Wednesday, May 30, 2007

 

Men are fucking cunts

I am totally and utterly sick of men, and no I am not coming on. When they are born, baby men piss in your face at every nappy change. When they are older they sometimes ask you to piss in their faces - which might be entertaining if it weren't utterly fucking odd as all get out - but generally men continue to piss on women, with their selfish, self-obsessed, whining, selfish, self-centred, fucking self-regarding, self-absorbed, selfish, fucking cuntery.

Men who seem exciting quickly turn into the most tedious slipper-toting bores - yapping on about machines, or buying and selling things for a ludicrously small amount of profit or loss on some gay online auction. Men who once admired provocative and exciting clothing on the female form will soon tent their wives in ghastly fat- face rugby shirts and comfortable jeans in a weak, Turkish bid to keep other men away. My sister Maud had a boyfriend who was desperate to get her to wear dungarees, DUNGAREES - the lesbian wardrobe staple- to hide her legs away from other leering males, and I had one who used to try and shove me into Laura Ashley, and liked round toed shoes. Needless to say those two aren't on the scene any more.

And then there are the biscuit restrictors- men who lack will-power and fuss about their weight, who can't bear to see anyone else tucking into a hob nob. Even women like me who eat their own weight in chips and pies and chocolate and remain skinny and never, ever go on about being fat or eating healthily, can get a biscuit restrictor hovering frantically, ready to whip the packet away and hide it - just so they, the pathetic males, can eat the biscuits later and then beat themselves up in a frenzy of weak-willed self-hatred. I fucking hate men who whine about their weight it is just beyond gay. Be a fat bastard - or don't be one - I don't care. Just don't tell everyone else what they should be eating as some of us want to eat things we like - rather than fucking lettuce.

And then there are those awful cockmongers who enter into toxic relationships with women, where each party removes a right from the other - like a vile, restrictive game of Jenga: "I don't want you seeing so and so". "Right, then I don't want you going to the football". "Okay, well then in that case, I don't want you to go out with people from work if there are men there". "Fine, well as long as you are happy not to go on the golf weekend then that's fine by me". "Okay - but you aren't wearing those shoes outside of the bedroom" and on and fucking on until both parties are boxed in and as miserable as sin, and all that remains is for them to stare at each other until they die of boredom - occasionally breaking the deathly monotony with a trip to B and Q to buy a stone ornament for the garden, or painting the bedroom a slightly different colour.

Worst of all are those fucking dickheads who won't tell you what is wrong - I absolutely loathe those cunts. "What's wrong?" you ask them "Nothing" they say. If I wanted to have that kind of conversation, I'd hang around a girls' school playground. Fucking nonces.
Noreen

Update!!!
This man isn't a cunt - go read him. Deep and thoughtful debate on my favourite subject.
http://youjustdontknowjack.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

 

For Maud

Having spent a small amount of time in the company of army wives, I can safely say, without generalising, that they tend to be a coven of sanctimonious, judgemental, joyless, charisma free, gossiping harpies, who give really fucking appalling advice to each other. Perhaps a way of showing that there is a God- as they see each other off with atrocious parenting, fashion and relationship tips. Whiling away the hours, whilst their husbands alternately whore, sire bastards and murder people.
Noreen

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

 

Disappointed by the Discovery Channel # 2

As well as programmes about vicious and dangerous animals eating each other, I really enjoy documentaries about large machines. I watched six hours straight of that enormous fucking great airbus the other week, and it was brilliant. They evacuated a lot of Germans out of a fake airbus inside a hangar, and they painted the aircraft loads of different colours on the outside, and there were various queeny interior designers farting on about the colour schemes of the chairs and whether or not there would be a casino. Then, they didn't make the thing in time, so your man resigned, and there was a hoo haa, and a lot of Japanese flipping their lids, and this great fucking thing flying about, but not actually being for sale. It was a wonderful show, truly. Watch it.

If you get the chance though - don't watch "Megastructures: USS Regan" - what a disappointing bag of shite that was. All about some yanks supersizing an aircraft carrier and making it so absolutely vast, that it took up the whole sea. There were interesting parts to it, I'll grant you - I enjoyed watching the people in the laundry room, pressing all the clothes, and the man in charge of mashing up the rubbish and the one in the kitchen frying oversized steak after oversized steak. And I was interested to be given a televisual tour of the THREE supermarkets, all selling crisps in enormous bags, where the sailors could not use money, they had this plastic card with special naval money on it, which they had to put into a customised machine. And although the boat was the size of one thousand blue whales, everyone had to sleep in a tiny coffin and fold their socks a particular way, in order to fit the very few things they were allowed to bring with them on the boat, into their pathetically small lockers. I almost felt sorry for the crew, until they took the great big craft on a journey from the east coast of America to the West coast of America - and had to go all the way down to the South of America around Cape Horn because the thing was too large to go through the Panama canal.

The fucking stupid cunts
Noreen

Thursday, May 17, 2007

 

The best thing in the world

Facebook is the very, very best thing in the whole world. All that poking people and shit. Fuck it's great! You can gawp at pictures of your friends and their friends, and you can earwig into their strange one-sided conversations on a wall, and find out the spice on everyone. And then there are these alerts: "Katie has altered her relationship status to single" and there is a little picture of a heart all shattered the way hearts are, when some cunt man has shown his true colours and been a lying, cowardly shite, or :"Kevin has joined the philharmonic orchestra network". I did not think I would say it, but I am just overjoyed with the facebook. My Space can go up my space, it is a complicated, interfacing bag of shite. But Face Book, that is the business. Like a stamp album of human beings. That is all.
Noreen

Sunday, May 13, 2007

 

My weekend

I have always loathed weddings, but Moroccan weddings are worse than any other type of wedding in the world. They start at midnight and go on all fucking night, with the world's most god-awful music - a man warbling and yelling and thumping fucking drums, and there is no booze whatsoever, just fucking orange juice and this jizzy yoghurt milk gop, and your ears are ringing from the almighty din, and the floor, such as it is, is a carpet of corpses of exhausted women and children. And they serve chicken stew at four in the morning with dried fruit in it, and the bride wears incredibly vulgar clothes and gets carted about on a throne and it is in a tent, full of mosquitoes, vipers and feral cats. And then the next day, when you think it just has to be over, the whole shennanigans starts up all over a fucking gain with the ghastly music and the thumping and the oily, fruity, meaty food wheeled out in the dead of night, and just a hideous mass of people twitching and thrutching to the deafening racket and children running around in fucking circles and men in really shiny suits and pointed shoes.
Noreen

Friday, May 11, 2007

 

Which one of the following statements is a lie

The Chinese reuse coffins.
Italian military personnel are issued with hot pink long johns for winter.
Americans have aerosol lamb.


Go on then. Which one is it??
Noreen

Monday, May 07, 2007

 

Push my boundaries - I'll fucking push you over a cliff

Food is very important as it makes us live.There are many different
types of food, among the best are chips, pizza, baked
potatoes,cherries, coleslaw, crisps and non-french bread.There are a lot more foodstuffs, of course, some more or less exciting than my definitive list - there certainly is enough choice around to avoid menu-fatigue for a good few years, that is the point.

I really can't be doing with these fucking cock bandits who think it is okay to make jugged hare ice cream, or tripe and vodka cake or marzipan black pudding,it is not okay at all, they should fuck off and die, the weirdo offal-fiddling cunts. Not least because the food they peddle in their hideously overpriced noncy-named restaurants is rank and made from scraps, but because as fashion is inclined to do, their monkeying around with cheap innards, filters down to and finds its way into the high street food shops. Places I shop.

I bought a packet of jaffa cakes the other day, they were not called jaffa cakes because they were french, they were called something gay instead, but the picture looked like a jaffa cake, so I opened the packet and ate one, and the jelly bit was red and tasted like raw liver. That is what we have come to in these days of idiots vying with each other to make a more extraordinarily palate-challenging menu - chocolate, sponge and liver biscuits. The fucking filthy feckers.

And people who think preserved lemons are nice can fucking stick it up their holes as well. Preserved lemons=cilit bang. Fucking sour as shit and rankly chemical in flavour. That is all

Noreen

Friday, May 04, 2007

 

Old Money

I’ve a lot of time for old people. Yes, I love them, I truly do. I like their wrinkly old faces, and the sense that they have been around the block. I admire their lack of surprise at the rotten things that happen in the world, and their astonishing resilience to death. I think I will enjoy being old when that time comes, which, by the way, is a very long way away, as you can dye your hair blue and be all insane, so no great leap really for me at all.

But they do come out with some unholy old shite sometimes, the old, and they are always offering advice, whether or not you have given off any type of an air of requiring help. “If I can tell you one thing” this old woman said to me: “It is to keep your hand on your ha’penny”. I gave her a little smile, the type you would give a simpleton, nodded politely and then fucking legged it away, as fast as I could. What a lunatic, that old hag was, an absolute, barking mental- health -disaster! Now, I am not remotely interested in numismatology, it is a thing that would make me want to have a sleep, but even I know that there has not been a half pence piece around for a few years. I also recognise that decimalisation caused great problems in the brains of the old, used as they were to shillings and florins and half a crown and a bushel of this or whatever the fuck their “old money” was. But they phased out the half penny years ago I am sure of it.

I could not get what the old woman was on about - was she a spectacular miser, egging me on to guard the shrapnel in my purse with my life, or was she just plain mental? I asked a younger woman, who also speaks entirely in riddles, what this crone could mean and she knew immediately :“She was telling you to keep your hand on your minge”.

Jesus Christ! Who would have thought the old bat was on about that ? And then, perhaps because I am slow, or lack empathy for the criminally insane, I had to ask the younger woman more about it, so I said to her: "How does that work then?? If you constantly have one hand on your twat, how can you go to the lavatory effectively? And what about at Mass, will it be alright to whip my hand out of my knickers for long enough to receive the body of Our Lord into my fishy palm? Jesus Christ”. This one with the riddles was all smug and bridling: “No, you idiot,” she says, “The old woman means, that you keep your hand on your vagina, in order to keep the men off it”. Again - why would I do that type of shite? Besides, most men are revved up into a state of priapic lust, at the mere thought of a woman interfering with herself - so I think the idea of having your hand permanently on your clout in public, would be a bad idea all round. The stupid, senile, old whore.
Noreen

Thursday, May 03, 2007

 

Gay little pens

I am greatly in favour of technology - I truly appreciate the freedom from censorship and the liberation from tedious editing yawny-bores, that the blog gives us free-spirited writers. And I salute the mobile telephone, facilitating journeymen gobshites everywhere, to yap on wherever, and whenever, it takes their fancy. In fact I would say I DEFEND technology in the face of adversity - when your man in the papers gets all threatened by the rise of the on-line pundit, or some old luddite cunt starts on :"Crackberry" this, or taking the mick out of text speak - which is surely an evolution of language that will save us all time and spelling -, yes when I hear that type of techno-abuse going on I stand up and get all red in the face, and shout, and march and stuff, and defend technology, and that comes from the heart. Oh yes, those of you who turn your noses up at instant messaging, or revel in the fact that you can't make a telephone call unless you have a dial handset - fuck off and die, the lot of you.

But the stylus - the gay little pen found stuck down the side of an expensive PDA system, those stylus things are the end of a dog's cock, just beyond vile. I absolutely despise them. If anything, ever, were asking to be lost down the lavatory, or snapped in half, or left on a bus, it is the stylus, the most losable thing on the planet. And the way the stylus is used is so mincing - gently tapping the surface of anything is just so very, very gay. When I see a man using a stylus, I know for a fact that he kisses without using his tongue. That is all
Noreen

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

 

Wormholes. You Hollywood Cunts.

I love romantic movies - that one all about adultery: "The Bridges of Masdison County"- I fucking love that, and the other one about adultery, and mutilation by burning: "The English Patient"- I love that one too. And the other one, about adultery after death: "Message in a bottle" - that was shit. But I watched it anyway because it was about two people, who fell in love, and really that will do it for me, filmwise.

Now the reason I love a romantic film, is not some girly gay thing about wanting to see two people be happy together, it is simply because the plot is so very, very easy to follow, that I am less likely to need to ask hundreds of questions as the film progresses. I prefer the content of an action film, but by the time it has got to the third frame, I've lost track of who all the people are, and why that man is talking to that person, and why on earth is he wearing his coat inside, the cunt? No, I have realised that my limitations, in a cinematic plot context, are boy meets girl, one of them is probably married, they fuck and either end up together or do not and die. I can manage that.

But recently there has been a spate of really fucking appalling twists on that theme. And there is no need for it. Love, and adultery and being together or separation and ultimately death, are film themes that have been with us for hundreds, nay, millions of years. Why fuck about with something that works? Jesus Christ, those Hollywood cunts! No, twice recently, I have bought a film with a picture of two middle-aged people nuzzling each other on the front, the woman looking slightly sad. And I have put the thing on, and it starts off all normal - people going around, the woman a bit scatty or worthy, the man a bit of an old rake, then suddenly the reason they cannot be together is not a sensible reason like one of them having a husband, or a wife, no. It is because they are in different time dimensions - sometimes parallel universes, other times time warps, and then suddenly there will be a bit where they get together by climbing through a rip in the meniscus of time, so they get through this wormhole and have it away with each other, and then the time-challenged lovers either end up together, or die. I am so furious. I despise that type of shit - there is absolutely no such thing as a wormhole, and if there were there would be far better things to do with it than use it to get a ride. How about jumping ahead and finding out how to cure AIDS, or going back in time and telling Ghandhi he was a cunt, and then running for it, before hundreds of sandal wearing bores ripped you apart for sacrilege, that would be great.

And it does not offer much hope to the Bridget-Jones-Single-Woman type, the kind I have sitting on my sofa regularly, crying on about how there are no men, or how the men they meet are all shites or married. Making these women think that the answer to their man-drought prayers, is a fucking wormhole and a man from the past or the future, well I just fucking ask you! It is not doing any favours for anyone this type of role modelry.

Far better to encourage your single woman friends to go out husband grabbing, or get them to marry some boring cretin and fuck the local National Geographic Magazine Photographer and then almost leave their husbands for him, but in the cold light of day to think better of it and spend the rest of their lives tending steers, baking pies and dwelling on the past.
Noreen

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

 

How to get the ride

A question I am frequently asked by odd blog commenters, and men overwhelmed by my extraordinary good looks, is how to get the ride off me. It is very simple - two words: Bacon Crisps. If a man were to turn up here in yawny-bollocks Islamistan with a multipack of frazzles, I would nosh him off AFTER having anal sex with him. I mean it.

Men who would not get the ride, even were they to arrive with a lorryful of Tesco maize-based snacks, are as follows:

Policemen (hate them)
Men who wax themselves (gay)
Men with more than two cats (murderers)
Men with "collections" - music and porn are excused, I'm talking "lilliput lane cottages"/first edition books/things that are still in their original packaging (take hours and hours to ejaculate)

I hope that clears things up for everyone

Noreen

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