Tuesday, November 29, 2005
"Interesting". I don't fucking think so
Monday, November 28, 2005
Wheels, they are for cunts
Wheels are very overrated, they are useful on cars and bicycles I suppose and other vehicles, but the people who go on about the invention of the wheel forget that horses can go very fast indeed. I prefer horses to wheeled things by a fucking mile and so do other sensible people. Not liking wheels does not mean you have to sacrifice speed. I love going racing, and not to watch gayers in leather drive cars in circles, but to watch thin short men beat the crap out of animals with sticks so that I can guess which one is the fastest and win money. Formula one and any other type of fast driving in a circle, is really gay, whereas horse racing is fucking excellent.
More than wheels on vehicles, I hate wheels on unnecessary things. Old fashioned roller skates were a total waste of time, there was never any need for wheels on the bottom of a shoe. If you want to go faster than a walk, you can run at different speeds, jogging or sprinting according to your velocity needs. You can't even go uphill on roller skates, which makes them fucking useless. Roller blades are even more unnecessary than roller skates because they are wheels, which are pretending to be knives, on the bottom of a shoe. Only a real, certified nutcase would think of inventing that. And when people wear roller blades and then try and play gay games like hockey in them, well it makes me want to shit.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Anonymous people are gay
I also hate people who grass other people up and report things to the "authorities" but are too scared to give their own names. How very, very gay. I used to live near this woman who devoted her entire day to reporting truanting schoolchildren, and denouncing anybody who stopped to do their laces up as a "loiterer", calling the police and ringing up social services if a child did not have a coat on or was not strapped in the car. She was extremely fucking ugly and I thought a few times about ringing up and reporting her to the Department of the Environment as "eye pollution", and asking to remain anonymous but because I am not a cunt I did not.
Even more than anonymous creative people, and anonymous busybodies, I hate people who send poison pen letters or post anonymous comments on blogs. I think they are weird. I mean, it does not take a great amount of effort or imagination to call yourself a blog commenting name. You could be all straightforward about it and call youself your first name and then the initial of your last name like David C and Tony T have chosen to do. There are a lot of people called David and Tony,. so they keep themselves nice and private, without being cunts about it. Or you can make up a name by choosing an adjective like your woman Vague or the other one with a funny name, or you could have some initials like MNK or be all out and proud like Harry Hutton and arse-fetishist Audrey Hawtrey.
It might interest you that because my computer is all horrible and french, when you anonymous freaks post on here you come up as "un utilisateur anonyme " which makes you sound really really fucking gay. Do you want to be gay on my computer? I expect you do, you cunt. Anyway I am going to delete anyone who decides to be anonymous as it lacks balls and imagination, so now you have been warned.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Offer it up, you cunts
I used to live next door to this man who was always threatening to top himself. He would normally wait until I was having a party and then knock pathetically on the door, clutching an empty bottle of zinc tablets or some other crap from Holland and Barrets and announce that he had just taken an overdose. He would sometimes be extravagant with his attempts, once he told me he was going to sit by the river with a knife, which I felt was excessive. He could just jump in, with rocks in his shoes and pockets, and drown, or he could cut away at himself, and bleed to death. There is no need to overdo it. Another time he arrived at my door with a dressing gown cord tied in a noose around his neck and a bottle of jif. What a cunt. I have no idea whether he ever succeeded at killing himself and frankly I do not care. It is nice to have visitors round now, without himself turning up with a crossbow and a pair of jump leads.
I especially hate the suicidal ones who make a nuisance of themselves with the act. Those fuckers who jump off bridges and splatt all over the roads holding up the traffic. If they want to leave the world, well that is their business entirely, but they could at least think of the people left behind, sitting in fucking traffic while someone else peels mangled guts off the road.
And they are all busy talking about killing themselves over the Christmas period too, the cunts. That is the "peak time" for these life-dodgers to really make an effort to end it all. What is that all about? Why can't they wait until January when the world is full of arseholes on "detoxes" and boring cunts droning on about the changes they are going to make in their lives. That would be far more understandable and get all the boring things out of the way at once. You would have your presents, but not have to go on a diet or give up smoking, you would just die instead, I can almost understand that.
Those Samaritans have got it right, they make the losers pay for their own moaning minnie phonecalls, because suicidal people just never fucking shut up, they go on and on and on "Oh I am going to die". If the Samaritans was a freephone, a craze would start and everyone would be on the line going on "Oooh I want to die, yes I do". If I were the Samaritans I would get an 0898 high priced line and then do a discount in the New year, to encourage the fuckers to wait until after the festive season to do their dying. Suicidal people, either fucking do it or offer it up, you miserable cunts.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Women - Shit at Banter
I went to get it cut yesterday and had to put up with the usual shite, but what made this time especially bad was the 'banter' between the two women in the shop. "We love each other really" declared one, "we are just a bit mad." I cringed at this, but what was worse though was having to listen to these two joshing.
"What are you looking at?" quipped one. "I don't know, but it's looking back" replied the other hilariously. My woman stumbled as she walked to the back office, "Did you enjoy your trip?" asked the other one wittily.
I wanted to stand up and rip the scissors from their hands and jam them into their jugulars, but I didn't. The one who cut my hair had enormous knockers and she kept rubbing them against my head, so instead of severing a major artery I gave her a tip.
I like big knockers.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Bollocks to Christmas parties
The annoying thing about this time of year, apart from the shite weather and appalling television, is this group of socially-inept yawny-yawnies (who should never be allowed out) hosting or going to parties. As guests, they latch onto your few interesting friends and suck the life out of them. They hover by the bar or entrance, making fatuous remarks about the food and music, or ask imbecile questions about cars. As hosts, they are human King Kongs, seizing indiviuals and bombarding them with awful generalisations and terrible jokes or pointless advice about on-line plane ticket buying. In short, these people are appalling bores and should be minced and fed to bears.
An even greater reason I have for hating hosting christmas parties is because you cannot get the staff. Everybody knows that the best waiters are dwarves. It is unpleasant to be served food by someone who is taller than you, and quite often average sized waiters hold their trays too high, so that you cannot see exactly what kind of canape you are about to pop in your mouth. Clashing with the pantomime season is a dreadful nuisance, and now that pantomimes go on until March, my party throwing style is seriously cramped, for four, fucking months of the year.
Maud suggested I move back to China, because they were all very short there, but the important thing about waiting staff is that they are significantly smaller than the guests, and if I were in China, then one would assume that a proportion of the guests would be Chinese and therefore also short-arses.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Now I really fucking hate monkeys
I took my smallest child to the zoo at the weekend. We went and saw everything and it was fine, you know, just sad animals sitting about. I was going to give the monkey cages a miss, because I hate the fuckers, but when a man nipped out of a building which was not open to the public, and asked if I wanted to see his monkeys really close up, I could not refuse, my kid was intent on it, screaming and sort of dancing about and making a real fuss. So, we went into a shed full of chimps, in very small cages, the kind of thing I would dream about, years ago, when watching a PG tips advert. The chimps were being kept in the dark and were doing the weird stuff animals do when they are miserable; making themsleves vomit and eating it; turning around and around and around and scratching, mindlessly, at their arses. The man took his tip and told me proudly, that the monkey with really bad skin on the non-furry bit of its face was a very heavy smoker, and if I had a cigarette on me, he would get the thing to smoke it. The neck of it! Why would I give my precious fags to a vile stinking sub-human hairy bastard creature? It shot out an overlong arm and grovelled around in the keepers pocket, with its grubby nails and useless thumb, and when it found no fags, the nasty animal rolled back its lips to reveal dirty green teeth etched with tar. Furious, as only a deprived smoker can be, again, it stuck its vile, bony arm out and grabbed my child's hat and a handful of hair. I made a fist and quickly slammed it down on the monkeys liver- spotted hand, relishing the wounded yelping and squeaking it made, as it let go my gibbering child's head. Shoving the kid out of the way I pulled out a beautiful, clean, marlboro light, and sparked it up, blowing a perfect arc of blue-grey smoke into the monkey's greedy little face, and then I turned and left, taking my wailing brat with me. The zoo keeper thought this was great and told me that he frequently keeps the cunt waiting for his fags, just to see how mad it can get. Monkeys are great gashers, I fucking hate them a very large amount. I hope this one gets mange and ebola the vicious little bastard.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
The Birds and the Bees
The most boring thing men talk to me about is sex. Normally I love talking about sex, but when men talk to me about it, it is because they want me to listen to them going on and on about some woman. One dear friend of mine once asked me if I could give his girlfriend a lesson in how to give a blowjob, and not for some dirty reason, so he could get all excited about the thought of two women talking about his penis, but because he genuinely thought that she would be pleased if I gave her a few hints. Can you imagine it? How would you start that conversation off with the woman? Only a man would think that idea up.
Another friend of mine is still incredibly promiscuous, the great left-over, and despite having more than adequate experience of women, he cannot fucking understand them one bit. The one reason that men are confused about women, is a completely physiological reason, and such a very fucking obvious reason, that only a man would be so moronic as not to see it. However, the reason that men are confused about women is also helpful to some of those mewling miserable women out there, sitting by the phone and doing "the rules", it might help them to understand, why men do not understand them. So here you have it, Noreen's law.
- Women normally produce only one egg per menstrual cycle
- Men have millions and millions of sperms in their testicles, which shoot out everytime they rub their members furiously enough.
Eggs are therefore more precious than sperm
- Women can orgasm without producing eggs out of their gees.
- Men cannot orgasm without spurting out millions of sperms (fuck off, tantric people, you are a law unto yourselves with your semen retention. I am not talking to you)
A male orgasm will produce life-creating potential as well as being pleasureable for the man.
- Every time a man shoots his wad, he could inseminate someone.
- A woman can easily get pregnant without having an orgasm. Equally, a woman can have an orgasm without potentially getting pregnant.
For a man, orgasm and procreation are more closely linked.
For a woman, orgasm and conception are merely coincidental
The reason for that boring load of psuedo-scientific shite is that men cannot ever fucking understand why a woman can be all fun in the sack, gobbling away, getting her kit off and being marvellous in the bedroom, without getting all insane about commitment, and yet, the moment they have penetrative vaginal sex, she turns into the biggest limpet, cying away and wanting to know what he thinks of her. The reason for the weird change is that the minute a man empties his penis into a woman's minge, she has the potential to get pregnant, and this makes the woman's brain move into "really mad" mode. You can lark about any other way you want, as all the orgasms in the world will not make lady knocked up, but the second there is a chance a bit of spunk can go up the tunnel, just about the moment the penis enters the vagina, you can bet the woman is wondering how her name will sound in front of his surname, and what their kids will look like. The sperm in her fanny has made her go mental.
So, gentlemen: If it is too hard to get your heads around the idea that some forms of fun will leave you footloose and fancy free, and others will get you a great blubbing bunny-boiler asking you "what are you thinking!", then just think of vaginal intercourse as putting leaded fuel into an unleaded engine. There is nothing but trouble to come, and yes you are fucking responsible, you bastards.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
A picture is worth fuck all, you cunt
Sayings, maxims, proverbs, quotes, they are really cunty things. When I was a teenager, I was a real cunt, like all teenagers, and I used to copy out little bits of books and stick the pieces of paper with the copied out bits on my wall, to, like, inspire me. Because I was both a lazy and unimaginative classical scholar, I was reduced to copying out bits of yawny yawny Virgil, or Greece's answer to that cunt Anthony Beevor, wanky-war -bore Thucydides. After a while, when I was, like, not inspired at all I realised that reading a great tract of crap about ships was just going to drive me to self harm, so I took them down.
Iwas a cunt, it is true, but I knew no better, unlike some grown people, people who are not angsty teenagers, who have the neck to get quotations and sayings printed on a t-shirt, or tattoed into their own skin. Fuck them, they are real cunts, and yet still not as awful as the people who make theT-shirts with sayings on, or the greasy, hairy biker types who drill the flesh of other human beings with paint, into the shape of a part of a poem. They should know better, the evil fuckers. People who peddle sayings written on things or tattooed on body parts should be locked in a dark room while I read them the Oxford dictionary of quotations, over and fucking over and over again, and I will put on a comedy accent or two, for the spice of it, and then I might just one quote over and over and over again until they scream for mercy, and then I will set them on fire. A cunt on fire is worth two in a bush.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Sudoku, Fuck you
The latest craze is this Japanese game, like a crossword, but with numbers in it and gaps, called Sudoku. It sounds like utter shite, described as a game "requiring patience and logical ability". Jesus Christ on a stick! Who would be interested in playing a game where you prove yourself patient and logical? Would you play a game where you let someone tell you all about their dreams and their ex boyfriends and girlfriends and all the funny things they watched on television just to prove yourself extremely long-suffering and masochistic? No you would not, not unless you were a total barker. The way I see the Sudoku thing, is if all the reward I am going to get is a stupid grid of numbers and the ability to toss myself off about being both patient and logical, well then I do not want to play it one bit.
Besides, patience and logical ability are utterly incompatible virtues. If you are logical, then you realise that being patient is utter crap. Patient means "suffering" and which logical person would think it is a good idea to suffer.? Only a big fat cunt, that is who. And being logical is overrated as well, because logical people are often barrel chested and have poor sight. I would rather have good sight and a decent rack than be logical, any fucking day of the week
So there you have it. Su do Ku pzzles are the unwashed end of a dog's cock
Monday, November 07, 2005
I fucking hate everything, I mean it
I hate being thirty three, and I hated being thirty two and thirty one as well. I did not like being thirty very much either. And guess what?! I am going to hate being thirty four and thirty five and all the way up to forty, when I can breathe a big sigh of relief that I am no longer in my thirties. The reason I hate it is not some gay thing about getting wrinkles, which, by the way I do not have, nor is it some awful crap about "juggling" my life, or needing direction and going on "Oooh what I have I acheived today". I do not give a flying fuck about acheiving or juggling or being on any kind of a path anywhere. All those naff, gay pushy-arsed concepts can go and fist each other. I hate everybody in their thirties except for me and Ball Bag and my sister Maud and a few others, and the reason I like them is because they do not go on about those gay things.
There is even a word for the cuntiness of being in your thirties and it is "thirty something". What a load of cockswill that term is. If you cannot count up to the age you are, well it is time to give up and get some electric shocks or have lessons. Counting is terribly inportant for everything and everyone. The nasty, vicious little words "thirty something" are a way of a decade of people trying to pretend that they do not take themselves, life and everything in the whole fucking world as seriously as they do. Which is very, very seriously indeed. I have even met raddled, t-shirt wearing "clubbers" in their thirties who are forced to take "clubbing" seriously because they are in their thirties. They can't just go to a club and dance about, they have to know all about the clubs and the music and how the lights go on and off and on again, and have all manner of an opinion about which order they take their drugs in. Where is the fun in that? It sounds shit to me.
Women in their thirties are the fucking worst. There are the ones who have just got children who are utterly appalling, going on and on about baby einstein and all their tedious ghastly parenting concepts, an army of torn-twatted harpies watching each other like hawks to ensure they are "the best" at mothering. Which they are not, ever. The best mothers are Gypsies, who send their kids out to steal and work. How do I know that? Which group of children are most fond, and protective of their mothers? Gyppo kids, there you have it. Then there are the women who are single or who do not have any children who start every conversation by going on about how happy they are not having children or being married, and they clearly are not, because if they were happy, then they would not need to tell people, they would just smile, like saints.
And then there are the awful men. Men in their thirties are just vile, fucking awful cunts the lot of them, miserable as sin beneath their "I'm not bald really" tennis ball haircuts, driving their gay little convertible cars and pretending that their ghastly, dribbling offspring are at all interesting to anyone. Five to ten years and the lot of them will lose the facade of smiling, whilst talking about rugby, whilst pushing a child on a swing and lying about their awful lives, pretending to enjoy family trips to B amd Q and going on family holidays, which are just the most miserable and gruesome experiences, and will either be giving it to some young bimbo in the conference room table, or be broken, shattered versions of their own fathers. The single ones are so tediously self obsessed, surrounded by dreadful gadgets, wearing the most terrible clothes, trying to scratch around for a new and more exciting extreme hobby than the next preening muppet, waiting for the big four oh, so they can describe themselves as "playboys" rather than "losers". I hate the whole fucking lot of them.
And everyone in their thirties (apart from me and Maud and Ball Bag and a few others) is so fucking snooty about younger people, turning their noses up at the things they like, as if the only good things that ever happened were the things that happened to them at uniboringversity or in the nanosecond between being a student and becoming an utter bore. So many people were clearly sitting out their twenties, desperate to asume the cable knit sweater of smug-fuckdom, snuggle their miserable behinds down and start going on about how great they are and how shite everyone else is. Well I think those smug fuckers are shite too, and before some little cunt jumps up and says "well you seem to think you are great" then I will say this, I am fucking marvellous, and I am saying that because I am in my thirties and therefore a cunt, but still not as much of a cunt as the rest of you lot.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Peter Robinson MP Does NOT Beat His Wife
He is most definitely not a bigot and deals with the problems of Catholics lucky enough to be in his constituency has eagerly as he deals with those of Protestants.
He is perfectly happy to share power with Catholics and believes that they have just has much right to have a say in Northern Irish affairs as Protestants.
In short he is a charming, kind, open minded man who does not have a bad bone in his body.
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