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Saturday, 24 August 2013

It's just shit

-Dirty cunt- some might say.
Others, -when you gotta go, you gotta go-

The bus stops at the lights just as the geyser is squatting down against the wall, his jeans and underwear pulled far enough away to give his hole some breathing space. The steady stream of semi-solid brown matter starts automatically; it's like it's triggered when the cacks pass a certain point on his arse. The expression on his face is one of relief as he filters the seemingly endless procession of shit with his fingers, presumably to get rid of any chunks that may go astray, and wipes the resulting sludge on the wall. A few people are out and about, but nobody's that close to him. The bus offers the best vantage point. His head darts from side to side, but no intervention's gonna stop him now he's in full flow.

There's a bird sitting in front of me who shoots the bloke a glance, gags a little, and mutters -animal-
How do you take a shit love? The process is basically the same: assume the position, grunt a bit and let gravity do the rest. The only difference between you and him is that his fundament won't smell of roses afterwards (or whatever the fuck they put on bog roll nowadays), and you won't be clawing dried faetal matter from your ass hair until your next crap... comfort kills. And as for animal... it wasn't that long ago when we were hanging from branches flinging shit at each other. Unfortunately, with the passage of time, we have designed so many, more glamorous projectiles.

As the bus pulls away, it's not hard to see the irony: life has done to him what he has just done on the pavement.






Thursday, 14 February 2013

Blokes in PJ's


Came back from work about lunchtime the other day; the Turk that's been living in the apartment was standing in the kitchen in his pyjamas - blue things that have definitely past their bin by date. My first thought was, lazy cunt, but this was quickly eclipsed by the second thought, they don't do anything for you, son.

Now, it's probably a piece of piss for Messrs Clooney, Depp, et al. to carry off the whole PJ ensemble, and I'm sure they look very well too, but the stark truth is that the average bloke shouldn't be (or should only be) seen dead in his pyjamas. If I was a woman waking up beside an 'Alan-Harper-attired' twat, I don't think it would inspire a wide-on regardless of the morning glory that may be poking through the flap of the PJ bottoms.

A proper bloke should sleep naked, wake up proud and hard, give his ass a good scratch, and let his nearest and dearest know that he's awake...

Sunday, 20 January 2013

Easy on the ego, hard on the head

But it is well known that a man carried away by passion, especially a man getting on in years, is quite blind, and prone to find grounds for hope where there are none; what's more, he loses his judgment and acts like a foolish child, however great an intellect he may have. (The Idiot)

You're out and about. The bird you're with, quite a bit younger than yourself, has an arm around your waist. She looks hot, oozes confidence and sexuality. Every cunt passing by has a quick ogle, and why not? You're not stupid... she makes you look better, more interesting. But don't get too carried away on your ego trip just yet.

She may have those attributes (and more) that the superficial bloke craves, but she also possesses an indefinable quality that sets her apart from most others: there's fire behind those eyes and you know it could spell danger. She's capable of anything and you're not 100% sure you can trust her. So how do you handle it, while preserving your sanity (and some dignity), knowing she's that independent type who's gonna go off and do her own thing when the mood takes her?

Regardless of your feelings for this girl, you know the ego needs fed, otherwise you'd be with that fat bird who's battling those nasty self-esteem demons (let's face it: she's gonna be more than chuffed if you spend 5 minutes in the same room together occasionally, and only fuck her after a night on the lash). To continue to feed the ego we must pay the price and this ultimately means doing business with Mr Paranoia. Yes, you'll spend a lot of time with this uninvited guest when she's out with mates or working late. Still, you could always settle for something more conventional, ogle the hot sort in the street, and wonder what the alternative would be like.




Sunday, 16 December 2012

Junior



I don't know much about Junior, I must confess,
But I reckon he's good at reducing all kinds of stress.
I have limited knowledge of these types of toys,
So I'm not sure if he's silent or he makes a noise.

I can only presume his shape and his size,
And how it feels when he's between your thighs.
Loyalty, fidelity won't be problems, surely,
And he'll never go soft or shoot his load prematurely.

I'm jealous of Junior and those things he can do 
But if I practise real hard I could do them too.
However, there's one action he just can't replace,
He'll never get overexcited and make a mess on your face.


Saturday, 21 April 2012

Fucking hate Coldplay

I don't know how they manage to do it, but they always seem to have a song doing the rounds when I'm going through strife.

It all kicked off with Clocks in 2003. I was having a bit of a nightmare with the booze and an ex-girlfriend, and there it was on the fucking radio everytime I switched it on. Don't get me wrong... I think it's a very good track, but it just doesn't conjure up good memories.

Onto 2005, and there's Speed of sound. I had a major medical problem around that time (oddly enough, it had something to do with the hooch) and the same thing occurred - I heard the fucker everywhere I went.

Viva la vida came out in 2008, and even though nothing really crappy was happening to me, it still reminds me of some of the problems I was having trying to find a decent job over here.

Onto the present day and I can now connect two songs to the marital shit I'm going through. It kicked off about six months ago with Paradise, and is culminating with that new one - I think it's called Charlie Brown (can't be arsed to check it).

Come on Coldplay... could you give it a rest for about 10 years. Anyway, let's face it, your music's becoming a bit shit anyway.

Friday, 23 March 2012

When shitting becomes a real pain in the arse

Got a new job a few months ago and my daily routine has changed accordingly because of the early morning starts. I didn't notice it immediately, but the old bowels (there's more than one, isn't there?) haven't been a bit pleased with the resulting changes. Traditionally, I'd always taken a dump around 7:30 and another one before lunchtime - that was pretty much me for the day. Now, it's anyone's fucking guess when I'll find myself in the crapper.

The one constant is the first shit of the day. I'm up around 5:30 and I'm on the porcelain within 2 minutes - that's a given. The problem is that my arse has started teasing me (it's like a game of chicken) just before I leave the house about 6 o'clock. I'm a lazy bastard so I can't afford the luxury of shitting twice before I leave for work - 50% of the time I give in and get my trunks down again. The real hassle begins when I don't want to play the game, and just bolt out the door.

You see, you've gotta factor in all the variables: length of bus journey; availability of crappers in work; number of cigarettes x cups of tea/coffee. This is a fucking science in its own! The problem becomes exascerbated (doesn't look right) when you introduce the most unpredictable factor of them all - alcohol consumption. Here's an example:

Went out on Saturday night and had a right skinful - beer, whiskey, rum. Suffered all day Sunday but was feeling 100% come Monday morning (pity my sphincter muscle hadn't received the news). Before I'd got out of the house I'd served up two portions of mini logs (the second didn't flush so good), and was comtemplating a third before 7 o'clock. Stifled that urge for about an hour before giving in, and found myself on the pot again just before lunchtime. I don't mind telling you... I felt exhausted. It's now Thursday, and I reckon I've been more than a dozen times so far this week.

Then there's the wiping, the endless fucking wiping. It's not too bad when you can wipe clean in one session, but you've always gotta be wary of leaving 'man's make-up' behind, especially after a shower. I've never been too fussy about what type of paper I use to clean my ass - newspaper would do if there wasn't anything else available - but recently I've had to start buying the real classy stuff, you know, like $3 a pack. I'm fighting a losing battle here, so the least I can do is pamper the offending area.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Old people fuck faster than...

people walk, over here.

I have absolutely no tolerance for how painfully slowly people walk in this part of the world.

I was in a shopping centre (mall, whatever) yesterday afternoon and I spent most of the time mumbling fuck, shit, bollocks whilst stuck behind slow traffic. I got particularly vexed when I couldn't get by two bints eating ice creams and talking shit whilst moving at the speed of a couple of arthritic snails. I then observed some tart, deep in mobile phone conversation, shuffling up to the escalator only to find that she was trying to go up the one that was going down.

People should really be expected to pass some sort of 'walking coordination test' to prove that they can maintain a certain speed whilst carrying out some basic manual task.

Friday, 16 March 2012

Things are never that bad...

if you can pause to admire some cleavage.

I've been having a pretty piss poor time of it recently - you name it, it seems to be going wrong. So, today I decided to have a coffee and a smoke outside just to, you know, go to my happy place. As I was daydreaming of fuck knows, I was suddenly jolted back into this life by nearby cleavage - the kind of cleavage you want to take a photo of and send to Epic Tits.

It was at this point that I asked myself the following... how bad do things have to get before a man will stop acknowledging lady parts?

The average bloke could be suffering from clinical depression whilst having a flesh eating disease devouring his muchacho, and still think, "hold up... look at the arse on that."

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Lest I ever forget

Smoke out the back, don´t smoke out the back

You can´t cook if you can´t clean up

Close the fridge door the moment you take something out of it

Never leave the microwave plugged in when not in use

If your water isn´t too yellow, don´t flush the toilet

Tulip and the Nazi

Sunday, 26 February 2012

Proper day's football

How refreshing it was to sit back and enjoy the footy today without being reminded of all the bollocks that has recently overshadowed the great British game...

Giggsy scoring the winner against Norwich in his 900th game for the United - magic!


The Gunners comeback from a 0_2 deficit to beat the Spurs 5_2 and the fickleness of the average fan - "we hate you Theo, we love you Theo."


Cardiff City's dreams cruelly shattered by the Scousers in a dramatic LC final penalty shoot-out.


Rangers bouncing back from their ongoing financial woes with a 4_1 away win.

Just for a change, we could forget about: racism, administration, tax evasion, spoilt bastards throwing their rattles out of prams, special projects, and retards tweeting when they shoud just be shutting the fuck up.

Monday, 20 February 2012

KLSI

Hats off to the bloke who was collecting the fares on the bus this lunchtime. Multiple leers, the odd wolf whistle at any bird that caught his eye when the bus was stopped - did almost everything but take his cock out.

Friday, 17 February 2012

King Leer Society, International

Back in the day, (thanks, Pawn Stars - I can't get that out of my fucking head now) me and my old mate Conrad coined this phrase - I'm not claiming we were the first, we just hadn't heard anyone else use it.

Does it mean that we were fans of the Shakespearean tragedy? No, not really. I've never actually read it. What it means is that we were actually partial to ogling the better examples of the female form. Just looked at the definitions/examples of ogle and leer:

Ogle: to glance with amorous invitation or challenge; he sat at the bar, ogling several women.

Leer: to cast a sidelong glance; she complained that some disgusting man was leering at her.

It soon became obvious to us that there were many like-minded souls in this society, and that several methods were employed in leering:

The full on leer - used mainly by the novice, or the sexual deviant. Lacks subtlety and finesse; leaves the leeree with no doubt in her mind about what's going on.

The mistimed leer - a poorly executed manoevure which results in eye contact. The leerer is left embarrassed, but this can be avoided with more practise.

The consumate leer - this incorporates the use of peripheral vision, and requires the leerer to be aware of his surroundings at all times. Basically, you have the leeree in your sights long before she enters your leering zone, affording a reasonable glance at the frontage. Then, you avert your gaze until she has walked past you, allowing you to take in the view without fear of detection. However, beware the backward glance - the best of us have been caught out by this.

Since I've been in South America, I've been very impressed with the high standard of leering form the Latinos. It's only when you've walked down a main street over here (especially on a good day) that you can truly appreciate just how many curves and cleavages are actually on show - spoilt for choice. I'm proud to say that our international members have mastered the age old art, and will no doubt pass this skill onto future generations.