If you haven't got an iPhone...
...Then you haven't got an iPhone!
Well, No Shit Sherlock!
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Friday, 29 April 2011
How to lose friends and alienate people...
* Serious topic today, apologies for deviation from usual comedic stylee *
This may make me more unpopular than I already is, but...
I just passed WH Smiths, and saw a poster for a new Madeleine book.
"Oh Dear," I thought. "How long before the Evil Kate slaps an injunction on this one."
And then I saw the author... KATE McCANN!
The woman who left her three children alone in a (depending on which version suits Kate best at the time) locked/unlocked apartment while off stuffing her face with the apartment out of view and a long way away.
The woman who lied about an apartment break-in
The woman who refused to answer even basic questions, and then lied about being offed a deal to confess
The woman who hired a known corrupt Private Investigaton company and approved payments for 'witness' statements.
The woman who slapped an injunction on getting their phone calls for the night in question
The woman who wanted Reconstructions, then refused to participate
The woman who said "Give me a lie detector test" then refused to take a lie detector test
The woman who slapped injunctions on books about Maddie (witten to raise money for charities missing children in Portugal)
The woman who campaigned to get the case files published, then slapped an injunction on them as soon as they were published because people actually read them, and started to discover actual facts which didn't tie in with previous tales.
The woman who is still an official suspect in the case (arguido does not mean suspect) - because the BRITISH police were convinced she was untruthful.
The woman who campaigns that the case be reviewed (and not, note, re-opened, as it's only closed pending further information).
THAT woman is publishing a book, no doubt as ficticious as the alleged abduction and The Swarthy Child Carrier.
How very dare she.
If a suspect can publish a book, they should not be allowed to try and cover up the actual facts using injunctions. Let Amaral release his book. Let the case files be released again. Go back to Portugal and HELP the investigation, instead of manipulating the UK public via British Media to promote what YOU want them to know about and not the full story.
Grrrrrrrrrr.
Sorry, but that woman infuriates the Hell out of me.
This may make me more unpopular than I already is, but...
I just passed WH Smiths, and saw a poster for a new Madeleine book.
"Oh Dear," I thought. "How long before the Evil Kate slaps an injunction on this one."
And then I saw the author... KATE McCANN!
The woman who left her three children alone in a (depending on which version suits Kate best at the time) locked/unlocked apartment while off stuffing her face with the apartment out of view and a long way away.
The woman who lied about an apartment break-in
The woman who refused to answer even basic questions, and then lied about being offed a deal to confess
The woman who hired a known corrupt Private Investigaton company and approved payments for 'witness' statements.
The woman who slapped an injunction on getting their phone calls for the night in question
The woman who wanted Reconstructions, then refused to participate
The woman who said "Give me a lie detector test" then refused to take a lie detector test
The woman who slapped injunctions on books about Maddie (witten to raise money for charities missing children in Portugal)
The woman who campaigned to get the case files published, then slapped an injunction on them as soon as they were published because people actually read them, and started to discover actual facts which didn't tie in with previous tales.
The woman who is still an official suspect in the case (arguido does not mean suspect) - because the BRITISH police were convinced she was untruthful.
The woman who campaigns that the case be reviewed (and not, note, re-opened, as it's only closed pending further information).
THAT woman is publishing a book, no doubt as ficticious as the alleged abduction and The Swarthy Child Carrier.
How very dare she.
If a suspect can publish a book, they should not be allowed to try and cover up the actual facts using injunctions. Let Amaral release his book. Let the case files be released again. Go back to Portugal and HELP the investigation, instead of manipulating the UK public via British Media to promote what YOU want them to know about and not the full story.
Grrrrrrrrrr.
Sorry, but that woman infuriates the Hell out of me.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Calling orca pants of interplanetary, most transdimensionally craft..
Rufen Sie mich Ishmael - Nein! Nennen Sie mich Adolf anstelle von!
Leider ist mein Deutsch nicht sehr gut. Ich sprach nicht Deutsches für ungefähr 22 Jahre, folglich muss ich auf englisch für die unwissenden Dummköpfe schreiben, die einen on-line-Übersetzer nicht sogar benutzen können…
Oder etwas.
Anyhoo, it's often proposed that if you had the ability to go back in Time, would you shoot The Baby Hitler (not, note, The Baby Jesus), thus preventing WWII and all it's horror? Philosophical types will then smugly sit back, puffing on their penile substitutory pipes, pondering on paradoxes and the like.
"Why," they say as they stroke their long grey beards and sniff snuff (whilst watching Snuff on the under-the-counter DVD), "you could prevent World War II and change history. Which you can't, as Time Travel hasn't been invented, otherwise we'd know about it."
That's coz they're gormsters.
We all know that Hitler had Spaceships, Teleportation, The Spear of Longinus*, The Ark of the Covenant, the San Gréal and he signed Indiana Jones's Dad's diary. He also modified his estoteric Flugelrad with chronological displacers and did a Marty McFly by going Back... To The Past!".
And like Marty McFly, his mum probably tried to cop off with him - which just goes to show what a depraved family he came from!
And that's why you can never go back and kill Hitler. Obviously, being highly skilled in the evil and nefarious plans department, it would have occurred to him that he wasn't all that popular by the end. And so, Doktor Wer flew back in his Flugelrad TARDIS to try and mend his image.
First off, he adopted the name "Charlie Chaplin" and did some silent movies so no-one would recognize his evil germanic voice. Unfortunately, he was too fond of his 'tashe to shave it off, but his plan to walk with a bendy cane threw many off the scent. "Hitler didn't walk with a cane - It can't be him". Ah, the age of gullible innocence.
Anyhew, it didn't work, and despite his jestery, people never forgave his homicidal holocaustery.
So now he's trapped in the past, keeping a nasty Nazi vigil on his pram. Any futuristic chrononautical babykillers with heroic dreams of preventing WWII atrocities are shot by the lurking despot as they creep up on his infant self.
And being equipped with his own TARDIS, he can be in two times at once. Being the Antichrist he is, he often pops back to watch his parents nobbing each other (he really is THAT evil!) and shoots any additional time-travellers with ideals of bullet based contraception.
And that's why there's no evidence of Time-Traversement. Everyone's first goal is to kill Hitler, and he bumps them off in the past, and then burns the evidence with a quick jaunt to a concentration camp, before coming back to await the next idealistic visionary.
Take my advice - when you get time travel, forget Hitler - go back and find out the identity of Jack The Ripper. And I'll just bet the irony of that'll be that the Whitechapel Melodramatical Maniac will turn out to be your future self!
And then you're in a bit of a pickle. Pickled on Absinthe, probably.
* LATIN FOR "THE COCK OF LONG JOHN HOLMES". PROBABLY.
Leider ist mein Deutsch nicht sehr gut. Ich sprach nicht Deutsches für ungefähr 22 Jahre, folglich muss ich auf englisch für die unwissenden Dummköpfe schreiben, die einen on-line-Übersetzer nicht sogar benutzen können…
Oder etwas.
Anyhoo, it's often proposed that if you had the ability to go back in Time, would you shoot The Baby Hitler (not, note, The Baby Jesus), thus preventing WWII and all it's horror? Philosophical types will then smugly sit back, puffing on their penile substitutory pipes, pondering on paradoxes and the like.
"Why," they say as they stroke their long grey beards and sniff snuff (whilst watching Snuff on the under-the-counter DVD), "you could prevent World War II and change history. Which you can't, as Time Travel hasn't been invented, otherwise we'd know about it."
That's coz they're gormsters.
We all know that Hitler had Spaceships, Teleportation, The Spear of Longinus*, The Ark of the Covenant, the San Gréal and he signed Indiana Jones's Dad's diary. He also modified his estoteric Flugelrad with chronological displacers and did a Marty McFly by going Back... To The Past!".
And like Marty McFly, his mum probably tried to cop off with him - which just goes to show what a depraved family he came from!
And that's why you can never go back and kill Hitler. Obviously, being highly skilled in the evil and nefarious plans department, it would have occurred to him that he wasn't all that popular by the end. And so, Doktor Wer flew back in his Flugelrad TARDIS to try and mend his image.
First off, he adopted the name "Charlie Chaplin" and did some silent movies so no-one would recognize his evil germanic voice. Unfortunately, he was too fond of his 'tashe to shave it off, but his plan to walk with a bendy cane threw many off the scent. "Hitler didn't walk with a cane - It can't be him". Ah, the age of gullible innocence.
Anyhew, it didn't work, and despite his jestery, people never forgave his homicidal holocaustery.
So now he's trapped in the past, keeping a nasty Nazi vigil on his pram. Any futuristic chrononautical babykillers with heroic dreams of preventing WWII atrocities are shot by the lurking despot as they creep up on his infant self.
And being equipped with his own TARDIS, he can be in two times at once. Being the Antichrist he is, he often pops back to watch his parents nobbing each other (he really is THAT evil!) and shoots any additional time-travellers with ideals of bullet based contraception.
And that's why there's no evidence of Time-Traversement. Everyone's first goal is to kill Hitler, and he bumps them off in the past, and then burns the evidence with a quick jaunt to a concentration camp, before coming back to await the next idealistic visionary.
Take my advice - when you get time travel, forget Hitler - go back and find out the identity of Jack The Ripper. And I'll just bet the irony of that'll be that the Whitechapel Melodramatical Maniac will turn out to be your future self!
And then you're in a bit of a pickle. Pickled on Absinthe, probably.
* LATIN FOR "THE COCK OF LONG JOHN HOLMES". PROBABLY.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Reach! For the choir...
Now, i'm no pervy pædo priest, but lately Those Who Don't Want Me To Reveal The Truth are slandering my name so that people will not listen to me revealing all about their nefarious works.
I was down at The Whatacunt on Saturday, and some chavscum accused me of being Gary Glitter!
I know I had endless numbers of drunken strumpets stroking my bountiful mane, and wondering in wonder at the cute crimpiness of my lush locks flowing in full follicle forestry about me bonce.
However, I didn't recognize any from JailBait Reef (Arrrrr!).
Then, today, someone commented that There's no party - like an S-Club Party!
To which I replied that surely, an S-Club Juniors party would be just like an S-Club Party.
And once again, I'm suddenly cast as a pædy perver of underage tribute acts!
I thought the squeaky clean S-Club were all twee and Jelly 'n' ice-Cream types, playing their bland banal hits, and therefore the minature version would be, to all in tents and porpoises, identical.
No so! Seems that an S-Club Party is somewhat different! Maybe S-Club Juniors were not formed as S-Club 8, but S-Club Ate Her Out!
Or something.
Did I miss something back then - what was the S in S-Club for? Sex Club? S&M Club? Sodomy Club? Why was there S-Club Search on telly, recruiting (trafficking?) underage innocents to replicate the sexual shennanigans of their older dogging counterparts?
Not a follower of manufactured poop idols, I assumed S-Club Juniors were there to capitalize on S-Club 7, and therefore blindly compared the two as being virtually the same. If I'd've known that such comparison of S-Club 7 & S-Club Juniors parties would lead to pædophillic accusations of pervature, I wouldn't have mentioned it!
Although thinking about it:
"S-Club, Gonna show you how..." - How to what, exactly?
"Reach for the stars... " - in orgasm?
"Ain't no party like an S-Club party..." - obviously not when the party's held in some torture garden with the fistings and the whippage (not to mention the whippets!).
It's a national disgrace! Why, it's almost a revisit to the 70s and Top Of The Tots and MiniPops!
Oops - better dash. Time for LazyTown...
Hello Stephanie...
I was down at The Whatacunt on Saturday, and some chavscum accused me of being Gary Glitter!
I know I had endless numbers of drunken strumpets stroking my bountiful mane, and wondering in wonder at the cute crimpiness of my lush locks flowing in full follicle forestry about me bonce.
However, I didn't recognize any from JailBait Reef (Arrrrr!).
Then, today, someone commented that There's no party - like an S-Club Party!
To which I replied that surely, an S-Club Juniors party would be just like an S-Club Party.
And once again, I'm suddenly cast as a pædy perver of underage tribute acts!
I thought the squeaky clean S-Club were all twee and Jelly 'n' ice-Cream types, playing their bland banal hits, and therefore the minature version would be, to all in tents and porpoises, identical.
No so! Seems that an S-Club Party is somewhat different! Maybe S-Club Juniors were not formed as S-Club 8, but S-Club Ate Her Out!
Or something.
Did I miss something back then - what was the S in S-Club for? Sex Club? S&M Club? Sodomy Club? Why was there S-Club Search on telly, recruiting (trafficking?) underage innocents to replicate the sexual shennanigans of their older dogging counterparts?
Not a follower of manufactured poop idols, I assumed S-Club Juniors were there to capitalize on S-Club 7, and therefore blindly compared the two as being virtually the same. If I'd've known that such comparison of S-Club 7 & S-Club Juniors parties would lead to pædophillic accusations of pervature, I wouldn't have mentioned it!
Although thinking about it:
"S-Club, Gonna show you how..." - How to what, exactly?
"Reach for the stars... " - in orgasm?
"Ain't no party like an S-Club party..." - obviously not when the party's held in some torture garden with the fistings and the whippage (not to mention the whippets!).
It's a national disgrace! Why, it's almost a revisit to the 70s and Top Of The Tots and MiniPops!
Oops - better dash. Time for LazyTown...
Hello Stephanie...
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
I don't care if it rains or freezes, as long as I got me plastic cheeses...
Don't you just hate making a cheese sandwich using them there Cheese Single Slices.
Coz they're too small!
Unwrap a square of cheese, and plonk it on yer slice of loaf - a tiny sandy cheese island on a bready ocean.
Of course, you can take another cheese slice, and slice it up to cover the rest of the sanie - but what a hassle! A cheese slice should be the same size as the bread - and the same shape!
In fact, they should come in 2 shapes - slice of bread shape, and round.
Yes, round! I'm sick of burgers where the four corners of a cheese slice flop out the sides and dribble down the sides. Clogging up yer grillpan, burning ya fingers and dripping on yer newly washed shirt.
C'mon, Kraft - pull ya finger out!
And once you've pulled it out, give it a damn good wash it, you dirty fingering sod, and crack on with cheese that fits!
Coz they're too small!
Unwrap a square of cheese, and plonk it on yer slice of loaf - a tiny sandy cheese island on a bready ocean.
Of course, you can take another cheese slice, and slice it up to cover the rest of the sanie - but what a hassle! A cheese slice should be the same size as the bread - and the same shape!
In fact, they should come in 2 shapes - slice of bread shape, and round.
Yes, round! I'm sick of burgers where the four corners of a cheese slice flop out the sides and dribble down the sides. Clogging up yer grillpan, burning ya fingers and dripping on yer newly washed shirt.
C'mon, Kraft - pull ya finger out!
And once you've pulled it out, give it a damn good wash it, you dirty fingering sod, and crack on with cheese that fits!
Monday, 25 April 2011
The best things in life have fees...
T(watting)-Mobile!
Remember last month's 16th incorrect bill in a row? If you don't answer then they'll charge you all the more...
Well, new billage!
Who hoo! Only £10.50 overcharging this month!
The internet booster (they were compensating me by providing free of charge) cost £4.11. Oh, and they gave it me twice with the same booster @ £4.25! And, naturally, being unlimited internet, I gets charged for internet use!
And it's Easturd Monday, so they're all at home patting their pr(EasterEg)gnant portly potbellies plotting how to prise more pennies out of my avaricious claws, instead of placating me with promises of the undeliverable variety.
Well, no more swindling my coffers to line their fat cat pockets! Come the morrow, I'm putting me foot down and picking the phone up!
Maybe I'll threaten 'em with Ann Robinson off've Watchdog this time.
Much growlage tonight with expectations of fobbery offness looming.
_______________________________________________________________
UPDATERY!
Sam @ T-Mobile has adjusted me bill to the correct amount.
And guess what! I've been promised the Internet Booster for free till the end of me contract!
Hold up - didn't they say that last time? And the time before...
Awaits 25th May and in the inevitable feckup.
Counting down to 23 Dec 2011 when I can escape the clutches of T-Mobile and their infernal soul destroying helldeals.
Remember last month's 16th incorrect bill in a row? If you don't answer then they'll charge you all the more...
Well, new billage!
Who hoo! Only £10.50 overcharging this month!
The internet booster (they were compensating me by providing free of charge) cost £4.11. Oh, and they gave it me twice with the same booster @ £4.25! And, naturally, being unlimited internet, I gets charged for internet use!
And it's Easturd Monday, so they're all at home patting their pr(EasterEg)gnant portly potbellies plotting how to prise more pennies out of my avaricious claws, instead of placating me with promises of the undeliverable variety.
Well, no more swindling my coffers to line their fat cat pockets! Come the morrow, I'm putting me foot down and picking the phone up!
Maybe I'll threaten 'em with Ann Robinson off've Watchdog this time.
Much growlage tonight with expectations of fobbery offness looming.
_______________________________________________________________
UPDATERY!
Sam @ T-Mobile has adjusted me bill to the correct amount.
And guess what! I've been promised the Internet Booster for free till the end of me contract!
Hold up - didn't they say that last time? And the time before...
Awaits 25th May and in the inevitable feckup.
Counting down to 23 Dec 2011 when I can escape the clutches of T-Mobile and their infernal soul destroying helldeals.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Egg feather beaken bird oeuf tit...
Today we celebrate the reanimation of Zombie (ZomBeak) of baby Jesus by stuffing (stuff wing) our faces full of chocolate eggs (Eggs, I said eggs, as in a birds eggs!).
And where do these eggs (Eggs!) come from? Because (BeCaws, as in as bird Caws) when (Hen. I hate hens) you're asleep, a giant Bunny sneaks (beaks) about and lays chocolate eggs (EGGS!!) everywhere.
And a chocolate egg (Egg, as in a bird's egg) is another name for a poo (poo, as in a birds poo).
But why a cocoa faecal rabbit?
This is a mistranslation from the Hebrew version of Frankenstein (Frank Hen Stein) . The word (bird) Baron (Heron) was misread as Bunny, and next (N-eggs-t) thing (wing) you know, it's Bunny Von Frankenstein (FranHENwing - I HATE HENS) attaching (attachwing) the electrodes to Jesus's neck (Neck, as in a swan's neck), pulling The Big "We Belong Dead" Lever (Wing Bewing Wing) and Baby Jesus is off on the rampage (Ram-cage, as in a bird's cage).
Every (aviary) year we celebrate this miracle (miracoo, as in a bird goes coo)... yet it's not unique (you beak). What about Lazarus who rose up (like a bird!) after three days? I say (lay, as in a bird lays eggs. Eggs!) we break with bunnies and eggs (EGGS!!), and celebrate in the fashion of Lazarus's descendant.
Papa Lazarou!
We should be kidnapping (kidnapwing) other men's wives for own and fertilizing THEIR eggs! But not Yoko (Yolk-o) Ono. Oh no. Next (Nest,as in a bird's nest!) stop: my friends house!
She's my wife now!
And where do these eggs (Eggs!) come from? Because (BeCaws, as in as bird Caws) when (Hen. I hate hens) you're asleep, a giant Bunny sneaks (beaks) about and lays chocolate eggs (EGGS!!) everywhere.
And a chocolate egg (Egg, as in a bird's egg) is another name for a poo (poo, as in a birds poo).
But why a cocoa faecal rabbit?
This is a mistranslation from the Hebrew version of Frankenstein (Frank Hen Stein) . The word (bird) Baron (Heron) was misread as Bunny, and next (N-eggs-t) thing (wing) you know, it's Bunny Von Frankenstein (FranHENwing - I HATE HENS) attaching (attachwing) the electrodes to Jesus's neck (Neck, as in a swan's neck), pulling The Big "We Belong Dead" Lever (Wing Bewing Wing) and Baby Jesus is off on the rampage (Ram-cage, as in a bird's cage).
Every (aviary) year we celebrate this miracle (miracoo, as in a bird goes coo)... yet it's not unique (you beak). What about Lazarus who rose up (like a bird!) after three days? I say (lay, as in a bird lays eggs. Eggs!) we break with bunnies and eggs (EGGS!!), and celebrate in the fashion of Lazarus's descendant.
Papa Lazarou!
We should be kidnapping (kidnapwing) other men's wives for own and fertilizing THEIR eggs! But not Yoko (Yolk-o) Ono. Oh no. Next (Nest,as in a bird's nest!) stop: my friends house!
She's my wife now!
Saturday, 23 April 2011
Gimme all ya yoghurt, all yer snogs and lickings too...
So, you're a lady of the feminine persuasion, and you've got your ladies who lunch over to cum dine on me.
But your dining dykes are perving over your sensual bod!
"What's her secret?" whisper the clandestine clitlickers, and as soon as your back is turned, they're off! Checking your cabinets for the elixir of youth and anti-ageing creams, before grubbing about in yer linen basket as the sapphic slappers start sniffing ya soiled scanties.
Finally, they return to the table, and pop the question: "What IS your secret?"
And the answer is: "Ladies!"
So, obviously the key to youth, beauty and a hot bod is licking out the labia of lady oyster* and teasing the lady pearl.
And to drive the point home to her minge munching mistresses, she serves up a tray of yoghurt for the vagitarians to smear over their tongued out twats so they don't catch thrush.
And the name of the creamy cure?
Perle de Lait!
Which sounds suspiciously like foreign for Lady Pearl.
Shame the ad cuts off before all the scissor sister action :(
* POSH LADIES VERSION OF A SCUMMY MUMMIES BEARDED CLAM
But your dining dykes are perving over your sensual bod!
"What's her secret?" whisper the clandestine clitlickers, and as soon as your back is turned, they're off! Checking your cabinets for the elixir of youth and anti-ageing creams, before grubbing about in yer linen basket as the sapphic slappers start sniffing ya soiled scanties.
Finally, they return to the table, and pop the question: "What IS your secret?"
And the answer is: "Ladies!"
So, obviously the key to youth, beauty and a hot bod is licking out the labia of lady oyster* and teasing the lady pearl.
And to drive the point home to her minge munching mistresses, she serves up a tray of yoghurt for the vagitarians to smear over their tongued out twats so they don't catch thrush.
And the name of the creamy cure?
Perle de Lait!
Which sounds suspiciously like foreign for Lady Pearl.
Shame the ad cuts off before all the scissor sister action :(
* POSH LADIES VERSION OF A SCUMMY MUMMIES BEARDED CLAM
Friday, 22 April 2011
My lucky letter's 1...
Either I'm mad* or I've just witnessed an insurance salesman in a suit and diving helmet straddling a car with one of them Bruce Lee style dubbings with the voice of Morgan Freeman.
In keeping with yesterdays lexiconal intolerances, grammatical gormstrosity has expanded.
You may recall previous rantage of tosspieces who stick numbers into words. It all began with that movie Seven - or as they called it Se7en - despite the fact that 7 looks nowt like V, and that makes is sesevenen. Just like Th13teen Ghosts makes it Ththirteenteen Ghosts.
Although that could be a stammering movie about spirits aged 13-19. Th-thirteen Teen Ghosts.
There are still gormsters who think Area 51 exists! That's coz they are fond of this belettering. It's actually Area S1 - but because a S (when block written) looks like a 5, they think it's Area 51. Ooh - conspiracy! The American Government insist it doesn't exists - but it's here, on the map! You blithering twat - you just can't read! The Goverment say it doesn't exist because it doesn't! If you'd asked about Area S1, they might have told you about the Space Monsters and their help in building Stealth Bombers out of retrieved Alien Technology out of Roswell.
Anyhoo - that's all old hat. Not my hat - that's pretty new (except my old one).
Today, I'm incensed out the replacement of letterage with mathematical symbolism.
More Th>n!
Bollocks to that! That sez "More Thmorethann" (or, more precisely) "More thgreaterthann". It's supposed to be a letter 'a', and '>' looks now like it!
More Th@ I could accept... if the company was called More That.
But it's not.
More Th>n? More Tw@, more like!
"You're just old Xym - you're not down wit da kidz. That's how we roll (lolz). We LIKE numbers in words - it's randomz innit. It's spelling Skills, and you don't like it coz you're OLD."
I'm *ɣѪ0ƞ ψ˄1ƞ - thank you, for reading.
* SO WHATS NEW?
In keeping with yesterdays lexiconal intolerances, grammatical gormstrosity has expanded.
You may recall previous rantage of tosspieces who stick numbers into words. It all began with that movie Seven - or as they called it Se7en - despite the fact that 7 looks nowt like V, and that makes is sesevenen. Just like Th13teen Ghosts makes it Ththirteenteen Ghosts.
Although that could be a stammering movie about spirits aged 13-19. Th-thirteen Teen Ghosts.
There are still gormsters who think Area 51 exists! That's coz they are fond of this belettering. It's actually Area S1 - but because a S (when block written) looks like a 5, they think it's Area 51. Ooh - conspiracy! The American Government insist it doesn't exists - but it's here, on the map! You blithering twat - you just can't read! The Goverment say it doesn't exist because it doesn't! If you'd asked about Area S1, they might have told you about the Space Monsters and their help in building Stealth Bombers out of retrieved Alien Technology out of Roswell.
Anyhoo - that's all old hat. Not my hat - that's pretty new (except my old one).
Today, I'm incensed out the replacement of letterage with mathematical symbolism.
More Th>n!
Bollocks to that! That sez "More Thmorethann" (or, more precisely) "More thgreaterthann". It's supposed to be a letter 'a', and '>' looks now like it!
More Th@ I could accept... if the company was called More That.
But it's not.
More Th>n? More Tw@, more like!
"You're just old Xym - you're not down wit da kidz. That's how we roll (lolz). We LIKE numbers in words - it's randomz innit. It's spelling Skills, and you don't like it coz you're OLD."
I'm *ɣѪ0ƞ ψ˄1ƞ - thank you, for reading.
* SO WHATS NEW?
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Skynet to become self aware today...
OK, geek alert.
Today is NOT when Skynet goes online.
Today is NOT when Skynet goes online.
- In Terminator, the original online date was 4th Aug 1997.
- In Terminator 2: Judgement Day the destruction of Miles Dyson's lab put it back to July 2004.
- In Terminator 3: A Turgid Pile Of Shite, events caused it to go online a year earlier in July 2003.
- At the start of The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Cameron states the online date was today (21 April 2011)
- At the end of The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Catherine Weaver's time jump led to Judgement Day changing again (and John Connor never even led the resistance)
- Between The Sarah Connor Chronicles and Terminator: Salvation, Time got back on track with John leading the resistance with Judgement Day now in July 2004,
- Events in Terminator: Salvation first reset Judgement Day to July 2002, before finally settling it as going online in 2005.
Eye before E except there's no E...
That damn stamp gnom has knick d th l tt r “ “ off my k yboard! I’v ask d th fairi s to r turn it, but no sign of it y t.
But…
…why do folk insist you can’t discuss stuff without using that particular symbol?
It’s obviously not all that big a calamity - you can follow what I’m saying in this blog without it, can’t you?
Not that any of you who follow my daily ramblings can fathom what such a myriad of film, myth, conspiracy and wanton harlots lusting for Xym is all about anyways, but that’s probably down to my pitiful lack of social skills and a poor portrayal of sharing my opinions and an odd way of linking various thoughts.
“But, Xym”, you say, “I find that symbol vital to talk with. Can a smart chap such as you find ways around it without too much difficulty? Is it truly unimportant for most communications, as you say?"
Hmmm. What if I try my hand at villainy - nick your button, and hold it to ransom! Can I actually submit you to blackmail by my button burglary? I want cash for your button, so pay up! And now I got you paying, you shall pay and pay and pay again – until your dying day! Or would your typing adapt to work around a missing button?
But… alas, idiotic dumb scum would moan, wail and complain at losing such a symbol. Can’t such fools not think of substituting words? No. Chavscum might try ‘txtspk’, but that’s not actual words!
No. It’s only Xym who is a walking dictionary, finding such an addiction to an archaic habit ridiculous, and thus scornfully laughs whilst scrawling about total bollocks without utilizing it (although in a ridiculously pompous fashion).
Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!
No. It’s only Xym who is a walking dictionary, finding such an addiction to an archaic habit ridiculous, and thus scornfully laughs whilst scrawling about total bollocks without utilizing it (although in a ridiculously pompous fashion).
Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Feeder of the snack (nommmm nommmm)...
Remember that pervy polar bear lurking in the icebox?.
Subsequent investigations into the porn again pervitor hath revealed his lecherous liking for the larger lady.
When the Katie trollop opens the fridge, she's clearly putting her fresh fish into the freezer - yet the creepy caniform from the chiller cabinet urges her to stuff her great fat face with fish in the form of a pair of ready meals.
Poor Janice is out having a meal, and the unsavoury ursus maritimus is on a nearby table (no doubt on a date with Katie, feeding her up into a right bloaty whale), and while his date is off powdering her nose (and Janice's has popped off for a poop), he's trying to pork her up with a big bag of prawnography!
Imagine that on Come Dine With Me!
A stuffed toy feeder, giving his strumpets a large fishy portion!
"Hey Babe - get this battered cod and chips down your neck. Yo mama! Shake dat big phat booty! I'm a north pole nanook of the family Ursidæ - I'll dress you up in a fetishistic Star Trek outfit and you can be my Nyota Uhura...
...aaaarrrggh! Transporter malfunction and replicated cloneage! Sulus! Thousands of 'em! Frightening Kirk and putting the willies up everyone else! Don't fire that phaser till you see the white of their bukkake!"
...aaaarrrggh! Transporter malfunction and replicated cloneage! Sulus! Thousands of 'em! Frightening Kirk and putting the willies up everyone else! Don't fire that phaser till you see the white of their bukkake!"
Meanwhile, upstairs, Katie and Janice are getting rampantly rogered in a Ménage à trois with that Foxy Bingo chimera. "Two Fat Ladies... chubby chaser paradise!"
Or something.
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
You can call if you want, but there's no-one home, coz I'm stuck in the past on my Gimmerphone...
Everybody is getting excited about the return of Dogturd Poo in the T.U.R.D.I.S. this Saturday, and up and down the country, the question on everybody's lips is:
Is Time Travel possible?
"Well, of course time travel is possible", say the Smug Gits. "Actually, you are time travelling now - you are travelling into the future at the rate of 1 second per second" before their guffaws are silence by a punch to their smug gittery faces.
If Galiffreyan travel were possible, then surely there be some evidence of it, wouldn't there...?
Witness this film from 1926 with some haggard Time(old)Lady Romana on a Chenery Travel OAP chronocoach trip to the past, talking on her mobile phone to the other codgers returning to the good ole days of yore:
Now, before all you start moaning about phone masts and 3g technology not being available in Charlie Chaplin's age - this old baggage is from the FUTURE, where they probably don't need such low-tech methods of telephonic audio transference.
Of course, it could be that Lost Victorian Technology (hidden by the Chiswick Townswomen's Guild when rewriting the history books), and the 20s were rife with valve-ridden Tesla powered phones on his wireless energy transfer network (available since 1893). T-Mobile? Tesla-Mobile!
But we have no such antiquated evidence of steampunkery in our museums, apart from Charles's cabbage computer. Therefore she must've come from the future using a gigawatt of energy from the cock tower!
Is Time Travel possible?
"Well, of course time travel is possible", say the Smug Gits. "Actually, you are time travelling now - you are travelling into the future at the rate of 1 second per second" before their guffaws are silence by a punch to their smug gittery faces.
If Galiffreyan travel were possible, then surely there be some evidence of it, wouldn't there...?
Witness this film from 1926 with some haggard Time(old)Lady Romana on a Chenery Travel OAP chronocoach trip to the past, talking on her mobile phone to the other codgers returning to the good ole days of yore:
Now, before all you start moaning about phone masts and 3g technology not being available in Charlie Chaplin's age - this old baggage is from the FUTURE, where they probably don't need such low-tech methods of telephonic audio transference.
Of course, it could be that Lost Victorian Technology (hidden by the Chiswick Townswomen's Guild when rewriting the history books), and the 20s were rife with valve-ridden Tesla powered phones on his wireless energy transfer network (available since 1893). T-Mobile? Tesla-Mobile!
But we have no such antiquated evidence of steampunkery in our museums, apart from Charles's cabbage computer. Therefore she must've come from the future using a gigawatt of energy from the cock tower!
Monday, 18 April 2011
I pray the Lord my sole to bake...
Svengali ticketure and fruit based telephonic communicative devices perusal is all very well, but trying to comprehend visual imagery can be somewhat more challenging!
Psychic transference of serial slaughterer into psycho daughter... or reincarnation into a septitude of souls not dissimilar to Harry Potters hunt for Voldemort's whorecrotch. No wait, it's a schizophrenic son the demon dad has possessed after hiding in his daughter suit.
Oh, after all that, it's just a mad lad pissed off with his stepdad.
So, show me pictures of pretties as the monkey-raper turns his attentions to the 69ing of Puffquims. Ooh, pretty! Ooh, pretty! Ooh, pretty!.
And just as I turn to leave, the Pretty imparts images of bitchwitches in crotchless PVC trollkinis, exposing the harpies' hairpie herpes with the thigh high patent leather boots and the PVC peek-a-boo titpants and the studded dogging collar and the...
...pass me that pervy Polar Bear sex doll out of the fridge for a moment, will you...
"Hey, Katie! Smelling of fish, huh. Try this new vagitarian cheese flan(ge) as I polish yer Beetle bonnet..."
Psychic transference of serial slaughterer into psycho daughter... or reincarnation into a septitude of souls not dissimilar to Harry Potters hunt for Voldemort's whorecrotch. No wait, it's a schizophrenic son the demon dad has possessed after hiding in his daughter suit.
Oh, after all that, it's just a mad lad pissed off with his stepdad.
So, show me pictures of pretties as the monkey-raper turns his attentions to the 69ing of Puffquims. Ooh, pretty! Ooh, pretty! Ooh, pretty!.
And just as I turn to leave, the Pretty imparts images of bitchwitches in crotchless PVC trollkinis, exposing the harpies' hairpie herpes with the thigh high patent leather boots and the PVC peek-a-boo titpants and the studded dogging collar and the...
...pass me that pervy Polar Bear sex doll out of the fridge for a moment, will you...
"Hey, Katie! Smelling of fish, huh. Try this new vagitarian cheese flan(ge) as I polish yer Beetle bonnet..."
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Aldi, Aldi, Aldi! Coz if it's not love, it's up the bum that'll bring us together...
Filth!
Televisual promotions of soccer team rapeage!!
I've heard of these soccery types in The Press, and they are reknown for roasting underage drunken WoG wannabees.
And now, budget supermarkets are blatantly offering a three bird roast!
Now, I'm all for rampant shaggery*, but I've no intention of paying for a triplicity of Larkman lovelies & Marlpit mingers with a quintitude of soccer scum, when the last thing I want when selecting battered fish for tea is a selection of black & blue frozen rohypnolled students and trollied footballers in me trolly, let alone in me trollies.
Although I'm 2 minds about debauched drugged and drunken dames.
"But Xym", I hear no-one cry, "Beggers can't be choosers". Or I could be deaf, and they're saying they can't bugger and chew Cher's hairs. But it doesn't change the fact I've got half of Delia Smiths unwilling pie fillings** nobbing strumpets in the living room, getting the carpet all gummy with beaver batter and soccer stars sausage spurtage.
And I'm not having Delia banging against me front door bellowing "I need a 12th man out here! Where are you? I wants to be having you! Come on... up me snatch!" like some insatiable chef succubus who'll suckyouoff in her Carrow Road spit roasting den of vice.
or something.
* CHANCE'D BE A FINE THING!!!
** AND I DON'T JUST MEAN HER CANNIBALISTIC PORK PIES EITHER. IT'S IN THE CANARY CONTRACT - HER SELECTION OF MANFLESH UNWILLINGLY HAVE TO PORK HER PIE TO STAY IN THE BEAUTIFUL GAME.
Televisual promotions of soccer team rapeage!!
I've heard of these soccery types in The Press, and they are reknown for roasting underage drunken WoG wannabees.
And now, budget supermarkets are blatantly offering a three bird roast!
Now, I'm all for rampant shaggery*, but I've no intention of paying for a triplicity of Larkman lovelies & Marlpit mingers with a quintitude of soccer scum, when the last thing I want when selecting battered fish for tea is a selection of black & blue frozen rohypnolled students and trollied footballers in me trolly, let alone in me trollies.
Although I'm 2 minds about debauched drugged and drunken dames.
"But Xym", I hear no-one cry, "Beggers can't be choosers". Or I could be deaf, and they're saying they can't bugger and chew Cher's hairs. But it doesn't change the fact I've got half of Delia Smiths unwilling pie fillings** nobbing strumpets in the living room, getting the carpet all gummy with beaver batter and soccer stars sausage spurtage.
And I'm not having Delia banging against me front door bellowing "I need a 12th man out here! Where are you? I wants to be having you! Come on... up me snatch!" like some insatiable chef succubus who'll suckyouoff in her Carrow Road spit roasting den of vice.
or something.
* CHANCE'D BE A FINE THING!!!
** AND I DON'T JUST MEAN HER CANNIBALISTIC PORK PIES EITHER. IT'S IN THE CANARY CONTRACT - HER SELECTION OF MANFLESH UNWILLINGLY HAVE TO PORK HER PIE TO STAY IN THE BEAUTIFUL GAME.
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Welcome to the pleasure clone...
An acquaintance of the lady variety has mentioned that she's getting her twin tubs out.
Seems my pervotic imaginings in the norkal exposure direction were incorrect, as twin tubs are apparently Olde Wurlde washing machineries.
And having a reputation to live down to, my mind started to wander further afield towards a preference for Twins In Hot Tubs, such as The Cheeky Girls in their QD budget binkininies.
But not The Twins out of Pat Sharpe's Fun House.
Or Arnie and Danny DeVimto.
But then I thought - hold on! They clone sheeps, don't they!
Not that I'm in favour of sexual shennanigans with sheep in steamy sheepdip showerage. Instead of sheep, why not clone Pretties to populate the bath?
After all, the only reason the Greybeards want to invest in cloning is to get their grubby mits on celebrity skin! Why go out of the lab and interact with strange, unfathomable feminine types when you use your fierce scientific skills to clone a Firm Bottom or Carol Phwoarderman of your very own?
Or even tailor your desires into a firm bottomed Carol Phwoarderman. Celebrity splicing!
The one drawback is when The Clone mutates, and a rapey Milla Jovobitch species escapes.
Ever wondered what barbers and hairdresses get up with your swept up follicles, or beauticians with your naily bits after a manicure/pedicure? It's all genetic material for cloning their own compliant sexbot at home!
Of course, you can't (yet) buy a Claudia Wankleman or a Lauren LabiaVerne down the chemists, so it's off to Toys 'Я' Us for a My First Chemistry Kit and the collecting of DNA from various Pretties.
Unfortunately, I haven't yet perfected my diabolical, maniacal laugh. My "Mwah ha ha" is more like "Mwah Mwah", as if giving a Lady a peck on the cheeks.
And if I'm pecking at Pretties, that surely means I have a beak for the pecking? In which case, am I actually Cloned Xym, and Master Xym cloned me not to realise I've been cloned with some beaky bird's beak, like some experimental hybrid of Man and Chicken?
Dammit, why couldn't I have been cloned by a sex-starved Pretty with a thing for short fat ugly gothboys with preposterous hair and ludicrous shades (with occasional ridiculous headwear) who wanted to ravish the real me behind his back.
Just my luck I gets the Mad Scientist with a Chimera fetish!
Friday, 15 April 2011
Coffee and veggies...
Scandal!
It seems our coffee machines are using whitener with 'Hardened Vegetable fat'.
Yikes! This is apparently bad for you, causing corpsifyable complications by imposing a deceasedness about your daily routine.
But hold on...
We need more hardened fat!
With the onslaught of Climate Change, I for one welcome the blubber ring aroung my waist, insulating me from the frosty fingers of Ithaqua as he tickes my belly with his Ice Age foxes and their glacier mints carving crevasses across the land.
We should "Man up" and suck up that milky lard, lest we perish in the arctic wastes of the realm of the abdominable snowblokes.
"Ah, but Xym," say Gormsters, "you are not supposed to wear whales!" and thus cretinously confusing complete cetacean compositure with the fatty internal insulation layer.
A-ha! replies I in an educatory fashion. I wear not the mammally diver of the deep, but hath accumulated large quantities of their stomach widening lardjuice about my own tummy.
I blame the parents, me. Copulating with Dagon's denizens of the deep by Innsmouth harbour, and thus breeding my batrachian belly of blubberous bulbousness, plump with them hardened fats of lardy lore.
But not hardened vegetable fats. I thought vegetables were supposed to be healthy! Now I discover they're full of hard-as-nails fat, making them worse than a bin full of bacon!
I would like to liken my layer of lard to that of a svelte seal. However, I've heard of them Naval Seals, and I looked at my belly button and could not find any waxy signet-ring embossed stamp.
Although why anyone have a young swans chocolate starfish as their sigil I don't know!
It seems our coffee machines are using whitener with 'Hardened Vegetable fat'.
Yikes! This is apparently bad for you, causing corpsifyable complications by imposing a deceasedness about your daily routine.
But hold on...
We need more hardened fat!
With the onslaught of Climate Change, I for one welcome the blubber ring aroung my waist, insulating me from the frosty fingers of Ithaqua as he tickes my belly with his Ice Age foxes and their glacier mints carving crevasses across the land.
We should "Man up" and suck up that milky lard, lest we perish in the arctic wastes of the realm of the abdominable snowblokes.
"Ah, but Xym," say Gormsters, "you are not supposed to wear whales!" and thus cretinously confusing complete cetacean compositure with the fatty internal insulation layer.
A-ha! replies I in an educatory fashion. I wear not the mammally diver of the deep, but hath accumulated large quantities of their stomach widening lardjuice about my own tummy.
I blame the parents, me. Copulating with Dagon's denizens of the deep by Innsmouth harbour, and thus breeding my batrachian belly of blubberous bulbousness, plump with them hardened fats of lardy lore.
But not hardened vegetable fats. I thought vegetables were supposed to be healthy! Now I discover they're full of hard-as-nails fat, making them worse than a bin full of bacon!
I would like to liken my layer of lard to that of a svelte seal. However, I've heard of them Naval Seals, and I looked at my belly button and could not find any waxy signet-ring embossed stamp.
Although why anyone have a young swans chocolate starfish as their sigil I don't know!
Thursday, 14 April 2011
McDonalds, McDonalds, tasty bit o' chicken in heat on t'bus...
Ah, the foresight of Leonado DiCraprio.
I recall him pre-emptively warning about Le French banning cloaking devices in that film, "What's Gilbert Grape Eating?".
On and on he went, yelling "Burqa bar! Burqua bar!"
Well, if Pierre is barring the donning of letterbox peepholed tentery, can we at least get Camelegg to ban lardy arse scummy mummy chavtrolls from wearing muffin topped camel toed leggings with waistbands at half-mast of the cleftal horizon with thong straps creeping out and up to the ribs?
I guess the trend for overtight flange defining leggery stems from these munters deformed ears, and the Argos ads. The slogan is "Don't just shop for it - Argos it", and not "Don't just shop for it - Our gusset".
And I'm not shopping for gusseted gash of munter minge, thank you very much!
I know these chavettes have a fondness for vajizzling* and want to show off their pearly merkin, but there are limits, despite what Ray Slijngaard and Anita "Dels" Doth say!
* A VAJIZZLE IS THE LOWER-CLASS VERSION OF A VAJAZZLE. A VAJAZZLE IS WHERE A POSH BIRD IS PÆDOPHILICALLY SHAVED, AND SEQUINS ARE GLUED ON TO FORM A TWAT TOUPÉE. A VAJIZZLE IS THE ESSEX END OF THE BEAUTICIAN SCALE, WHERE THE GLUE IS A MANS' PERSONAL COPYDEX TO KEEP THE GEMSTONES FROM THE SEASIDE ARCADE SLUT MACHINES IN PLACE.
I recall him pre-emptively warning about Le French banning cloaking devices in that film, "What's Gilbert Grape Eating?".
On and on he went, yelling "Burqa bar! Burqua bar!"
Well, if Pierre is barring the donning of letterbox peepholed tentery, can we at least get Camelegg to ban lardy arse scummy mummy chavtrolls from wearing muffin topped camel toed leggings with waistbands at half-mast of the cleftal horizon with thong straps creeping out and up to the ribs?
I guess the trend for overtight flange defining leggery stems from these munters deformed ears, and the Argos ads. The slogan is "Don't just shop for it - Argos it", and not "Don't just shop for it - Our gusset".
And I'm not shopping for gusseted gash of munter minge, thank you very much!
I know these chavettes have a fondness for vajizzling* and want to show off their pearly merkin, but there are limits, despite what Ray Slijngaard and Anita "Dels" Doth say!
* A VAJIZZLE IS THE LOWER-CLASS VERSION OF A VAJAZZLE. A VAJAZZLE IS WHERE A POSH BIRD IS PÆDOPHILICALLY SHAVED, AND SEQUINS ARE GLUED ON TO FORM A TWAT TOUPÉE. A VAJIZZLE IS THE ESSEX END OF THE BEAUTICIAN SCALE, WHERE THE GLUE IS A MANS' PERSONAL COPYDEX TO KEEP THE GEMSTONES FROM THE SEASIDE ARCADE SLUT MACHINES IN PLACE.
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Everybody dance now (c'mon lets not work!)...
With the previous week
just as bleak
as the coming week,
All I can say
about today
is...
just as bleak
as the coming week,
All I can say
about today
is...
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Out of shadows,it is I, LeClerc...
Sacre Bleurgh!
Je suis une gateaux! Ou est mon fromage avec les escargo?
Despite fighting two World Wars to ensure our freederm, them frenchfolk have made it illegal to tart up like Trapdoor guarding plasticine overworked vassals in motor vehicles, thus denying the young parisiennes the choice of couture.
So what if you want to dress in a Burk car - you should have the freedom to wear what you want!
It's a slippery slope... them Frenchies failed to make Français a universal language, so now it's insidious transformation by the back passage!
First disallow various forms of dress. Next, you'll have to wear a black beret. Shortly after, compulsory black trews and stripey shirt.
And then they'll raise duty on oil, forcing everyone onto bicycles. And before you know it, we'll be shot on sight for lack of onion necklaces and not having a baguette under your arm!
And if you don't have a garlic bulb in your glass of wine, it's off to the concentration camp for enforced curly moustache growth as your partner spreads their frog's legs as she seduces conquest after conquest avec les homme qui aiment la Poon in late night Channel 5 subtitled movies.
or something.
It bet it sucks to be a Ninja in France.
Je suis une gateaux! Ou est mon fromage avec les escargo?
Despite fighting two World Wars to ensure our freederm, them frenchfolk have made it illegal to tart up like Trapdoor guarding plasticine overworked vassals in motor vehicles, thus denying the young parisiennes the choice of couture.
So what if you want to dress in a Burk car - you should have the freedom to wear what you want!
It's a slippery slope... them Frenchies failed to make Français a universal language, so now it's insidious transformation by the back passage!
First disallow various forms of dress. Next, you'll have to wear a black beret. Shortly after, compulsory black trews and stripey shirt.
And then they'll raise duty on oil, forcing everyone onto bicycles. And before you know it, we'll be shot on sight for lack of onion necklaces and not having a baguette under your arm!
And if you don't have a garlic bulb in your glass of wine, it's off to the concentration camp for enforced curly moustache growth as your partner spreads their frog's legs as she seduces conquest after conquest avec les homme qui aiment la Poon in late night Channel 5 subtitled movies.
or something.
It bet it sucks to be a Ninja in France.
Monday, 11 April 2011
And she'll have fun fun fun till her Daddy takes her teapot away...
Alas, we're not talking about the fun a lady can have with tannin inspired spout based sausage substitute, but the misleading fun size allocated to The Chocolate.
Everyone loves a Mars bar. Mmm-mmmm! There are even them rock chicks who use it as the aforementioned phallic fingering tool. However, there is also the "fun size" Mars bar.
Fun size, my best hat! What fun can you have with such a miserable minisculity of Mars? What a disappointment it must be for self pleasuring maidens, and what guffaws must ensure from the orifices of these Schocolatenfreude!
And naturally, having conned the Public into accepting bite size bars are "fun", it was only a matter of time before they descended upon The Mini Egg.
Ah yes, Mini Eggs - everyone's favourite speckly treat as marketed by that preposterously plumed parrot.
But now, the fun size eggs-factor has been applied, and you can now get TINY mini-eggs!
Mini-mini eggs!
Whatever next? Fun sized microscopic tiny mini-eggs? Chocolatey oeufs on a particle scale that splitting the shell becomes a nuclear holocaust in the cakehole?
"It's not how big it is, it's what you do with it".
Yeah, right. Not much you can do with a weeny egg.
Still, a bird in the hand's worth a shot at her bush. Or something.
Everyone loves a Mars bar. Mmm-mmmm! There are even them rock chicks who use it as the aforementioned phallic fingering tool. However, there is also the "fun size" Mars bar.
Fun size, my best hat! What fun can you have with such a miserable minisculity of Mars? What a disappointment it must be for self pleasuring maidens, and what guffaws must ensure from the orifices of these Schocolatenfreude!
And naturally, having conned the Public into accepting bite size bars are "fun", it was only a matter of time before they descended upon The Mini Egg.
Ah yes, Mini Eggs - everyone's favourite speckly treat as marketed by that preposterously plumed parrot.
But now, the fun size eggs-factor has been applied, and you can now get TINY mini-eggs!
Mini-mini eggs!
Whatever next? Fun sized microscopic tiny mini-eggs? Chocolatey oeufs on a particle scale that splitting the shell becomes a nuclear holocaust in the cakehole?
"It's not how big it is, it's what you do with it".
Yeah, right. Not much you can do with a weeny egg.
Still, a bird in the hand's worth a shot at her bush. Or something.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
Eggs Eggs sex gets exploited...
Ban this filth!
Pre-watershed filmage is oft interrupted by flagrant product placement for such things as Shake and Vac and Kimono Dragon in Essex.
But rampant inter-product shaggery is the last thing I expect to see on my tellybox!
Citrus fruity gigolos seducing scottish breaded meat products for the fertilization of the inner core in an office eviron is just plain sick!
Not to mention the disgraceful full frontal exposure as the sidedish secretarial slattern spreads her breaded beaver so you can see right up her yolky cervix!
What's next? Topshop tomato trollops being spit roasted by cucumbers and lettuce? Tony The Tiger emitting an orgasmic "They'rrrre Grrrreat?" as he chucks his muck up some frosty Ben & Jerry's as a Vimto Vag voyeuristicaly views the sexual spectacle?
Pre-watershed filmage is oft interrupted by flagrant product placement for such things as Shake and Vac and Kimono Dragon in Essex.
But rampant inter-product shaggery is the last thing I expect to see on my tellybox!
Citrus fruity gigolos seducing scottish breaded meat products for the fertilization of the inner core in an office eviron is just plain sick!
Not to mention the disgraceful full frontal exposure as the sidedish secretarial slattern spreads her breaded beaver so you can see right up her yolky cervix!
What's next? Topshop tomato trollops being spit roasted by cucumbers and lettuce? Tony The Tiger emitting an orgasmic "They'rrrre Grrrreat?" as he chucks his muck up some frosty Ben & Jerry's as a Vimto Vag voyeuristicaly views the sexual spectacle?
I know they say "sex sells", but honestly...
Saturday, 9 April 2011
I'm a big yellow nail in a deep blue sink...
Mall traversage to accumulate further 3d Miis resulted in a duo of takery!
£10 pedicure... BY FISH!
Yep, for a measly ten squids, you stick your appendages into a fishbowl, and specially trained aquaticerry cleans the manky cheesery afoot.
Damn you genetic greybeards for engineering beautician seabass and pedicural piranhas this way!
* shakes clenched fist skywards *
£10 pedicure... BY FISH!
Yep, for a measly ten squids, you stick your appendages into a fishbowl, and specially trained aquaticerry cleans the manky cheesery afoot.
Damn you genetic greybeards for engineering beautician seabass and pedicural piranhas this way!
* shakes clenched fist skywards *
Friday, 8 April 2011
Who Juan's stool lit forever...
Immortality.
Apparently, it's a popular choice amongst Gormsters.
Clearly, they haven't thought about having to scrounge their benefits forever, otherwise they'll be really hungry.
Any besides, when the Sun burns the Earth up, they'll get all deaded anyways.
And if they did survive The Great Conflagration, it wouldn't be very pleasant being all burny and having to eat charred sand for tea, washed down with evaporated water.
Anyhoo, I saw a part of a documentary on the tellybox last night. It would seem that Sol is inhabited by giant dragons of fire from outer space , who sneak around in manbags before creeping up yer bum and burning yer innards whilst wearing you as a human suit as a disguise.. On the plus side, they do give you heat ray eyes like Cyclops.
So no immortality for me - I'm not being bumfunned by an flaming space dragon arseonist from outer space, just so they burglarize my body to zap people with my eyes!
Apparently, it's a popular choice amongst Gormsters.
Clearly, they haven't thought about having to scrounge their benefits forever, otherwise they'll be really hungry.
Any besides, when the Sun burns the Earth up, they'll get all deaded anyways.
And if they did survive The Great Conflagration, it wouldn't be very pleasant being all burny and having to eat charred sand for tea, washed down with evaporated water.
Anyhoo, I saw a part of a documentary on the tellybox last night. It would seem that Sol is inhabited by giant dragons of fire from outer space , who sneak around in manbags before creeping up yer bum and burning yer innards whilst wearing you as a human suit as a disguise.. On the plus side, they do give you heat ray eyes like Cyclops.
So no immortality for me - I'm not being bumfunned by an flaming space dragon arseonist from outer space, just so they burglarize my body to zap people with my eyes!
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
I love this titty...
Put your hands up
Put your hands up
Put your hands up
Put your hands up Marcella Detroit!
Yes, Mr Fedde, But I'd prefer Siobahn Whahey!
But not that hot chick with the squirty teats. You know, the Nandos trollop. Katie Perry-Perry.
She kissed a girl, and she liked it, but it tastes like some old chaps dick, apparently.
So she didn't like it all that much then, coz she ended up marrying Russell Brand!
And now she presents a Big Ass show, does Katy Brand (néé Perry-Perry) coz she let herself go a bit. Your Hot 'n' You're Cold? You're Full Of Pie 'n' Mash now babe!
Put your hands up
Put your hands up
Put your hands up Marcella Detroit!
Yes, Mr Fedde, But I'd prefer Siobahn Whahey!
But not that hot chick with the squirty teats. You know, the Nandos trollop. Katie Perry-Perry.
She kissed a girl, and she liked it, but it tastes like some old chaps dick, apparently.
So she didn't like it all that much then, coz she ended up marrying Russell Brand!
And now she presents a Big Ass show, does Katy Brand (néé Perry-Perry) coz she let herself go a bit. Your Hot 'n' You're Cold? You're Full Of Pie 'n' Mash now babe!
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
I got monkey, Alf got a secret...
Ah, the perils of being a feminine Demolition Man.
Naturally, when commissioned to demolitionate a mass murderers mansion, the best way to do it is to move in to the mansion for a few days, so the teenage son can watch you fiddle in the bath.
And instead of getting on with assessing the architecture, a tumble simple has to be taken so you can sit there and flash the gash at the teen.
So of course, he's going to lock you in the cellar with a maniac who's been in a hole for 15 years, waiting for someone to deadify him and solidify him in 15year old soggy cement of the extremely quick drying nature so the House can Come Alive.
But if the only was to get out is to git git git you drunk, git you lurve drunk off ya humps, then naturally escapage by jiggling your jugs will fail, and you'll have to snog some decrepit old gimmer.
And after all that, she couldn't be arsed to blow up the possessed building anyways!
Still, not as painful as hours to Delaware with a right stroppy cow with a strop on. But not as painful if she had a strap on. Or something.
And if you've been run off the road by yourself coming in the opposite direction with an inbred redneck hillbilly Mr Plough, why, aren't you glad you packed that olde telephone, that by serendiptous coincidence can be plugged into a telegraph pole to call for help!
Even if it is help from Voldemorty vicars and rapey cops.
But still the haggardarse hag from Hell survives the ordeal, to inflict further whingement upon the populace!
All that, and canine monkey rapeage combined with offers of baggy jammy botty yankdowns for the perusal of Pretties posteriors too!
I'm sure a profileration of chocolatey fingering makes for a biscuitesque collective.
Naturally, when commissioned to demolitionate a mass murderers mansion, the best way to do it is to move in to the mansion for a few days, so the teenage son can watch you fiddle in the bath.
And instead of getting on with assessing the architecture, a tumble simple has to be taken so you can sit there and flash the gash at the teen.
So of course, he's going to lock you in the cellar with a maniac who's been in a hole for 15 years, waiting for someone to deadify him and solidify him in 15year old soggy cement of the extremely quick drying nature so the House can Come Alive.
But if the only was to get out is to git git git you drunk, git you lurve drunk off ya humps, then naturally escapage by jiggling your jugs will fail, and you'll have to snog some decrepit old gimmer.
And after all that, she couldn't be arsed to blow up the possessed building anyways!
Still, not as painful as hours to Delaware with a right stroppy cow with a strop on. But not as painful if she had a strap on. Or something.
And if you've been run off the road by yourself coming in the opposite direction with an inbred redneck hillbilly Mr Plough, why, aren't you glad you packed that olde telephone, that by serendiptous coincidence can be plugged into a telegraph pole to call for help!
Even if it is help from Voldemorty vicars and rapey cops.
But still the haggardarse hag from Hell survives the ordeal, to inflict further whingement upon the populace!
All that, and canine monkey rapeage combined with offers of baggy jammy botty yankdowns for the perusal of Pretties posteriors too!
I'm sure a profileration of chocolatey fingering makes for a biscuitesque collective.
Monday, 4 April 2011
It seems to me you lived your life, with a candle in yer ear...
Pass me Ear-Trumpet, for I have made yet another faux-pas due to deafness.
I made this mistake of relying on my audio capabilities, and misheard the reminder on the tellybox about filling out the census.
I'd spent all t'other day emptying out and filling up my censers. Hours of scraping clean burnt on incense and topping up with Vanilla Cherry Rosewood Hickorydickorydock before setting it to smokely smoulder, waving it about like a curate in a cathedral before a choir of choristers.
I wouldn't have minded, except I misheard the first time, and spent a weekend filling up my sensors. Replacing batteries and adding additional pressure pads and tripwires.
Oh well, at least if they come a-calling for the £1,000 fine for not filling in the census, I'll detect them well in advance and use my patchouli poison cloud to make a quick escape!
Maybe I should get me ears cleansed. Apparently, them 'Ho Licks Dick' hippie types have this thing called a Hopi Ear Candle. What you do is, you bung a candle in your ear, light it, and it removes all yer earwax!
As if! More likely your earwax would still be there - buried under a pile of melted candle wax! You'd end up with ears like them dribbly bottles in Hammer Horror haunted houses what have had candles in!
It'd be worse than that bit in There's Something About Mary:
"Is that... Is that Hair Gel?!"
"No, you flangefaced jizzbucket. It's a candle I melted on me ear to get the wax out."
"You great fat twat! Wotcha do that for?"
"Some Ho Licks Dick pretty convinced me it would be a good idea."
"Buffoon! I'm not going out with you. Burning a candle in your ear indeed, you gullible gormster!"
I made this mistake of relying on my audio capabilities, and misheard the reminder on the tellybox about filling out the census.
I'd spent all t'other day emptying out and filling up my censers. Hours of scraping clean burnt on incense and topping up with Vanilla Cherry Rosewood Hickorydickorydock before setting it to smokely smoulder, waving it about like a curate in a cathedral before a choir of choristers.
I wouldn't have minded, except I misheard the first time, and spent a weekend filling up my sensors. Replacing batteries and adding additional pressure pads and tripwires.
Oh well, at least if they come a-calling for the £1,000 fine for not filling in the census, I'll detect them well in advance and use my patchouli poison cloud to make a quick escape!
Maybe I should get me ears cleansed. Apparently, them 'Ho Licks Dick' hippie types have this thing called a Hopi Ear Candle. What you do is, you bung a candle in your ear, light it, and it removes all yer earwax!
As if! More likely your earwax would still be there - buried under a pile of melted candle wax! You'd end up with ears like them dribbly bottles in Hammer Horror haunted houses what have had candles in!
It'd be worse than that bit in There's Something About Mary:
"Is that... Is that Hair Gel?!"
"No, you flangefaced jizzbucket. It's a candle I melted on me ear to get the wax out."
"You great fat twat! Wotcha do that for?"
"Some Ho Licks Dick pretty convinced me it would be a good idea."
"Buffoon! I'm not going out with you. Burning a candle in your ear indeed, you gullible gormster!"
Sunday, 3 April 2011
How firm's your bum Fearne Cotton you ho...
Ah, the Indie version of hairy nostrilled ex-Children's TV strumpets!
But what be this skullduggery? Piracy on the high seas of The Whatacunt? There is a proliferance of tricornered plumery, stripey trews and dubloon exchangery for grog!
However, at least one one rum-running ruffian has misunderstood the arsenal of maurauding booty seekers.
And being in clubland, it be not PCs of Hate booty, but the jiggly big momma bouncing behinds that the debaucher privateers are after!
Most piratanical types be armed with the Cutlass, but the aforementioned moon-calf be without ear trumpetry and has come armed with Cutlery!
Avast, thou wench! Let me plunder your womanly depths and avail myself of thy baubles, otherwise I shall run ye through with my trusty spoon!
Arrr! That be right enough. The latest accroutrement for the Long John Holmes when ashore in a tavern be a spoon.
I'll beat that - next clubnight, I'm out to impress The Pretties with the size of me ladle...
But what be this skullduggery? Piracy on the high seas of The Whatacunt? There is a proliferance of tricornered plumery, stripey trews and dubloon exchangery for grog!
However, at least one one rum-running ruffian has misunderstood the arsenal of maurauding booty seekers.
And being in clubland, it be not PCs of Hate booty, but the jiggly big momma bouncing behinds that the debaucher privateers are after!
Most piratanical types be armed with the Cutlass, but the aforementioned moon-calf be without ear trumpetry and has come armed with Cutlery!
Avast, thou wench! Let me plunder your womanly depths and avail myself of thy baubles, otherwise I shall run ye through with my trusty spoon!
Arrr! That be right enough. The latest accroutrement for the Long John Holmes when ashore in a tavern be a spoon.
I'll beat that - next clubnight, I'm out to impress The Pretties with the size of me ladle...
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Goodness gracious great balls of redness...
Yay! After being faced down by Jack Burton & The Pork Chop express, The Three Storms are back to engage shortly skirted sword skirmishing sultry sirens!
Engage in battle, that is. Not asking underclad wenches to wed in their unshed undies.
Swiftly followed by the undead SS facing underdressed sexpots.
Ooooh, Here comes Smaug and a Hungarian Horntail flying up above with the upskirt harlot.
Yay! The Train Job from Firefly, with a barely clothed babe as Jayne (without man parts)
I'll be in my bunk...
Engage in battle, that is. Not asking underclad wenches to wed in their unshed undies.
Swiftly followed by the undead SS facing underdressed sexpots.
Ooooh, Here comes Smaug and a Hungarian Horntail flying up above with the upskirt harlot.
Yay! The Train Job from Firefly, with a barely clothed babe as Jayne (without man parts)
I'll be in my bunk...
Friday, 1 April 2011
A tender tail of deal ya smith...
...at football matches she's often pissed...
Yum yum, lunchie munchie, and what delights are proffered in ye canteen?
Butchers sausages, egg, chips & beans!
Hold up... butchers sausages?
I've heard of pork sausages. I've heard of cummerbund and lincoln green sausages, but never butchers sausages!
Who's feeding us chopper of longpig for luncheon, like a mad Preston marrying Chantelle against Windolene's wishes?
Of course, (main course, of course!) certain celebrity soccer chefs down the road are taking time off from Transferring Players (into sausage rolls) and butchering butch butchers for all day breakfasta! Probably whilst pleasuring herself with a home made sausagey strap-on butchers bratwürst - you know what these Ed Gein types are like!
Well, I for one ain't wearing a white outfit and stripey apron whilst traversing down Riveryside to visit the Queen of Jawas, not if stalkage by mumsy chefs hell bent on killing for cannibalistic carrion is on the cards!
Yum yum, lunchie munchie, and what delights are proffered in ye canteen?
Butchers sausages, egg, chips & beans!
Hold up... butchers sausages?
I've heard of pork sausages. I've heard of cummerbund and lincoln green sausages, but never butchers sausages!
Who's feeding us chopper of longpig for luncheon, like a mad Preston marrying Chantelle against Windolene's wishes?
Of course, (main course, of course!) certain celebrity soccer chefs down the road are taking time off from Transferring Players (into sausage rolls) and butchering butch butchers for all day breakfasta! Probably whilst pleasuring herself with a home made sausagey strap-on butchers bratwürst - you know what these Ed Gein types are like!
Well, I for one ain't wearing a white outfit and stripey apron whilst traversing down Riveryside to visit the Queen of Jawas, not if stalkage by mumsy chefs hell bent on killing for cannibalistic carrion is on the cards!
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