lost weight, you pays yer money top lose weight... Excellent business plan!
And clearly, those that sign up for free pigs entrails are disposing of their healthy fruits, and using them as currency.
I have no idea why they got the idea that 'enc' goes into the curry, and not the basis for whining, but it seems that the Bus Driver accepts grapes as payment for fare instead of cold hard cash!
You pays your extorionate fare, and see him rummaging about the coin holder. Pound coins, 50ps, 20ps, 10ps, 5ps and Grapes.
Now, I've heard of taxi drivers getting a ride for a ride off've these midnight strumpets down Prisoner Of War Road after a night on the piss (the drunken dollies, that is - not the taxi drivers. Although, judging by some of their driving, I suspect one or two may also have been partaking of certain beverages along the way), but I've never heard of accepting a fruit for payment.
Apart from gay taxi drivers - a ride for a ride down the Kinder Egg highway and laying a coating of creamy whiteness on the brown exterior. Grapes for payment - arsegrapes, more like - haemmeroids!
I've heard of a pile-up on the road, but that takes the biscuit
Haemmertime!
No wonder he had to wear baggy trews with his dangleberries a-drooping from his bomb bay doors. Y'can't touch this? Let me assure you MC, no-one wants to touch yer chalfonts, and re-insert them where the sun don't shine.
Especially not on TV - and no-one wants another underage pile poking incident with misogynistic* rap stars caught on camera, do they!
Well, not unless they get £250 off've Harry Hilll...
* Here, I lie to a lost and lonely skanky ho hound
Held in time, In a world where she is doing down
Going home, She just won't take it up the ass
I really should be fucking you, fucking you
Humpin' ewe, humpin' ewe...
Misogyny! When the feelings gone and you cant go on
Misogyny! With the morning wood and you dont know why it's hard
Unfair!
You know I doan' love you, We're goin' nowhere
Misogyny! When I lose control and shoot my load
Misogyny! See my manhood rise and you dont know why it's hard
Unfair!
You know I doan' love you, We're goin' nowhere
And so on, and so forth...
Friday 24 October 2008
Dead or alive...
Kewl!!!
Fox by name, and certainly by nature!
Although, I'm a tad bemused by her recruitment methods.
Now, if some assassinatory pretty absconded me in her car, you certainly wouldn't have found me howling in the car like a big girls blouse. All it takes is a smile from the Lady and I'd've signed up!
Not to mention the view with a pretty driving the car utilizing only her heels.
Not exactly sure why you have to spend a couple of weeks being tied to a chair and violently duffed up.
Still, you learn something new every day.
Such as the recupertive powers of Lard!!!
Been duffed up - all broken boned, and deepy cut and bruised? No worries! Lie in a bathtub of melted lard, and wait till it sets. Then, crack it off your face, and hey presto - all wounds healed!!
Although, for major injury recovery, I want wot Sarah Connor has got. Cameron - great gashes about the face, staple, staple, staple, scarry face. Sarah - Explosion, Car crash, smack in the face from a T-Umpteen, shrapnel in the face, broken ribs - lie down for an hour and not a mark on her!
By now, she should be a scary scarred burnt faced limping hag - but no, she remains impervious to the result of any deep cut or break, and is back to her beautiful best after a slight kip!
Yeah, of course she's got all these terrorist/gunrunners teaching her how to bring up a Leader Of Men And Saviour Of Mankind, but they hardly ever refer to the League Of Plastique Sturgeons she has in every town.
And the selfish cow never lets them doll up Cameron! She has to make do with stapley cheeks, whilst Sarah gets everything corrected in her afternoon nap!
Which leaves John plenty of time to get nobbing the Terminator pretty!
Awww, she lurves him! Yeah, I bet! I reckon he built her as a ShagBot, and sent her back in time to give himself a hot bit of dedicated compliant crumpet to get his end away with!
Subject identified... John Connor
Status............... Terminate
Mission Directive.... Death by sex
Fox by name, and certainly by nature!
Although, I'm a tad bemused by her recruitment methods.
Now, if some assassinatory pretty absconded me in her car, you certainly wouldn't have found me howling in the car like a big girls blouse. All it takes is a smile from the Lady and I'd've signed up!
Not to mention the view with a pretty driving the car utilizing only her heels.
Not exactly sure why you have to spend a couple of weeks being tied to a chair and violently duffed up.
Still, you learn something new every day.
Such as the recupertive powers of Lard!!!
Been duffed up - all broken boned, and deepy cut and bruised? No worries! Lie in a bathtub of melted lard, and wait till it sets. Then, crack it off your face, and hey presto - all wounds healed!!
Although, for major injury recovery, I want wot Sarah Connor has got. Cameron - great gashes about the face, staple, staple, staple, scarry face. Sarah - Explosion, Car crash, smack in the face from a T-Umpteen, shrapnel in the face, broken ribs - lie down for an hour and not a mark on her!
By now, she should be a scary scarred burnt faced limping hag - but no, she remains impervious to the result of any deep cut or break, and is back to her beautiful best after a slight kip!
Yeah, of course she's got all these terrorist/gunrunners teaching her how to bring up a Leader Of Men And Saviour Of Mankind, but they hardly ever refer to the League Of Plastique Sturgeons she has in every town.
And the selfish cow never lets them doll up Cameron! She has to make do with stapley cheeks, whilst Sarah gets everything corrected in her afternoon nap!
Which leaves John plenty of time to get nobbing the Terminator pretty!
Awww, she lurves him! Yeah, I bet! I reckon he built her as a ShagBot, and sent her back in time to give himself a hot bit of dedicated compliant crumpet to get his end away with!
Subject identified... John Connor
Status............... Terminate
Mission Directive.... Death by sex
Thursday 23 October 2008
The spawning...
See!
I warned ye all!
And now they've grafted wings upon these flying fundamentalisht fishies, a-leaping out of the ocean and savaging yer neck to death!
Didn't I warn them?
Pray, I said!
Destroy the Devils in Djbella's, I said!
They wouldn't listen!
I could have saved the world!
So I shan't bother!
I warned ye all!
And now they've grafted wings upon these flying fundamentalisht fishies, a-leaping out of the ocean and savaging yer neck to death!
Didn't I warn them?
Pray, I said!
Destroy the Devils in Djbella's, I said!
They wouldn't listen!
I could have saved the world!
But now it's too late!!
So I shan't bother!
Wednesday 22 October 2008
Clash of the tartans...
Take my advice...
Never storm grecian mountains where Olympian deities dwell in order to air your grievances, for they do not take kindly to the angry mob and the farmyard utensils and the flaming torches.
And Hera is not impressed by the application of a stout stick about her person.
In fact, rather than take a break from persecuting you on their giant cosmic chessboard, they take great delight in raining down more misery and tragedy than you can shake the stoutest of stout sticks at.
I dare not go to Hades at weekend now, for being their underworldly namesake, they'd probably replace the Door Managers with Cerberus, and not allow in any Pretties, just haggardy arse Harpies, who'll besiege me on all sides and nick me booze.
I should never have had that can of Dr Pepper.
What's the worst that can happen?
Greek tragedy, as The Fates taunt you mercilessly, that's what!
It's just one thing after another...
Never storm grecian mountains where Olympian deities dwell in order to air your grievances, for they do not take kindly to the angry mob and the farmyard utensils and the flaming torches.
And Hera is not impressed by the application of a stout stick about her person.
In fact, rather than take a break from persecuting you on their giant cosmic chessboard, they take great delight in raining down more misery and tragedy than you can shake the stoutest of stout sticks at.
I dare not go to Hades at weekend now, for being their underworldly namesake, they'd probably replace the Door Managers with Cerberus, and not allow in any Pretties, just haggardy arse Harpies, who'll besiege me on all sides and nick me booze.
I should never have had that can of Dr Pepper.
What's the worst that can happen?
Greek tragedy, as The Fates taunt you mercilessly, that's what!
It's just one thing after another...
Tuesday 21 October 2008
Slice & Dice...
Not content with pulverised puppies in liquid form, they've now turned their hands to relatives!
As the Chinese had decided to up sticks and go on holiday, we had to make do with a fabulous Indian... but the menu!
Now, normally these places serve up naan bread, being a nice bit of unleavened bread or some such. Not to be mistaked for those liberators of Ragesh 3. However, naan do not appear on the menu no more.
Nor does Spoo, so that's alright then!
What DOES appear in it's place is a selection of Nans. Plain nan, peshwari nan, etc. Now, I know there's a massive problem, what with old gimmers eating up our pensions and being an inconvenience at rush hour and lunchtimes, but that's no excuse for foreign nationals to start grinding their bones to make their bread!
A nan is a granny, grandmother, granmama, nanna, etc - it's certainly distasteful to bung a clove of garlic up her tradesman's entrance and serve her up as a side accompanyment to a tandoori.
Of course, if it was a Nan of younger years, say one of them teenage pregnanciers whose teenage daughter is now preggers, and a Pretty, I wouldn't mind a bit of Minge* Massaala, but wrinkly gimmerquim - Eurgh!
On the plus side though, to show their integration into UK culture, they've ripped off The Fast Show, and serve up Motor Ponir - in English..
Cheesy Peas!
Brilliant!
* AND HOW COME MINGER RHYMES WITH LINGER, AND NOT GINGER? THAT CAUSED ME GREAT CONFUSION WHEN I FIRST CAME ACROSS THE WORD MINGING (OO-ER MISSUS!) - IT THOUGH IT WAS MINGE-ING, AS IN TUPPENCE LICKERY ACTIVITIES. ESPECIALLY WITH THAT IMAGE OF THE HAGGARD OLD CRONE WITH HER TONGUE ALL HANGING OUT...
As the Chinese had decided to up sticks and go on holiday, we had to make do with a fabulous Indian... but the menu!
Now, normally these places serve up naan bread, being a nice bit of unleavened bread or some such. Not to be mistaked for those liberators of Ragesh 3. However, naan do not appear on the menu no more.
Nor does Spoo, so that's alright then!
What DOES appear in it's place is a selection of Nans. Plain nan, peshwari nan, etc. Now, I know there's a massive problem, what with old gimmers eating up our pensions and being an inconvenience at rush hour and lunchtimes, but that's no excuse for foreign nationals to start grinding their bones to make their bread!
A nan is a granny, grandmother, granmama, nanna, etc - it's certainly distasteful to bung a clove of garlic up her tradesman's entrance and serve her up as a side accompanyment to a tandoori.
Of course, if it was a Nan of younger years, say one of them teenage pregnanciers whose teenage daughter is now preggers, and a Pretty, I wouldn't mind a bit of Minge* Massaala, but wrinkly gimmerquim - Eurgh!
On the plus side though, to show their integration into UK culture, they've ripped off The Fast Show, and serve up Motor Ponir - in English..
Cheesy Peas!
Brilliant!
* AND HOW COME MINGER RHYMES WITH LINGER, AND NOT GINGER? THAT CAUSED ME GREAT CONFUSION WHEN I FIRST CAME ACROSS THE WORD MINGING (OO-ER MISSUS!) - IT THOUGH IT WAS MINGE-ING, AS IN TUPPENCE LICKERY ACTIVITIES. ESPECIALLY WITH THAT IMAGE OF THE HAGGARD OLD CRONE WITH HER TONGUE ALL HANGING OUT...
Monday 20 October 2008
Washing machines live longer with Collie…
Now, I'm all for Cultural Differences whilst abroad, but some things take the dog biscuit!
Surely it can't be hygenic to make up a tasty beverage in your washing machine?
Apart from accidental sippage of coins, lint, tissues and the sludgy remains of calgon in yer liquid refreshment, your clothes would reek of mango all day. Of course, sweetly smelling of mango is all very well, but on a hot day, sun heated yoghurt ain't so nasally appealing!
And surely it must void the warranty on your washer!
There was me thinking that my previous washing machine had broke though years of use, and it turns out to be the Indian equivalent of Starbucks, sneaking in and brewing up their spicy shakes in the dead of night.
Maybe it's a Jyhad against Zanussi, and these fundamentalists are Bringing Down The Decadent West by sabotaging our washers and forcing housewives to scrub their smalls in the Wensum river, and making Polish PR types look foolish with a lassitash.
I don't care if you can serve up 10 times more liquidised canines than you used to. It's all very well having a mahogany and sable colored cooling drink for visual appeal, but collie flavoured milkshake ain't my idea of a tasty treat.
Ethical banking? Maybe in Korea…
Surely it can't be hygenic to make up a tasty beverage in your washing machine?
Apart from accidental sippage of coins, lint, tissues and the sludgy remains of calgon in yer liquid refreshment, your clothes would reek of mango all day. Of course, sweetly smelling of mango is all very well, but on a hot day, sun heated yoghurt ain't so nasally appealing!
And surely it must void the warranty on your washer!
There was me thinking that my previous washing machine had broke though years of use, and it turns out to be the Indian equivalent of Starbucks, sneaking in and brewing up their spicy shakes in the dead of night.
Maybe it's a Jyhad against Zanussi, and these fundamentalists are Bringing Down The Decadent West by sabotaging our washers and forcing housewives to scrub their smalls in the Wensum river, and making Polish PR types look foolish with a lassitash.
I don't care if you can serve up 10 times more liquidised canines than you used to. It's all very well having a mahogany and sable colored cooling drink for visual appeal, but collie flavoured milkshake ain't my idea of a tasty treat.
Ethical banking? Maybe in Korea…
Sunday 19 October 2008
Feck, Arse, Drink, Girls... NUNS!!!
FECK!
I bailed from me day out at Thorpe Park in favour of seeing a movie with my bestest, bestest chums and the chance of actually talking to a Pretty (for although never having been, Thorpe Park is always there - me actually being in a position to be able to speak to a Pretty on the other hand: rarer than rare. Virtually Nil, in fact). Theme Park vs Movie & Pretties - no contest!
ARSE!
Bums on seats. Did I get to sit next to the Pretty and manage to strike up a conversation? Hah! Married Pretty's Husband was too desperate for that spot!
DRINK!
Yay, movies finishes - let's go for a drink, and I can actually talk to the Pretty in a place where you can talk to people! Hah! Who wants to drink with a fat old sloth? No-one, that's who! In fact, Married Pretty's Husband is so threatened that I may intrude on his attempts to bag himself an extra portion of Pretty that I'm forbidden to walk home* alone, bundled into a car and taken to bag myself a portion of chips.
GIRLS!
I tell you, The Fates have really got it in for me! I've given up any hope of talking to a Pretty now, since any attempt is thwarted left, right and centre! Nor can I compete with married males with an adulterous glint in their eye. Oh well, c'est la mort.
NUNS!
Original: Cop in hostage situation shoots the kidnapper... but it's the reflection he shoots, so the kidnapper kills the hostage. Cop demoted, loses his job and confidence and becomes a Store Detective. Ghostly going on in Mirrors reveal the fact that in the fire, the woman who died wasn't killed in the fire - she was killed by Management when she uncovered Certain Information and her body hidden behind a mirror. Cop regains his confidence, finds himself able to handle a gun again, brings the Killer to justice, Ghosty gets revenge, but the cop gets drawn into the Mirrorworld. Bit slow, but pretty good.
Remake: Cop shoots a man and becomes a night watchman. Ghostly goings on in mirrors reveal a hidden hospital in the basement**. Then it's a possessed nun, exploding out of her clothes (a dirty habit indeed!), and then it's a killer nun on the rampage until a brink falls on her bonce. And the cop ends up in the Mirrorworld. Dreadful.
And not a sign of Mr Susan - or taki driving skellingtons taking punters to Monkey Hell.
Look at them shine...
* FOR I'D WALKED IT, ON THE OFFCHANCE WE'D GO FOR A DRINK OR DOWN THE WHATACUNT AFTERWARDS. OH, FOOLISH, FAT, FELLOW ME!
** HIDDEN WITH A HUGE SIGN IN THE BASEMENT WITH AN ARROW POINTING TO THE PSYCHIATRIC WARD... THIS SAME ARROW SOMEHOW ALSO INDICATING YOU NEED TO TEAR DOWN A SOLID STONE WALL WITH YOUR BARE HANDS TO GET TO IT. AS YOU DO.
I bailed from me day out at Thorpe Park in favour of seeing a movie with my bestest, bestest chums and the chance of actually talking to a Pretty (for although never having been, Thorpe Park is always there - me actually being in a position to be able to speak to a Pretty on the other hand: rarer than rare. Virtually Nil, in fact). Theme Park vs Movie & Pretties - no contest!
ARSE!
Bums on seats. Did I get to sit next to the Pretty and manage to strike up a conversation? Hah! Married Pretty's Husband was too desperate for that spot!
DRINK!
Yay, movies finishes - let's go for a drink, and I can actually talk to the Pretty in a place where you can talk to people! Hah! Who wants to drink with a fat old sloth? No-one, that's who! In fact, Married Pretty's Husband is so threatened that I may intrude on his attempts to bag himself an extra portion of Pretty that I'm forbidden to walk home* alone, bundled into a car and taken to bag myself a portion of chips.
GIRLS!
I tell you, The Fates have really got it in for me! I've given up any hope of talking to a Pretty now, since any attempt is thwarted left, right and centre! Nor can I compete with married males with an adulterous glint in their eye. Oh well, c'est la mort.
NUNS!
Original: Cop in hostage situation shoots the kidnapper... but it's the reflection he shoots, so the kidnapper kills the hostage. Cop demoted, loses his job and confidence and becomes a Store Detective. Ghostly going on in Mirrors reveal the fact that in the fire, the woman who died wasn't killed in the fire - she was killed by Management when she uncovered Certain Information and her body hidden behind a mirror. Cop regains his confidence, finds himself able to handle a gun again, brings the Killer to justice, Ghosty gets revenge, but the cop gets drawn into the Mirrorworld. Bit slow, but pretty good.
Remake: Cop shoots a man and becomes a night watchman. Ghostly goings on in mirrors reveal a hidden hospital in the basement**. Then it's a possessed nun, exploding out of her clothes (a dirty habit indeed!), and then it's a killer nun on the rampage until a brink falls on her bonce. And the cop ends up in the Mirrorworld. Dreadful.
And not a sign of Mr Susan - or taki driving skellingtons taking punters to Monkey Hell.
Look at them shine...
* FOR I'D WALKED IT, ON THE OFFCHANCE WE'D GO FOR A DRINK OR DOWN THE WHATACUNT AFTERWARDS. OH, FOOLISH, FAT, FELLOW ME!
** HIDDEN WITH A HUGE SIGN IN THE BASEMENT WITH AN ARROW POINTING TO THE PSYCHIATRIC WARD... THIS SAME ARROW SOMEHOW ALSO INDICATING YOU NEED TO TEAR DOWN A SOLID STONE WALL WITH YOUR BARE HANDS TO GET TO IT. AS YOU DO.
Saturday 18 October 2008
Gimme Big Mac, fries to go...
How sick is Dick
Is Zak am twat
Of course, we can't use "How Gone Is Ron" as the 'Ron' in question is actually Robert Redford, who isn't called Ron, so it makes no sense. Unless you replace Ron with Rob, but that don't rhyme with Gone.
Anyhoo. Zack Shitearse am a twahhhhht, for he done a test screening (oooooh!) and after all his promises of faithfulness, he's only gone and changed the ending!
You can' take out 'The Squid' - it's just preposterous! It undermines Ade's whole strategem - and makes the smartest man in the world look like a dick.
It's bad enough taking out Walt's return home and losing his whole regression(and undermining TopKnot torturage and fumbling apologies), but to lose the whole basis the movie hinges on...
Gaaaaah! I was sooooooo excited, now I'm as miffed as a miffed thing that's had miff for starter, mains and dessert, with a miff chaser.
By the way, it's not 10 to doomsday, it's 5½ minutes. Easily mistaken for 5, but never 10.
We love you all? Not if Zack buggers up the whole setup! If you're gonna do it, do it properly. Never compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.
Framing the one remaining member of the Blue Man Group who blithely accepts it when we could have full on interdimensional invasion by monstrous behemoths - what were you thinking!
What's the time - it's Def Con One!
or
What's the time - it's Chico time...
Clearly the latter, you great treacherous oaf!!
Friday 17 October 2008
Ruby Ruby Ruby Rubayyyyyyyyyy Doo...
Oh, how fickle a little cash makes someone!
Take Norbert Rogers. Years spent on the road with his closest chums, but as soon as Uncle Albert dies and leaves him a fortune... and promptly dumps all his mates in favour of high livin'!
He moves into a many roomed mansion - but clearly being closeted with his closest compadres has fostered some resentment, for he doesn't even let them move in! Stuff you lot, be Romany types on the road, me and my dawg are in The Big House now!
And what about the fate of his chums?
Scrappy is flogged off to some Guy as a present for his wife as a pervy paedopuppy present (hubby promptly files for Divorce on the grounds of a really annoying dog... which is no way to talk about Madge).
Then there's Ms Dinkley. Sat in a bungalow knitting sweaters and wishing she's gone to specsavers as a swarm of pussies cover her spinstery frame. Then she wakes from her sapphic dreams and is in a room riddles with cats.
And as for Mr Jones and Ms Blake - having the camper van all to themselves, they took the Mystery Machine on a real adventure. Instead of touring haunted holiday parks, they're investigating car parks and forestry on the Dogging trail. Not to mention lay by's (Daphne and Fred both swung both ways and got a lot of bisexuals laid).
Now wonder Norbert didn't want them in his mansion! They'd be hosting swinging parties left, right and centre! And poor old Norbert having such a nickname... still, if The Fuzz* arrives, at least he can croon "It wasn't me" and try to pass himself off as his inconprehensible namesake.
Still, with Shaggy arrested for Bestiality, and Fred & Daphne done for sexual deviancy, everyone overlooks the criminal Madamé at the heart if it all...
VELMA DINKLEY!
Ever thought Fred and Daphne were a couple? Noooo - take a good long look at Velma... then look at Rose West. Velma... Rose....Velma.... Rose...
It's the same person, right down to the specs! Clearly, Norbert & Scoob were sucked in (off?) by Fred and 'Rose'. A-ha! Seems to me that 'Rose' got Fred to get Daphne to lodge with them. Ever wondered why Shaggy & Scooby are sent off to the basement whilst Fred & Daphne search upstairs? It's so Fred can get Daphne to check out his ghoulies whilst Rose/Velma makes notes in the airing cupboard before joining in the rapeage!!
The perfect crime! Bury your victims at a crime site that will never be investigated!
"Bah! I would have gotten away with it, if it wasn't for you pesky kids"
"Mwah ha ha ha! And the police won't be looking for any bodies, as the criminal is arrested for scaring people off to reap the booty from the mine! Us pesky kids have gotten away with it!"
Oh, if only the police had dug deeper on every case, there'd be no Cromwell Street, No Daphne under the BBQ, no Dead Fred, and Velma wouldn't be in priz.
Jinkies!
* AS IN POLICE, NOT LADYGARDEN.
Take Norbert Rogers. Years spent on the road with his closest chums, but as soon as Uncle Albert dies and leaves him a fortune... and promptly dumps all his mates in favour of high livin'!
He moves into a many roomed mansion - but clearly being closeted with his closest compadres has fostered some resentment, for he doesn't even let them move in! Stuff you lot, be Romany types on the road, me and my dawg are in The Big House now!
And what about the fate of his chums?
Scrappy is flogged off to some Guy as a present for his wife as a pervy paedopuppy present (hubby promptly files for Divorce on the grounds of a really annoying dog... which is no way to talk about Madge).
Then there's Ms Dinkley. Sat in a bungalow knitting sweaters and wishing she's gone to specsavers as a swarm of pussies cover her spinstery frame. Then she wakes from her sapphic dreams and is in a room riddles with cats.
And as for Mr Jones and Ms Blake - having the camper van all to themselves, they took the Mystery Machine on a real adventure. Instead of touring haunted holiday parks, they're investigating car parks and forestry on the Dogging trail. Not to mention lay by's (Daphne and Fred both swung both ways and got a lot of bisexuals laid).
Now wonder Norbert didn't want them in his mansion! They'd be hosting swinging parties left, right and centre! And poor old Norbert having such a nickname... still, if The Fuzz* arrives, at least he can croon "It wasn't me" and try to pass himself off as his inconprehensible namesake.
Still, with Shaggy arrested for Bestiality, and Fred & Daphne done for sexual deviancy, everyone overlooks the criminal Madamé at the heart if it all...
VELMA DINKLEY!
Ever thought Fred and Daphne were a couple? Noooo - take a good long look at Velma... then look at Rose West. Velma... Rose....Velma.... Rose...
It's the same person, right down to the specs! Clearly, Norbert & Scoob were sucked in (off?) by Fred and 'Rose'. A-ha! Seems to me that 'Rose' got Fred to get Daphne to lodge with them. Ever wondered why Shaggy & Scooby are sent off to the basement whilst Fred & Daphne search upstairs? It's so Fred can get Daphne to check out his ghoulies whilst Rose/Velma makes notes in the airing cupboard before joining in the rapeage!!
The perfect crime! Bury your victims at a crime site that will never be investigated!
"Bah! I would have gotten away with it, if it wasn't for you pesky kids"
"Mwah ha ha ha! And the police won't be looking for any bodies, as the criminal is arrested for scaring people off to reap the booty from the mine! Us pesky kids have gotten away with it!"
Oh, if only the police had dug deeper on every case, there'd be no Cromwell Street, No Daphne under the BBQ, no Dead Fred, and Velma wouldn't be in priz.
Jinkies!
* AS IN POLICE, NOT LADYGARDEN.
Thursday 16 October 2008
Kali don’t like it...
Now, there's huge controversy over The War Against Terror, and how (although they do a sterling job) they should bring Our Troops back home.
Stuff the troops - what about out unsung Heroes? The Forces are there because that's their job. They sign up because they get a bit of a stiffy when handling guns, want to shoot people, and can nob each other up the bum in the baracks.*
Not so the humble weekend angler!
All he's after is a few hours away from his nagging wife & mistress, where he can read porn by the side of a river and get hit on by drunken female students.
Instead, they're pressed into the front lines, tackling the latest in Jyhaddi Terror plans...
KILLER CATFISH!!!
With everyone on the lookout for suicide bombers and the like, Osama and his fanatical followers have ousted the Hindus from the Great Kali River and are breeding mutant muslim seamonsters in their place!
Seems that part of the Hindu funeral rite is based on Viking Lore, and the dead send off to a Vishnu Valhalla via a firey watery grave. So, these fanatical fundamentalists are now using it as a cover to breed their behemoths and subjugate the western ocean!
They've been bulking up their genetically modified hybrid seabeasties on a diet of Islammi Fried Infidel until they reach the point when they start leaping out the the lake and biting the hands off their captors. Once the fishies are addicted to decadent Western flesh, these hook handed warriors of Allah release them to poach people off the riverbank.
And all that's holding back the tide is Britsh Angler Jeremy Wade-not-to-far-into-the-river who's single handedly capturing these terrorist turbots and it's Bin-Laden brethren!
So next time you pass an anger on the riverbank, don't tease him about the size of his maggot or the length of his rod whilst jiggling your bazookas at him - top up his thermos, give him a new porno and encourage him to keep up the good work.
Our shores are safe, thanks to the good old angling community.
Just don't let it slip down the Mosque when fishing season's over...
* WHICH ISN'T BEING GAY AT ALL - MALE BONDING, INITIATIONS RITUALS AND ANAL ROGERINGS ARE NOT HOMOSEXUAL IN ANY WAY, APPARENTLY.
Stuff the troops - what about out unsung Heroes? The Forces are there because that's their job. They sign up because they get a bit of a stiffy when handling guns, want to shoot people, and can nob each other up the bum in the baracks.*
Not so the humble weekend angler!
All he's after is a few hours away from his nagging wife & mistress, where he can read porn by the side of a river and get hit on by drunken female students.
Instead, they're pressed into the front lines, tackling the latest in Jyhaddi Terror plans...
KILLER CATFISH!!!
With everyone on the lookout for suicide bombers and the like, Osama and his fanatical followers have ousted the Hindus from the Great Kali River and are breeding mutant muslim seamonsters in their place!
Seems that part of the Hindu funeral rite is based on Viking Lore, and the dead send off to a Vishnu Valhalla via a firey watery grave. So, these fanatical fundamentalists are now using it as a cover to breed their behemoths and subjugate the western ocean!
They've been bulking up their genetically modified hybrid seabeasties on a diet of Islammi Fried Infidel until they reach the point when they start leaping out the the lake and biting the hands off their captors. Once the fishies are addicted to decadent Western flesh, these hook handed warriors of Allah release them to poach people off the riverbank.
And all that's holding back the tide is Britsh Angler Jeremy Wade-not-to-far-into-the-river who's single handedly capturing these terrorist turbots and it's Bin-Laden brethren!
So next time you pass an anger on the riverbank, don't tease him about the size of his maggot or the length of his rod whilst jiggling your bazookas at him - top up his thermos, give him a new porno and encourage him to keep up the good work.
Our shores are safe, thanks to the good old angling community.
Just don't let it slip down the Mosque when fishing season's over...
* WHICH ISN'T BEING GAY AT ALL - MALE BONDING, INITIATIONS RITUALS AND ANAL ROGERINGS ARE NOT HOMOSEXUAL IN ANY WAY, APPARENTLY.
Wednesday 15 October 2008
Avoid the the common, there be arial stones about...
Whoo-hoo! New plumage! And all performed by Lady B in a Gimp apron!
In a step up from the usual see-thru attire, La Coiffeur Extrordinaire now applies lightening colorment adorned in black PVCesque coverage with obligatory silvery zippage! Phwoarrr!!
Clearly, the accompanying mask, Spikey collar and big stillettoed boots must have been left in the 'massage room'. I've seen them Despatches type programs - I know what goes on in these Beauty Salons!!
My suspicions were further aroused* by one of them sink plunger coffee jugs** which at first glance appears to be filled with coffee... but on further inspection, contains a product called Barbicide!!
Gaaaaah! Fetishistic follicle femmes are all very well, but when they start on the expiration of unfeasibly large breasted dollies, I begin to worry.
Still. At least it wasn't matricide. Dollies still look human, and venting your wrath upon them is sort of symbollic. Taking weaponry and applying it's use to the knifings of bed sleepage support is just crazy!
And they let these people loose around yer barnet!!!!
It's Sweeney Todd all over again! On with the fetish gear, bend your head back over the basin, and whilst watering your freshly shampoo'd locks, quickly straddle you and suddenly it's on with the rapeage and stabbings up and the maniacal laughter like some evil green cockney with solo polo vision as she strangles you with the tail of your moulét.
Fear!!! I'm growing my hair long again! I've no desire to be straddled in the barbers chair by some hot hairdresser in S&M protective rainment before the cockney rapeage and the cuttings up and the insertion of eels...
On second thoughts...
Nah - anal eel insertion is just one step too far for me!
* FURTHER 'AROUSED', EH XYM! HMMMMM...
** A GREASY SPOON DRINK TAKEN AL FRESCO*** - CAFE. TEA. AIR.
*** THE FULL NAME THAT PAUL SIMON LIKES TO GO BY WHEN VISITING ELVIS.
In a step up from the usual see-thru attire, La Coiffeur Extrordinaire now applies lightening colorment adorned in black PVCesque coverage with obligatory silvery zippage! Phwoarrr!!
Clearly, the accompanying mask, Spikey collar and big stillettoed boots must have been left in the 'massage room'. I've seen them Despatches type programs - I know what goes on in these Beauty Salons!!
My suspicions were further aroused* by one of them sink plunger coffee jugs** which at first glance appears to be filled with coffee... but on further inspection, contains a product called Barbicide!!
Gaaaaah! Fetishistic follicle femmes are all very well, but when they start on the expiration of unfeasibly large breasted dollies, I begin to worry.
Still. At least it wasn't matricide. Dollies still look human, and venting your wrath upon them is sort of symbollic. Taking weaponry and applying it's use to the knifings of bed sleepage support is just crazy!
And they let these people loose around yer barnet!!!!
It's Sweeney Todd all over again! On with the fetish gear, bend your head back over the basin, and whilst watering your freshly shampoo'd locks, quickly straddle you and suddenly it's on with the rapeage and stabbings up and the maniacal laughter like some evil green cockney with solo polo vision as she strangles you with the tail of your moulét.
Fear!!! I'm growing my hair long again! I've no desire to be straddled in the barbers chair by some hot hairdresser in S&M protective rainment before the cockney rapeage and the cuttings up and the insertion of eels...
On second thoughts...
Nah - anal eel insertion is just one step too far for me!
* FURTHER 'AROUSED', EH XYM! HMMMMM...
** A GREASY SPOON DRINK TAKEN AL FRESCO*** - CAFE. TEA. AIR.
*** THE FULL NAME THAT PAUL SIMON LIKES TO GO BY WHEN VISITING ELVIS.
V.P. phone home…
Everyone knows about S.E.T.I., and how The Greybeards are using giant satellite dishes to finds signs of space monsters by trying to pick up broadcasts of the martian equivalent of The Archers.
Unfortunately, the gormsters misread their brief, and have spent all this time & cash pointing their RadioShack Crystal Reciever set at Tibet, listening for the YETI.
Luckily, they've realised their mistake, and are using the top brains of Britain. They've hit on the idea that we could transmit a message to the nearest earth like planet, and see if they reply! And who better to come up with a First Contact message to an alien race than people proficient in communications?
The highly experienced and worldy wise users of Social Network site Bubo, of course!
Contrary to popular opinion, PubeHole is not just the bastard offspring of scummy mummies scrounging off benefits, they're all high end achievers. And so they collected a myriad of messages to our Intergalactic Neighbours of planet Gleise 581c. Here's one of them:
Hi im nicole. my ambitions for when i am older is to perform, i love anything to do with drama and someday i would love to appear on the west end stage, in a hit show.i also wouldnt mind doing a few television programs whether it is as a extra or a main part i dont mind i would love to appear on doctor who as i love it. anyway laters.Nicole x
Somehow, as a First Contact with potential overlords hell bent on exterminating us with laser guns and eating us to death, this doesn't really give the best impression!
I don't think Bubo were trying to make contact at all. I reckon that They Already Walk Among Us, and it's all a front! The clue lies in these barely literate chavtastic ramblings - they're really Pod People From The Planet Mars (or Gliese 581c) and 'networking' with their mates back home! Social Networking - Spacial Networking, more like!
I'll just bet Uncle Axazeer-5 is probably dead proud of l'il Nicole wanting to be a star. She must've failed the audition on Interstellar Plop Idle, so she's having a bash at taking over humanoid identity in order to colonize the Earth by impregnating groupies on the X-File Fuckedher tour.
Or something.
Unfortunately, the gormsters misread their brief, and have spent all this time & cash pointing their RadioShack Crystal Reciever set at Tibet, listening for the YETI.
Luckily, they've realised their mistake, and are using the top brains of Britain. They've hit on the idea that we could transmit a message to the nearest earth like planet, and see if they reply! And who better to come up with a First Contact message to an alien race than people proficient in communications?
The highly experienced and worldy wise users of Social Network site Bubo, of course!
Contrary to popular opinion, PubeHole is not just the bastard offspring of scummy mummies scrounging off benefits, they're all high end achievers. And so they collected a myriad of messages to our Intergalactic Neighbours of planet Gleise 581c. Here's one of them:
Hi im nicole. my ambitions for when i am older is to perform, i love anything to do with drama and someday i would love to appear on the west end stage, in a hit show.i also wouldnt mind doing a few television programs whether it is as a extra or a main part i dont mind i would love to appear on doctor who as i love it. anyway laters.Nicole x
Somehow, as a First Contact with potential overlords hell bent on exterminating us with laser guns and eating us to death, this doesn't really give the best impression!
I don't think Bubo were trying to make contact at all. I reckon that They Already Walk Among Us, and it's all a front! The clue lies in these barely literate chavtastic ramblings - they're really Pod People From The Planet Mars (or Gliese 581c) and 'networking' with their mates back home! Social Networking - Spacial Networking, more like!
I'll just bet Uncle Axazeer-5 is probably dead proud of l'il Nicole wanting to be a star. She must've failed the audition on Interstellar Plop Idle, so she's having a bash at taking over humanoid identity in order to colonize the Earth by impregnating groupies on the X-File Fuckedher tour.
Or something.
Tuesday 14 October 2008
I see (brain) dead people...
Honestly, how do some people get employed to come up with business requirements?
"Oooh, Mr Owain, I have some requirements for you"
"Aye, and what be those requirements..."
"Well, we want a generic set of documents that any brand can use. The idea is rather than have bespoke documents for various brands, we have a one-size-fits-all mailing pack to cut down on maintenance and errors. And to keep consistent across what's being sent out."
"Sounds good to me! In fact, I have such a set ready, all I need is the Brand codes so they generate the generic pack and just change the brand name, etc"
"Oh, the documents have to be tailored to each brand, so they retain 'tone of voice'. In fact, they need to be indentical to what's being issued at the moment, as they've been signed off by the client"
"Eh? But didn't you just say..."
"Oh, and the documents need to be different to what's being issued at the moment."
"So... You want a generic set of identical documents to be shared each brand, which are different for each brand and identical to the old documentation, which is different to the old documentation."
"Yup"
"You don't see a three way confict there?"
"Umm... no?"
"On the new system. You want Brand A and Brand B to get exactly the same letter. No differences between the two (apart from the Brand Name).."
"Yes..."
"And that letter is to be different for Brand A, with Brand B getting a totally different one... "
"Yes..."
"And these new letters must be be identical to the ones on the old system..."
"Yes..."
"And on the new system, they're to have different wordings to those on the old system..."
"Exactly!"
"Can you put that in writing, just so we're clear on this..."
"Done - here's a requirements document with it all in!"
And fuck me, they have as well!
And people wonder why they never get what they ask for!
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr....
"Oooh, Mr Owain, I have some requirements for you"
"Aye, and what be those requirements..."
"Well, we want a generic set of documents that any brand can use. The idea is rather than have bespoke documents for various brands, we have a one-size-fits-all mailing pack to cut down on maintenance and errors. And to keep consistent across what's being sent out."
"Sounds good to me! In fact, I have such a set ready, all I need is the Brand codes so they generate the generic pack and just change the brand name, etc"
"Oh, the documents have to be tailored to each brand, so they retain 'tone of voice'. In fact, they need to be indentical to what's being issued at the moment, as they've been signed off by the client"
"Eh? But didn't you just say..."
"Oh, and the documents need to be different to what's being issued at the moment."
"So... You want a generic set of identical documents to be shared each brand, which are different for each brand and identical to the old documentation, which is different to the old documentation."
"Yup"
"You don't see a three way confict there?"
"Umm... no?"
"On the new system. You want Brand A and Brand B to get exactly the same letter. No differences between the two (apart from the Brand Name).."
"Yes..."
"And that letter is to be different for Brand A, with Brand B getting a totally different one... "
"Yes..."
"And these new letters must be be identical to the ones on the old system..."
"Yes..."
"And on the new system, they're to have different wordings to those on the old system..."
"Exactly!"
"Can you put that in writing, just so we're clear on this..."
"Done - here's a requirements document with it all in!"
And fuck me, they have as well!
And people wonder why they never get what they ask for!
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr....
Monday 13 October 2008
O'im a cockernee, o'im a cockernee...
I always thought The Family Movie was a filum for all the family to enjoy.
And at 6pm, one would not expect such family fare to consist of flesh eating lizardy types, with Big Sister wanting to nob her younger brother!
And just as bad was that Mary Pawprints. I saw the first hour before incest laden monster movie came on. What an Evil Bitch she is!
First of all, there's all these out of work nannies, all a-queueing to vie for the position of Nanny to two irritating brats. Now, instead of letting anyone have a fair chance, Mary decides to whip up a gale force storm, and blow off all the other Nannies (f'narr f'narr!).
So all these poverty stricken, out of work women are cast into the sky, presumably to be dropped into a pile of broken bones and an untimely death. For the survivors... well, being 1910, they probably died from having their broken limbs amputated, or were forced into business as parapalegic prostitutes.
So much for her being all lovely and nice!
Then she turns into a right old arrogant bullying battleaxe! That's hardly the attitude to go into an interview with!
"Right, I'm here. Fuck references - they're crap anyways (and might give away the fact that I mutilate other job applicants seeking the same role). Basically, I'm fucking great, and I'll give your job a go and see if you're any good as a boss. Now fuck off, coz I'm off to me desk to start work."
Oooooh, get her!
Then, the cheeky arse wench can't be arsed to walk upstairs. Oh no, It's climb aboard the Stannah Stairlift to the top - leaving poor dear little white haired kindly old grandmother to come out of the Piano Room and be stranded at the base of the staircase. Looking longingly at the stairlift so high out of reach, and no TENA lady being invented yet.
Meanwhile, Evil Bitch gets the kids into the bedroom.
"So, children, You wanted to play games, did you not?"
"Oooh, yes please Mary Pawprints"
"Well, fuckin' tidy yer room you little shits"
"I told you she was tricky"
"Nah, it's a fuckin' game, innit, coz you sing a load of bollocks about sugar and medicine, and that makes tidying your room a game"
"Are you sure"
"La la la. Can't hear you! A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down! La la la..."
And then she gets even eviller!
Spit spot! Off to the park... to be harassed by some pavement painting paedophile who wants to get up chimneys where they usually shove small boys.
Or something.
Anyhoo, by this point, she's drugged them up well and good, as they start hallucinating about being in the paedos pastel pictures with piss poor singing aminals. Then they come to, and it's pissing down! There's she with her parasol, and she makes the children walk behind getting soaked to the skin!
Evil cow!
And then the even dodgier bit comes in...
She gets them back into the bedroom, and starts feeding them 'medicine' on the pretext that "if your feet get wet, you have to have some medicine". Hmmmmmm... sounds a bit iffy to me! Especially as the 'medicine' doesn't come with the 'spoonful of sugar' she keeps insisting needs to be taken with legitimate medicine.
And just what is this medicine? To the poor, young, naive kiddiwinks with innocence in their eyes and lemonade on their lips, it's lime or strawberry cardial. Ah, but then she lets slip what an adult would recognise this 'medicine' as - Rum punch, no less!!!
So, she's spooning alchocol into these kids, and passing it off as medicine! No doubt that the 'spoonful of sugar' is a teaspoon of Rhohypnol to ensure you're victim 'goes down' with no recollection of the event!
Want more proof? Well, you can now buy these detectors that detect if there is any 'funny stuff' spiking yer drinks, and your drink changes colour to let you know. And lo and behold - Mary's 'medicine' changes color on contact with the spoons!!
It's a good job I turned over to watch the flesh eating monsters and incest board game movie at that point! Evil, evil strumpet! Add Mary Pawprints to the canon of female paedophiles, along with Myra and Rose.
Even more worrying is that 'Bert' went on to become a doctor in Diagnosis Murder, and hid his authentic cockney accent behind an American drawl, so as to divert attention from his rhohypnol rapeage and have access to a plentiful supply of date rape druggery. Oh, the conflict of interest when Mary applies to be a kinky nurse, and slaughters all the student nursies just to get a job near the Childrens Ward.
Aaaoooooooww It's a jolly 'oliday with Mary's behind bars...
And at 6pm, one would not expect such family fare to consist of flesh eating lizardy types, with Big Sister wanting to nob her younger brother!
And just as bad was that Mary Pawprints. I saw the first hour before incest laden monster movie came on. What an Evil Bitch she is!
First of all, there's all these out of work nannies, all a-queueing to vie for the position of Nanny to two irritating brats. Now, instead of letting anyone have a fair chance, Mary decides to whip up a gale force storm, and blow off all the other Nannies (f'narr f'narr!).
So all these poverty stricken, out of work women are cast into the sky, presumably to be dropped into a pile of broken bones and an untimely death. For the survivors... well, being 1910, they probably died from having their broken limbs amputated, or were forced into business as parapalegic prostitutes.
So much for her being all lovely and nice!
Then she turns into a right old arrogant bullying battleaxe! That's hardly the attitude to go into an interview with!
"Right, I'm here. Fuck references - they're crap anyways (and might give away the fact that I mutilate other job applicants seeking the same role). Basically, I'm fucking great, and I'll give your job a go and see if you're any good as a boss. Now fuck off, coz I'm off to me desk to start work."
Oooooh, get her!
Then, the cheeky arse wench can't be arsed to walk upstairs. Oh no, It's climb aboard the Stannah Stairlift to the top - leaving poor dear little white haired kindly old grandmother to come out of the Piano Room and be stranded at the base of the staircase. Looking longingly at the stairlift so high out of reach, and no TENA lady being invented yet.
Meanwhile, Evil Bitch gets the kids into the bedroom.
"So, children, You wanted to play games, did you not?"
"Oooh, yes please Mary Pawprints"
"Well, fuckin' tidy yer room you little shits"
"I told you she was tricky"
"Nah, it's a fuckin' game, innit, coz you sing a load of bollocks about sugar and medicine, and that makes tidying your room a game"
"Are you sure"
"La la la. Can't hear you! A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down! La la la..."
And then she gets even eviller!
Spit spot! Off to the park... to be harassed by some pavement painting paedophile who wants to get up chimneys where they usually shove small boys.
Or something.
Anyhoo, by this point, she's drugged them up well and good, as they start hallucinating about being in the paedos pastel pictures with piss poor singing aminals. Then they come to, and it's pissing down! There's she with her parasol, and she makes the children walk behind getting soaked to the skin!
Evil cow!
And then the even dodgier bit comes in...
She gets them back into the bedroom, and starts feeding them 'medicine' on the pretext that "if your feet get wet, you have to have some medicine". Hmmmmmm... sounds a bit iffy to me! Especially as the 'medicine' doesn't come with the 'spoonful of sugar' she keeps insisting needs to be taken with legitimate medicine.
And just what is this medicine? To the poor, young, naive kiddiwinks with innocence in their eyes and lemonade on their lips, it's lime or strawberry cardial. Ah, but then she lets slip what an adult would recognise this 'medicine' as - Rum punch, no less!!!
So, she's spooning alchocol into these kids, and passing it off as medicine! No doubt that the 'spoonful of sugar' is a teaspoon of Rhohypnol to ensure you're victim 'goes down' with no recollection of the event!
Want more proof? Well, you can now buy these detectors that detect if there is any 'funny stuff' spiking yer drinks, and your drink changes colour to let you know. And lo and behold - Mary's 'medicine' changes color on contact with the spoons!!
It's a good job I turned over to watch the flesh eating monsters and incest board game movie at that point! Evil, evil strumpet! Add Mary Pawprints to the canon of female paedophiles, along with Myra and Rose.
Even more worrying is that 'Bert' went on to become a doctor in Diagnosis Murder, and hid his authentic cockney accent behind an American drawl, so as to divert attention from his rhohypnol rapeage and have access to a plentiful supply of date rape druggery. Oh, the conflict of interest when Mary applies to be a kinky nurse, and slaughters all the student nursies just to get a job near the Childrens Ward.
Aaaoooooooww It's a jolly 'oliday with Mary's behind bars...
Sunday 12 October 2008
Fish enhanced alternative rock...
Yay! I got through it, and despite initial mild terrors, things went swell...
...apart from the pungent perfumery of the upper levels.
Now, you'd expect nightclubs to smell of stale cider stagnating on the floor, of lads and ladettes doused in bathtubs of poundland perfume, of topless fatbloke's sweaty pits and his belching bot from imbibing bubbly beer.
The last scent you would expect to find assailing your nostrils upon the top floor of a dancehall would be the heady fug of mackerel.
How exactly one gets a room pervaded by a piscine pong is a mystery. Was it hired out for the annual fishmongers ball? Mayhap they had a fetish night, and upstairs was the 'dungeon room', leaving no trace but the waft of lady lubricant and playing up to it's name of The Watercunt?
I think I have the answer!
At first, I thought it was because a certain Derek W. Dick is coming to the WhatACunt, and they decided to honour his stage name through guppy joss stones.
It's all down to 'setting the mood', and as I passed though, they were playing some of that Cagney and Lacey 80's soft rock music!
Aha! Clearly Management misinterpreted Mullet Rock Night! Oh the confusion betwixt a popular 80s Poncey Rocker haircut* and the mugilidæ family of aquabiology!
And so, Management believing it to be a night of devotion to the tasty Mediterranean dish, ordered in the offecting olfactory menace to set the marine mood!
It certainly puts you off boogie-ing to the Welsh Warbler's "Totally Pissed As A Fart", I can tell you!
Then again, so does playing it in a nightclub...
Or playing it at all even...
In fact, there's no reason to put you on to such ballady boogiement bollocks...
Turn around
...and fly into the firmament to flee the fishy fumes...
* THAT ONLY SLIGHTLY RESEMBLES MINE, FOR MINE IS NOT A MOULET AT ALL!
OH, WHO AM I KIDDING! I SPORT A MOULET AND I AM PROUD!!!
...apart from the pungent perfumery of the upper levels.
Now, you'd expect nightclubs to smell of stale cider stagnating on the floor, of lads and ladettes doused in bathtubs of poundland perfume, of topless fatbloke's sweaty pits and his belching bot from imbibing bubbly beer.
The last scent you would expect to find assailing your nostrils upon the top floor of a dancehall would be the heady fug of mackerel.
How exactly one gets a room pervaded by a piscine pong is a mystery. Was it hired out for the annual fishmongers ball? Mayhap they had a fetish night, and upstairs was the 'dungeon room', leaving no trace but the waft of lady lubricant and playing up to it's name of The Watercunt?
I think I have the answer!
At first, I thought it was because a certain Derek W. Dick is coming to the WhatACunt, and they decided to honour his stage name through guppy joss stones.
It's all down to 'setting the mood', and as I passed though, they were playing some of that Cagney and Lacey 80's soft rock music!
Aha! Clearly Management misinterpreted Mullet Rock Night! Oh the confusion betwixt a popular 80s Poncey Rocker haircut* and the mugilidæ family of aquabiology!
And so, Management believing it to be a night of devotion to the tasty Mediterranean dish, ordered in the offecting olfactory menace to set the marine mood!
It certainly puts you off boogie-ing to the Welsh Warbler's "Totally Pissed As A Fart", I can tell you!
Then again, so does playing it in a nightclub...
Or playing it at all even...
In fact, there's no reason to put you on to such ballady boogiement bollocks...
Turn around
every now and then I get a little bit terrified
and then I see the look in your eyes
Turn around Bright Eyes
Burning like fire
...and fly into the firmament to flee the fishy fumes...
* THAT ONLY SLIGHTLY RESEMBLES MINE, FOR MINE IS NOT A MOULET AT ALL!
OH, WHO AM I KIDDING! I SPORT A MOULET AND I AM PROUD!!!
Saturday 11 October 2008
Lizardy panic attack...
And the focus of fear
within the creases of a dress
a female dress
How did I come to be drowning in this mess
This, FUCKING mess!
Well, maybe nor dressage, probably more jeansy, but stil the FOCUS of FEAR!
Xym's freaked out, as nothing about the situation is familiar, and certainly don't fit into his scheme of things.
Still, a drop of Jacques should sort that out! No - Strongbow, coz they don't do Jacques at the Waterycunt.
Yes, the great fat lumbering Alec Hollandaise is off to the WhatACunt for Rawkarse, dancy dancy in Plissken ocular stylee!
With spivs flogging bodily fuids to vampiresque EMOs.
Oooooh, Not too many hours from this hour! So long?
The storm comes!
I'd bettter jump into the shower...
I'd bettter jump into the shower...
Rub-a-dub-dub
Three men in a tub
And who do you think they be?
A Butch Bloke?
A Fakir?
Osama's dick shaker?
Whatever it is, count me out!
A bathtub of babes on the other hand...
Friday 10 October 2008
Wake up sleepy jean...
I was watching the second half of that documentary on narcolepsy when...
Sorry! Must've dozed off there!
Anyhoo, how can you have a pear when
Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes. People skiving off work by
Sorry! Apparently, it's a real sickness and not being a lazy
Fuck it! I'm off to bed!
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sorry! Must've dozed off there!
Anyhoo, how can you have a pear when
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes. People skiving off work by
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sorry! Apparently, it's a real sickness and not being a lazy
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Fuck it! I'm off to bed!
Thursday 9 October 2008
Porn of the dead...
There are many things that The Gays are famous for, but to go from munching on manhoods to consuming the meat of man is a tad extreme!
Seems that the first ever Mr Gay UK has become a stone bonker, and is enticing young rentaboys into his domicile in order to ravish their bottoms before serving up their bottom on a silver platter for tea!
So if you go round a gay friends house for tea, avoid the bangers and mash!
And the meatballs.
This is what comes of letting cannibalistic catamites watch late night tagliatelli zombie movies with twists in them. Bumboys bit on the bot by homozombies, then arising from the dead and arseraping Daffidds to death before eating their cocks off in some ladyboy longpig massacre.
And the worst thing is that he was Mr Gay UK! He's not even German!
Or a player of the double bass.
And I ain't talkin' about a fish in each hand, waving them about like morris dancers hankies and slapping them in rhythmic percussion*. This is more the antics of them mental vegetarians who claim to be vegetarian but still eat fishies on the basis of... umm... well, it's not 'meat' it's 'fish'.
Actually, the term is Piscitarian, which is not to be confused with a vagetarian (despite claims of fishy mingescent that needs a bit of Febreeze on it). Although, I do feel sorry for vegans, as how do they know their olives haven't been pissed on by a goat, or their mung beans matured with marmoset manure and the like.
Tofu? A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do!
EAT SWEETIES!!!
* I WOULD MAKE AN EXTREMELY BAD TASTE REFERENCE ABOUT A GERMANS (HANS) FISTS BEING PUMPED AMONGST MAURICE'S MR HANKY IN SEXUAL RHYTHM, BUT THAT WOULD BE TOO OFFENSIVE, SO I WON'T MENTION IT!
Seems that the first ever Mr Gay UK has become a stone bonker, and is enticing young rentaboys into his domicile in order to ravish their bottoms before serving up their bottom on a silver platter for tea!
So if you go round a gay friends house for tea, avoid the bangers and mash!
And the meatballs.
This is what comes of letting cannibalistic catamites watch late night tagliatelli zombie movies with twists in them. Bumboys bit on the bot by homozombies, then arising from the dead and arseraping Daffidds to death before eating their cocks off in some ladyboy longpig massacre.
And the worst thing is that he was Mr Gay UK! He's not even German!
Or a player of the double bass.
And I ain't talkin' about a fish in each hand, waving them about like morris dancers hankies and slapping them in rhythmic percussion*. This is more the antics of them mental vegetarians who claim to be vegetarian but still eat fishies on the basis of... umm... well, it's not 'meat' it's 'fish'.
Actually, the term is Piscitarian, which is not to be confused with a vagetarian (despite claims of fishy mingescent that needs a bit of Febreeze on it). Although, I do feel sorry for vegans, as how do they know their olives haven't been pissed on by a goat, or their mung beans matured with marmoset manure and the like.
Tofu? A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do!
EAT SWEETIES!!!
* I WOULD MAKE AN EXTREMELY BAD TASTE REFERENCE ABOUT A GERMANS (HANS) FISTS BEING PUMPED AMONGST MAURICE'S MR HANKY IN SEXUAL RHYTHM, BUT THAT WOULD BE TOO OFFENSIVE, SO I WON'T MENTION IT!
Wednesday 8 October 2008
Odds bodkins...
Picture the scene...
Your sibling has gone missing, and you bear in your hand a handwritten note in their handwriting from the hotel they're staying at. You call up said hotel... No Sir, no-one of that name stayed here sir!
Aha! So, you take it upon yourself to investigate the disappearance, and pack your bags. Hmmmm... what to take? Magnifying glass? Deerstalker? violin and opium?
Of course not - you pack the very things that are vital for your role as a private dick.
And those things would clearly be a candlestick and various ancestorial accoutrements, such as your great great great uncle's witchfinders kit.
Still, you can always rely on Andrew Eldritch to take a pot shot at you in the shrubbery, clearly mistaking you for a right old hussy. But, he saves the day!
Unlike miserable git in a wheelchair who, knowing all The Laird's evil plans, can't be arsed to do anything until a descendant of Labia returns to the village. All very well boasting you knew all along, but only decide to mention it when Christopher Lee turns into Grotbags in a ludicrous hat.
And we could have been watching a fly in the pointment.
C'est larvæ, or summat...
Your sibling has gone missing, and you bear in your hand a handwritten note in their handwriting from the hotel they're staying at. You call up said hotel... No Sir, no-one of that name stayed here sir!
Aha! So, you take it upon yourself to investigate the disappearance, and pack your bags. Hmmmm... what to take? Magnifying glass? Deerstalker? violin and opium?
Of course not - you pack the very things that are vital for your role as a private dick.
And those things would clearly be a candlestick and various ancestorial accoutrements, such as your great great great uncle's witchfinders kit.
Still, you can always rely on Andrew Eldritch to take a pot shot at you in the shrubbery, clearly mistaking you for a right old hussy. But, he saves the day!
Unlike miserable git in a wheelchair who, knowing all The Laird's evil plans, can't be arsed to do anything until a descendant of Labia returns to the village. All very well boasting you knew all along, but only decide to mention it when Christopher Lee turns into Grotbags in a ludicrous hat.
And we could have been watching a fly in the pointment.
C'est larvæ, or summat...
Monday 6 October 2008
All the small things...
Late night
Come home.
Work sucks (I know!)
She left me roses by the stairs...
Hold on a minute... If by some ludicrous quirk of fate I managed to attract a lovely lady of my own, I would be most puzzled by such activity.
Leaving foliage on the stairs isn't the most romantic of gestures! There you are, plodding up the staircase, when SLIPPAGE! A trip upon a mountain of stems and stamens and petals, and it's a tumbling down the steps ye go!
Causing your lover to plunge arse over tit down the stairs to lie in a heap of broken bones with your lifeblood leaking all over the floor can hardly be construed as a 'come on'!
Even dolling yerself up in some latex nursey outfit is hardly likely to rouse you from your bed of pain and torment - and it's a tad embarassing if the paramendics parachute in and find the missus tinkering with yer trews as you go into spasms and a-twitching with the dislocations and the trapped nerves!
"Surprises let me know she cares" my best hat!
More likely wants to get her gold digga mitts on the life insurance!
Say it ain't so!
I will not go!
Turn the lights on
And carry me to the hospital.
Nee nah nee nah nee nah (nah nah nah)
Sunday 5 October 2008
If I moon in your eye when there’s piss down your thighs...
That's amoré!
Seems a bit od to me - I thought amoré was Italian for Lurve, but being hit in the face with a slice of pizza doesn't sound very loveable to me!
OK, if it's part of this Fantasy Fridge Food smearage with Choccie spread and bananas and cream and wotnots, I could understand, but rubbing a pepperoni hot into yer partners eyes seems a tad extreme for a bit for foreplay!
Then again, I thought Amoré was that expensive, poncey yoghurt - no wonder I get nowhere in the Lurve steaks! Now, I can imagine pasting yoghurt all over willing young ladies... although that's probably more of a Thrush issue, and probably not the best form of erotica in the bedroom.
On the other hand, all this talk of Pizza Pies (Pizza Pie? Who fills pastry casings with pizza? It's either pizza OR a pie - you can't have both!) made me think - it's not 'amoré' at all - it's 'a moray'.
And therefore we're looking at rapist cockneys, with their Moray Eel Pie and Mash. I've heard tell that the ladies are quite partial to an enormous internal black wanger, givin' off electrical shocks in their nether regions and makin' 'em go off like a rocket.
Or something.
Good old Elsie!
Eels up inside ya
Seems a bit od to me - I thought amoré was Italian for Lurve, but being hit in the face with a slice of pizza doesn't sound very loveable to me!
OK, if it's part of this Fantasy Fridge Food smearage with Choccie spread and bananas and cream and wotnots, I could understand, but rubbing a pepperoni hot into yer partners eyes seems a tad extreme for a bit for foreplay!
Then again, I thought Amoré was that expensive, poncey yoghurt - no wonder I get nowhere in the Lurve steaks! Now, I can imagine pasting yoghurt all over willing young ladies... although that's probably more of a Thrush issue, and probably not the best form of erotica in the bedroom.
On the other hand, all this talk of Pizza Pies (Pizza Pie? Who fills pastry casings with pizza? It's either pizza OR a pie - you can't have both!) made me think - it's not 'amoré' at all - it's 'a moray'.
And therefore we're looking at rapist cockneys, with their Moray Eel Pie and Mash. I've heard tell that the ladies are quite partial to an enormous internal black wanger, givin' off electrical shocks in their nether regions and makin' 'em go off like a rocket.
Or something.
Good old Elsie!
Eels up inside ya
Findin' an entrance where they can
Eels up inside ya
Findin' an entrance where they can
Pouring though yer mind
Through yer tummy
Through yer anus
EELS!
Saturday 4 October 2008
Pom pom pom, pomme de terre, pomme de terre...
Jedi carrots perving over Velmaesque carronts on lilos on the shores of 'CourseYouCunt?
Has the worlds gone mad with Sith Veg?
Prince's Tuna Oregano nicking the plans for the Death Spud whist her brother, Leek Skywalker is brought up on a farm. Meanwhile, Oh-Be-One Canapé hires Lollo Rosso and Chewy Cabbage to take them to Damon Allbran, before revalling to Leek that Darth Tater is his father.
Sweet Pea-o and Ooo-Arrr-too-dee-too continue to cause havoc
Bros. Eisley - you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and vegetables...
Has the worlds gone mad with Sith Veg?
Prince's Tuna Oregano nicking the plans for the Death Spud whist her brother, Leek Skywalker is brought up on a farm. Meanwhile, Oh-Be-One Canapé hires Lollo Rosso and Chewy Cabbage to take them to Damon Allbran, before revalling to Leek that Darth Tater is his father.
Sweet Pea-o and Ooo-Arrr-too-dee-too continue to cause havoc
Bros. Eisley - you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and vegetables...
Friday 3 October 2008
Walking hairy man carpet...
Hoorah!
One of them professory types hired a yak up the hymnal layers, and came across a Yeti.
After cleaning up his man-mess, he offered to shave it's knackers and duly returned to Civilization with the prized possession of Abdominal Snowman clipping for analysis.
Shame seducing snowbeasts was a waste of time, for some crackpot crackshot caught one, and flogged it to The Greybeards for wodges of wonga.
Oddly enough though, when hair samples were analyzed, they turned out to be plastic!
Of course, The Establishment are trying to fob off the public, with claims of fakery and Hensonesque muppetry. Ha! As if (but not the Al Azif, which them him/her liars are keeping for their tunnelling tibetan overlords)!
Seems clear to me that these icy Bigfeets are being sold cheap hair extensions from the local market!
EMO Yeti's, coming out of the mountains in the fall to purchase huge fluorescent hair falls, and hanging aroung the entrances to the frozen equivalent of the Castle Mall, bothering the public with their beastly behaviour!
If a bear shit in the woods, where does a Yeti shit...
"Great Scott, Tensing! A giant footprint in the snow!"
"Yes, Great Explorer. These are made by the Walker in the Wastes, which we call the Yeti"
"Talking of waste, look at that pile of shit on the ice! No wonder they call him the Abdominal Snowman, must eat a fucking lot of berries to get such a huge dump!"
"Please, Great Explorer, we must flee, afore Ithaqua, the icy wind walker and best drinking buddy of the Wendigo curses our souls forever!"
"Wendigo, eh? I just best she does! Not much else to do in the arctic tundra! Come, Telsing! Let us avail ourselves of this Wendy and her Innuit hospitality!"
Ah, EskEMOs!
One of them professory types hired a yak up the hymnal layers, and came across a Yeti.
After cleaning up his man-mess, he offered to shave it's knackers and duly returned to Civilization with the prized possession of Abdominal Snowman clipping for analysis.
Shame seducing snowbeasts was a waste of time, for some crackpot crackshot caught one, and flogged it to The Greybeards for wodges of wonga.
Oddly enough though, when hair samples were analyzed, they turned out to be plastic!
Of course, The Establishment are trying to fob off the public, with claims of fakery and Hensonesque muppetry. Ha! As if (but not the Al Azif, which them him/her liars are keeping for their tunnelling tibetan overlords)!
Seems clear to me that these icy Bigfeets are being sold cheap hair extensions from the local market!
EMO Yeti's, coming out of the mountains in the fall to purchase huge fluorescent hair falls, and hanging aroung the entrances to the frozen equivalent of the Castle Mall, bothering the public with their beastly behaviour!
If a bear shit in the woods, where does a Yeti shit...
"Great Scott, Tensing! A giant footprint in the snow!"
"Yes, Great Explorer. These are made by the Walker in the Wastes, which we call the Yeti"
"Talking of waste, look at that pile of shit on the ice! No wonder they call him the Abdominal Snowman, must eat a fucking lot of berries to get such a huge dump!"
"Please, Great Explorer, we must flee, afore Ithaqua, the icy wind walker and best drinking buddy of the Wendigo curses our souls forever!"
"Wendigo, eh? I just best she does! Not much else to do in the arctic tundra! Come, Telsing! Let us avail ourselves of this Wendy and her Innuit hospitality!"
Ah, EskEMOs!
Thursday 2 October 2008
Dancing at the end of the rope in priz...
Gold! Always moulded o'er yer hole!
You're indestructible... so forever there will be matchstick bryophyte foliage in damp corners wearing the London Look by some rimmer.
Although teasing Katie's crack may be fun for the Doc, or tea, who wants blusher up their chocolate starfish?
However, I've seen House of Wax (not the one set in the Hilton Hotel, or with Rubies, but with Vincie), and I ain't seen the waif strutting about recently! Crack open that golden shell of the elect troll Isis, for it's bigger than Two Ton (Nick) Kamen's, and I bet she'll tumble to the floor.
I'll just bet some Mad Scientist type with a Sugar Puff fixation has gone realised his dream of golden pips on a sunshine princess - bet he had fun gilding those nuggets with gold leaf!
Why couldn't he do a proper model of Moss. With Roy, Jen and Richmond.
Pointing at flies.
That'd confuse archæologists in years to come!
You're indestructible... so forever there will be matchstick bryophyte foliage in damp corners wearing the London Look by some rimmer.
Although teasing Katie's crack may be fun for the Doc, or tea, who wants blusher up their chocolate starfish?
However, I've seen House of Wax (not the one set in the Hilton Hotel, or with Rubies, but with Vincie), and I ain't seen the waif strutting about recently! Crack open that golden shell of the elect troll Isis, for it's bigger than Two Ton (Nick) Kamen's, and I bet she'll tumble to the floor.
I'll just bet some Mad Scientist type with a Sugar Puff fixation has gone realised his dream of golden pips on a sunshine princess - bet he had fun gilding those nuggets with gold leaf!
Why couldn't he do a proper model of Moss. With Roy, Jen and Richmond.
Pointing at flies.
That'd confuse archæologists in years to come!
Wednesday 1 October 2008
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