Sixth Sense, gut feeling, telekinesis.

Warning, this article contains a graphic reference to a hippo rape and the murder of a parrot.

Human beings are strange creatures, some see us as the stardust sprinkled children of god, some as the super evolved self titled kings of planet earth, and some, including me, the distant offspring of an alien gang raped ape (see previous blog) and we the deserted half star children are frantically trying to invent things like the ipad and email so we can communicate with our great space fathers and get some long over due backdated child support and get off this shit hole, that doesn't feel like home, most animals hate us.

Regardless of your beliefs on the above, the fact is, that humans have some pretty special skills above those of animals, such as dexterity of the hands, being able to open a tin of Heinz big soup, let-alone the ability to invent and manufacture tin openers, the delicate touch of being able to glance through the pages of a rare marvel comic, or mint conditions copy of readers wives from 1986, the one with the horrid bullseye contestant looking woman with the sopping bedraggled odd sized tits, Gene Wilder perm, and gaping vagina that looked like a bearded Mick Hucknell vomiting up a large Friday night kebab, the kind of woman that stunts your sexual development, and the kind of stunt Evil Kenevil would have run away from.

The power in ones hands to come home from a night out, call the wife a cunt, smash a perfectly lovely house in Cheam to worthless bits and then punch her in the stomach with almost surgical accuracy to not leave any bruising, all while holding a can of Heineken in the other hand and not spilling a drop. The masterful feather touch to be able to create masterpieces of art, such as that, erm, view of the bridge in the garden with the flowers and stuff, and the other one, the view of the castle with the odds and sods and clouds in the background and countless other unforgettable art works.
The ability and intelligence to masterfully deceive seemingly intelligent people, for example Tracey Emin, for whom every intake of breath she takes deprives a starving African child of life, and I expect, causes a landslide in a part of Bangladesh.

With technology we have started to turn our backs on our natural senses. Our sight, men are fooled by the pearly glow of fake white teeth, the sweaty night club glistening from swollen silicon tits and the seemingly healthy glow from an otherwise dreadful parchment like skin, and the general fakery that woman have to use in order to fulfill their seemingly endless need to have the semen of cretins fired all over their said fake appendages like a creamy party popper.

Our smell, the invention of perfumes to cover up the natural hormonal attraction. 48 hour deodorants, who doesn't shower for 48 hours thats not so homeless that superdrugs wouldn't even let them through the door lest peruse the various smellies? Various ointments and creams for women to disguise natures warning signs to men, such as the smell of a fish mongers on a hot summer day that should tell you that, “under no circumstances should this pungent prick pitta be entered. (Oy you misogynistic cunt) (wait a sec, men's bits undoubtedly stink, its just that men are not so reproductively aware, and girls will suck anything, so back off bitch (im joking).

Taste, it is now possible to eat a turd thanks to the invention of Encona Hot Pepper Sauce.

Touch, I don't really know what to say about touch, only that the blind girl in the hello video was so about to go down and suck off that clay Lionel Richie head, such was its accuracy, silly bitch.

So, the next time you wake up in bed next to Michelle McManus on a Saturday morning with the smell of chip fat and way out of date haddock, blame all of the above, your sensual laziness caused by the various camouflages described.

Outside of the base senses, we have others that we no longer understand, in part because we simply don't need to. The ability to detect when a Lion is coming up behind you, triggering an adrenaline rush so powerful, that for a few moments you can run like Usain Bolt, fight like Bruce Lee, and climb like spiderman. We still get these huge rushes of adrenaline, but its usually for something shit like getting a massive bollocking at work, and not knowing if you are going to have a job in the morning, in this case the adrenaline giving you the power to quiver like a jelly, cry like a little bitch, and fight like a butterfly soaked in ghee. This is medically referred to as a panic attack.

Sixth sense. Deep down all humans are connected via a mysterious network of “shit that we don't understand” we have an inbuilt ability to just know when those closest to us are in dire straights, and from any given point, and out of nowhere, we can just seem to appear and save the day, sadly, we are usually to busy to answer these psychic emergency calls, and more than likely the brain signal for these is probably being interfered with by todays mobile phones and other connected gadgets and pointless gizmos. What probably happens now is a next of kin sends a signal to the house is on fire and they are asleep upstairs, we start to pick it up, and instead mentally intercept a bogus text message about being entitled to claim for an accident, meanwhile, the relative bubbles and cracks away in a desperately horrible house fire like a drunk cooking the meat on a cheap BBQ.

Despite not actually ever being able to properly see, or smell our sexual partners, we still have a secret weapon in the war of knowing whether you are with the right person, the gut feeling. Gut feeling is exactly what it says on the tin, the tin in this instance being your most likely flabby sagging toneless paunch, the unsettling feeling that something just isn't quite right. You try but you cant quite put your finger on it. Most of the time you don't act on this, and you then find out that your partner has been having a 6 month affair with a top race horse, in hind-site you've seen the hoof marks on the carpet, but you've put it down to signs of good luck, you come home one day to a harsh nasal neighing and walk into see a huge equine penis thrashing in and out of your once lovely girlfriend/wife/partner like a veiny fleshy pile driver. Added to this, the jockey is round the front having a nervous but flowing piss on her hair, it turns out, she was into this.

Gut feeling is by no means a safe bet, you could well have just seen the signs, lack of interest, change of clothes, attitude, the fucking smell of a recently sexed horse. The gut feeling can also get you into a whole heap of trouble. You have met a girl, a feisty zesty girl that you would have thought was out of your league, things are going really well, yet deep down inside the horrid burning knotting feeling in your stomach hurts your every moment apart, you've been burnt before and this feels exactly the same, there are no hoof marks on the carpet, but could it be that the adulterous stead has found a way to wear a trainer or boot? You cant talk, the worlds bottle neck in your throat like that Mexican Bandits cancer warning off the cigarette packet. She isn't acting differently, but this feeling in your gut is taking you over, so one day you sit her down and you just do it, rather than risk the humiliation of walking in to a better cock up her, you just call it a day, she cries and asks why, you just tell her its your gut feeling. She tries to talk you round but there is nothing she can do. She leaves and you are sad because you are going to miss her blow jobs, cumming on her tits and back, the fact that she is willing to do a2m, and also her company..You are sad, but the feeling in your gut reassures you that you did the right thing, it doesn't feel quite right though, and its at this moment that you realise that your gut feeling was actually just trapped wind, you let out a fart that sounds like a weird Barry White/duck hybrid stubbing its webbed foot on sideboard on a winters day. So, because of your so called gut feeling, you are left in a room with a huge fart that is so pungent that it actually forms a human shape that sits starting at you, tutting and slowly shaking its head, finally writing the word cunt in the wall in a light faecal colour, and leaving you forever alone. No point in calling the ex, she's already found solace in the arms of some gym cunt with washboard abs and a cock like Fatima Whitbreds throwing arm.

Then, you have the cretins that not only believe in a higher psychic power, and that not only do they have that higher power, but they have more higher power than you, they are the highest powerist of them all, clairvoyants, psychics, those who pray on the foolish and the bereaved, a very scary combination of general lack of common sense, and the vulnerability that watching the person who made sure they didn't walk under a bus each day suddenly thrash their way out of life, turning blue, shitting themselves and vomiting in front of them with the indignity dial turned to ten. If Nigerian fraudsters could get hold of the UK register of deaths, they would have a field day.

I wont mention any TV psychics, especially those that are female and have the initials PS as apparently the four eyed cunt has penchant for dishing out legal warnings for anyone who dares to challenge her power, the four eyed blond haired Essexy accented lying exploitative bucket of shit.. I am not for one second saying that there isn't a soul on the planet that can communicate with the dead, I am not saying it because I don't understand it. But I just know that she cant, the dead, even lying in wooden boxes a sea of worms have some semblance of class and would never channel their thoughts from the misty unknown of the afterlife through that twannock. They would rather subtly put love hearts on cream crackers and occasionally fart through the line between life and death and you can stand there and reminisce about your dearly departed and their mustard gas beery shit farts.

Animals however, despite their seeming simplicity have mastered next level communication and psychic ability, there is no other explaining that smug look on a cats face, that look it gives you that says, I know something you don't, I have seen your death and its nasty, I will rub my anal gland over your still warm corpse and then move in next door for my food and milk.

Dogs, despite their lopping tongued loyalty and stupid ears probably have means of communicating with each other over vast distances, forming complex breakdowns of their days, “Owner is a massive cunt, I shat all over his hearth rug today and pretended I was ill, took me to the vet and everything, 300 quid, ha, what a cunt, and he takes me on boring walks, I only put up with him because I know how he dies, and its going to be fun, I might even have a little nibble on his still warm body and give it doe eyes when the police arrive”.

Parrots, talking, oh how clever, they are taking the piss, silly accents, they are mugging us off, the next parrot I hear talk talking in patronising English, I am going to ring its fucking neck, wrap the cunt in breadcrumbs and stuff it full of garlic butter, if you go up to a lion and do an impression of its roar in a high tinny sarcastic tone and it will kill you slowly and painfully and wipe its anal gland over your corpse. Don t ever take animals as being stupid, they are plotting, all while we dumb ourselves down with technology and invention. You laugh, but you wont when in about 20 years you are a hippos bitch, listening to the creaking of your heavily lubricated arsehole praying it doesn't tear. You have been warned.

Despite all the potential in our huge melon heads, on a sensual level, we have failed to live up to the hype, instead relying on invention and technology, we will die in stupid ways surrounded by 3g next generation shit, we have been a massive disappointment, we are all shit (apart from Derek Acora)

Its not too late to get in touch with your mystical side, look around you now, you are probably alone in a room about to log this crap off and look at some porn, but if you are around people, try and send them a telepathic (telepathetic) message, just call them a name and stare at them as you do it, feel the word in your head like an aneurysm and fire it at them like a fireball in street fighter, if they turn around and punch you, you have succeeded (or they have just grown uncomfortable at the sight of you starting at them trying to gurn a word out of your face) fear not, keep trying, eventually, if the numerous punches to the face have not robbed you of your ability, you will be an amazing enlightened human, and at the very least will be able to put dirty messages into womens minds and be devoid of prosecution, woop woop

Right, at 6.43 on the 24^th Jan, I sent you a psychic message, did you get it?**

**I called you a cunt

The internet – part 1

I'm starting to dislike the internet now. I can remember firmly (I believe I was fully aroused) when I first connected to a bulletin board via a 56k modem (most plebs were struggling on 33.6k or would fax each other). My first connection was with Compaq, and the reason for it was to repair the several issues that came with my brand new still in the box Compaq presario 166mhz Pentium 1 that had the same memory capacity as a piss stinking Nan slowing marinating in a high backed chair, wilting away with dementia while the family stood around her smelly bed tapping watching and egging the reaper on. I'd paid over two thousand pounds for it.

I didn't want this to change my life, to school myself in the new wave of technology that was taking over most office based professions and revolutionising the way dirty trouser rubbing men would harvest their need for grot. No, I wanted this for the game Championship Manager, a text based game, that through some sort of magic, that I still to this day do not understand, gave you all the thrills and spills of managing a football team, it also gave me my first grey hair and I believe was a large factor in my peptic ulcer and irregular heartbeat and at one point I actually spat at my monitor after a 2 hour attempt to sign text based legendary footballer Viktor Leonenko, who, according to the game, made Pele look like Stephen Hawkin.

After a 2 day and night solid game of this without sleep round a friends house before leaving caffeine addled and burgundy eyed, I decided that I must own it. I eventually wasted about two years of my life on this game. I am still to this day questioned on my CV where it claims I managed Tottenham Hotspurs to the Champions league and Premiership title (its just underneath Baltimore police officer, which is on there due to the experience I gathered during my scary addiction to the programme the wire).

Eventually I managed to connect to the internet proper. I had a world of knowledge at my fingertips, sadly, my fingertips were rarely visible for being held in a tight fist thanks mostly to the buffet of porn available. It was all a little bit sad really. The sadness soon passed when faster internet came and entire films could be downloaded, music was free and it was possible to go to sleep and wake up having downloaded German shit eating piss guzzlers volume 1-7, the entire back catalogue of the band Texas, the flight manual of a Boeing 747 and the ability to make your own nuclear missile out of things found in Granddads shed (if you are into that shit). Then, suddenly, the internet became a corrupted pitfall laden shit tip which is no longer an enjoyable experience, pop ups, phising attempts, cookies, trick links, flash laden crap and over the top websites, I only wanted to see the news and all of a sudden my computer is straining like John Barrowmans arsehole and my 10mb line is struggling like an old man trying to piss out via a prostrate gland the size of that strange girl out of little mix's head. A simple tap on an offer for a half price fruit juicer will end up with every single instance of child porn ending up on your harddrive in an instant, terrabytes, well, thats what most paedo's say, "I was only trying to buy a juicer".

I don't understand the benefit of trying to shoot as many adverts into someones face while they are searching for something on a website. Try to imagine that in real life, you walk into a shop to buy some scouring pads and all of a sudden you have a wall of people shouting in your face enthusing about different products, you would walk out of that shop quick sharp, mostly through fear of being attacked. Pop ups are wholeheartedly offensive, again, to equate it to real life, you are walking down the road minding your own business, you know where you are going, to the train station say and then, suddenly from behind a bush, a man jumps up and screams “cillet bang” at the top of his voice, you would shit your pants.

Preemptive searches, not only has the internet and technology turned our youngsters into a bunch of illiterate low trouser mumbling fuck husks, talking a strange new language like “fk u u f@ prk” but they are now being deprived the right to even make an attempt at a correct spelling because Google already knows, with its knowledge on your surfing habits, an innocent trip to google and merely typing the letter m in results in it completing the sentence with “midgets fisting swans” takes you to the .com of that website, uses your pre-stored credit card details, signs you up for a platinum membership and then, via google+, assumes that you would like to share the best avian anal splitting parts of this website with your nearest and dearest on there, one of which happens to be your swan loving boss. The mere typing of a letter m and you have lost your job, house and friends, but on the bright side, you now have the best possible access to a swan fisting site, which you can laugh at until your internet is cut off and you kill yourself in a hazy boozy final last strangle wank.

Social media too has absolutely killed the whole premise of friendships, a friendship was something that you had to work on, it shouldn't take too much effort, the odd phone call, a visit round when your mate was feeling down, trips to the pub and the real feeling you get from being around actual people, the smell and feeling of warmth when you pat them on the back laughing, or when your mate makes a grab for your testicles, confesses he is gay and that he fancies you, and suddenly you wish you was back home, and on facebook.

Nowadays, when someone is down they will post a near suicidal tweet (a suicide post it note) and people, usually people they don't know, come back with 140 character tweets of support and advice for turning their life back from the brink, and then the inevitable follows from makers of carving knives, paracetamol and sturdy rope. The same thing on facebook will result in someone trying to support their "on the edge" “friend” by inadvertently liking their suicidal post. The whole "like" thing is lazy, “I had toast for breakfast with jam on it, nom nom” 4 people like this, how fucking creepy, if this was real life and you were sat there and having some toast with jam on it, and you looked behind you and out of the window and four of your mates were standing outside gurning, thumbs up, approving of your breakfast choice you would probably get a quadruple restraining order, 500 meters minimum.

I must admit, I am a little bit addicted to twitter, I use it to vent nonsensical negative thoughts and share them with mostly strangers, I have grown quite close to some of the people on there and have a genuine concern when things are going wrong for them, but I do find it a bit creepy trying to offer advise and support with such restraint, if were real life and people talked in tweets the world would seem a very cruel place. I am a hypocrite, I will be using twitter to get people to come and read this shit.

Its difficult to know what the future holds for people with the internet taking over peoples every day lives, we will probably be sat in small pods physically connected to machines losing the use of our limbs and gradually becoming grey featureless balls being constantly pleasured by a robotic hand on our flabby swollen genitalia, sending tweets telepathically (still 140 characters) and logging in to virtual work places to carry out needless admin jobs in a virtual world. If this sounds like your life now, you are in trouble and I suggest you send out that suicidal tweet tonight and see who loves you...

Very bad geographical jokes from Twitter

Me and a couple of people on twitter started banging these out in December and they were really making us chuckle, I dont normally look back on tweets but I thought I would pile them all together, so sorry, not the usual bilious blog, but fuck it, fuck you?...

blogstrop Ourmatedick

I just took my mother in laws murdered corpse to the indian capital of andhra pradesh. hyderabad? no, I did a good job. #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just met a lovely girl in indias smallest state (by area). Goa? I dont now yet, we've just met #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just been to a gay bar in the chief port city of the indian state of karnataka. "mangalore? - no, there was hardly any there.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

@@RockerRunner my girlfriend in pennsylvania has got a yeast infection with some dischage, oh philadelphia? no, just a bit of thrush.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

i've just got back from the capital of tamil nadu, cant remember the name. Chennai I reckon. No, honest, I was there. #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

just been on a 1st date with a girl from the capital of chhattisgarh. raipur? no, I was a gentleman #indianjokes

RockerRunner Captain Spiderpussy

@blogstrop I've been shopping with my parents in the city formerly known as Bombay... "Mumbai?" No, Dad paid for everything. #indianjokes

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just been to the funeral of the comedian known as the diddy man in the 6th largest city in israel. Ashdod? No, he was buried.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just been to a land locked country in south america with an army mate. Paraguay? no, he was infantry.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just taken my mates kid on holiday to the 6th largest city in france. Nantes? Oy, I never touched him...

the_spiz TIM@blogstrop I've written a long book about the capital of the Champagne region... Reims? Well, not quite that much

blogstrop Ourmatedick

I just met my japanese friend cordially mid-way on the Met Line - Harrow on the Hill? No, It was a Hi ya on the platform.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

They have just opened a safe house for paedophiles at the end of the central line. Theydon Bois? Yes, girls too, dirty bastards

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Ive just been vegetable shopping near new cross -Brockley? I brought all sorts.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

nobody would ever fuck my sister who lives between tooting and wimbledon. Colliers Wood? Yes, I suppose so, the welsh would fuck anything

blogstrop Ourmatedick

I always get excited when I drink dry sweet wines from a golden skinned grape. Semillon? yes, sometimes even a full erection.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my father has just been buried in the capital of iraq. Baghdad? no, he had a coffin.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

im trying to transport some large male bovine livestock in the capital of afghanistan. Kabul? i hailed one but it didnt stop

blogstrop Ourmatedick

Im taking my girlfriend from karachi to the capital of azerbaijan for a holiday. Baki? fuck you racist cunt.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

im taking the female singer on the hit "dont go breaking my heart" to hawaii for some surfing. waikiki? well, im not going with elton!

blogstrop Ourmatedick

lady gaga told me she was going to montevideo for a video shoot, I said Uraguay? she slapped me and stormed off.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just seen father christmas driving up and down a notorious gay strip in argentina. santa cruz? looked like it to me.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my girlfriend in columbia has just dumped me for playing musical instraments in the shitter. Bogata? yes, and trumpet in the lounge

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my girlfriend has locked herself in the toilet and wont come out in st georges. grenada? bit harsh.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive got some wonderful footage of the ww2 hero of the desert rats in my house in uraguay. montevideo? no, its on dvd.

ImGarethDennett Gareth Dennett

@

@blogstrop I saw Jessica Fletcher helping a murder inquiry in Colombia's second biggest city. "Medellin?" Yeah she was interfering a bit

blogstrop Ourmatedick

ive just been doing some pest control in brades. montserrat? no, but it was a pretty big mouse.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my girlfriend just had a smear test in tripoli. Libya? yes, they looked at the other bits too.

Ketherbound Gray Smears

@

@blogstrop Dealing with a distraught german singer; Nina. Under pressure to perform in the Danish capital. "Copenhagen?" Yeh, but only just.

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my mate got attacked by a flock of birds in south london. peckham? they did more than that, they ripped his eyes out via @baronbattersea

blogstrop Ourmatedick

my dyslexic friend in belarus keeps messing my order for fur coats up because of his spelling. Minsk? thats right, dopey cunt

RockerRunner Captain Spiderpussy@blogstrop Me and a downs syndrome kid just got back from a landlocked country in east Asia. "Mongolia?" He was, but his carer took him home

the_spiz TIz@

@blogstrop my wife went to the capital of Venezuela to get some banging things for Christmas table. Caracas? Yep, that's them...

DarkBeige Dark Beige@blogstrop my wife wants to go to Anchorage, but she's shy. Alaska? No, I'll ask her, she's my wife.

RockerRunner Captain Spiderpussy@blogstrop Saw a great band whilst on holiday in a prosperous state in south east asia... "Singapore?" Yes, but the drummer was brilliant.

Indy Penance Day

It was a hot summer day in London, the sun illuminated off all the little cunty cafes, bars, second hand record shops and little places selling fancy little over priced gifts, the sort of places people with far more money than sense go to buy little trinkets for their shit hill mates and exchange them over merlot and fake yakkety cackles on a Sunday afternoon.
Jack struggled to walk down the street in his ultra tight spray on jeans, hooded fleece with a waistcoat style leather jacket on, an oversized beanie hat hung empty on to the back of his head like a Rasta cruelly robbed of his dreadlocks by a massive swooping racist eagle. Brown leather shoes that were about 2 sizes to big finished the “look”. A normal person would have been sweating like a paedophile at the repairs desk in PC world, but not Jack, there was no meat on him, with his flip floppy comedy sized feet and thin legs, Jack looked like a disgraced clown, (with aids).
He was on his way to “Bar Terminus”, an ex abortion clinic turned into a wine bar slash cocktail hub. Terminus was popular with locals who would enjoy the difficult surroundings of jars of aborted foetuses and its surgical steel finish. The fuck hole of an owner had carried on the surgical theme with the prices, expertly removing a fiver from the womb of someone’s wallet for a bottle of specially imported Palestinian beer, again, popular with the locals due to the difficulty of production and reassuring price.

Jack tried to stride confidently despite the restrictive nature of his trousers, his white Iphone 4s playing tunes from a Croatian double amputee techno DJ “Mauf Peace” who was the latest big thing in Hoxton cutting and mixing using only his face. The repetitive thumping, which sounded like a commodore 64 trying to load, going into his ridiculous Princess Leia sized headphones. What a cunt.

Approaching Bar Terminus, his friend waved at him from across the road, Jack strode out waving back enthusiastically, his arm raised like a skinny Hitler, almost instantly the screech of tyres sounded like a Macaw Parrot connected up to a microphone and a huge Marshall amp having a large unkempt finger inserted into its avian anus.
Jack never even looked around, his ridiculously loud music and expensive noise cancelling headphones now performing the act of cunt cancelling, and ensuring poor Jack would never make it across the other side of the street. The thump was dull and unimpressive and the whiplash cracking his overly thin body hard and the force of the single decker bus, doing about 30mph tore his head clean off his body sending his head, oversized beanie hat and silly headphone in a different direction to his body, which was flapping in the air like a shitty pigeon. His lifeless and headless body slapping into the tarmac, girls screamed, (while still trying to look cool) and Jacks head slowly stopped spinning and ended up staring up into the sky with the same gormless look on his face that he left the house with. How poignant Jacks last image of the sky above Hoxton was to be…

Across the pond, in NASA headquarters, another man stared into the sky gormlessly but through a huge telescope, looking away, then looking back, in utter disbelief, looking away, then back, several more times, rubbing his eyes, and finally turning to his colleagues and screaming “THEY’RE HERE, motherfuckers, they are here”, “The pizzas?” chortled one of his colleagues, “no you asshole piece of shit motherfucker, aliens, Ive got three, repeat three huge UFO’s just appeared on the screen doing a seven zero niner (nobody knew what a seven zero niner was, it sounded cool). Looking and confirming his colleague suddenly drained of all colour in his face, the reality of us not being alone in the universe overwhelming him. He drew a colt .45 pistol out of pocket and blew most of his brains out all over the console. “Asshole” His colleague said, trying to wipe the brains and blood away. “Asshole” shouted the boss as he came down and stood over the smoking corpse, “Son of a bitch” they both added, “motherfucker”.

The boss, Baumhauser, stood staring at the screen in disbelief as the three huge objects bore down on the Earth, “Assholes”, “Sons of bitches” he repeated, chewing on a cigar. In the meantime the magnitude of the situation hit another one of the radar staff in the space monitoring station, and he too drew a colt .45 and blew his face up. “Asshole” screamed Baumhauser, “Son of a bitch”. “motherfucker”.

Finally Baumhauser got on the phone to the Whitehouse (not Paul) and got the secretary of state on the line and told him the news, the phone went silent, and then the characteristic sound of a colt .45 and slapping noise of brain on wall. “Asshole” boomed Baumhauser, and said other stuff relating to the recently deceased’s mother being of ill repute. A further 8 people shot themselves in the face before sense took over and a plan of action was put into place, the priority being on contact with the Alien visitors.

Every form of communication was used to try and contact the alien vessels which were now just outside of the earths orbit; each country tried everything they could. The French played a concert with Jean Michel Jarre, nothing, Japan used the Honda robot Asimo, blanked, the Yanks used a special sign language, not a titter back, the British, well, they did precisely fuck all, reason one, they had no money as they had spunked it all paying benefits for scum bag scroungers, and the fucking Olympics, the rest was spent on quelling the riots that were happening across the nation, as the spacecraft had disrupted the sky satellite reception. Eventually a NASA worker, who was a bit stoned, spotted the numbers 7344556 on the side of one of the huge vessels, and as a very last resort punched the number and a short message into a fax machine. To everyone’s surprise the machine sprung to life and the message went through, saying “Welcome to Earth, we would like to talk” The shock increased when a message came back fifteen minutes later saying “We are ready to address the people of Earth, sorry for the delay, our fax machine jammed!!”.

The televisions of the world simultaneously cut out and an arachnid alien face appeared on the screen, most people didn’t pay attention, thinking it was some sort of DFS or Halifax advert, others thought it was million pound drop and the strange pointy featured beaked beast on the screen was Davina McCall looking quite good, (for her).
That was until the craft started to break orbit and suddenly people paid attention. The English dropped their plates of Findus crispy pancakes, oven chips and peas, and briefly stopped beating their wives, The Scottish did nothing, as they were still 22 years away from having a television signal that could break through the clouds of frozen fog and chip fat smoke, the Irish didn’t have the TV on, as they were out swilling pints of Murphy’s as it was a Tuesday, 11am, and the Welsh were rubbing their legs at the prospect of another life form on the planet for them to hold down and fuck while sizzled on moonshine, or whatever local piss was en vogue.

Eventually, and after about 30 minutes of uncomfortable attempts for the Alien spokesperson trying to get the attention of the earthlings, which included a huge lazer blast that destroyed Greenland, the humans stopped, started to listen, and started to shit themselves.

“I am Zulnep of the 7th Quadrant, we have travelled many parsnips across space (muted human chuckles) and have come here with our huge battle cruisers” (collective sound of human arseholes pulsating in fear, and the cracks of Colt .45 pistols blowing the back of American heads off like shaken coca cola bottle tops, and the ensuing cry of “Son of a bitch, or “mother fucker” from the bereaved. “We have come here for one reason, and one reason alone”……The pause was uncomfortable, like the moment in Xfacor when Louis has to inform a contestant that he is through to the next round, and takes a fucking age about it……”That reason……is”………..”we will tell you after the adverts”. “Fuck sake”, some of the braver Humans said, while all terrestrial TV was interrupted by adverts for strange alien products…..Suddenly Zulnep came back and said, “the reason we are here….Is for the complete, and unabridged destruction”…Mass panic started to spread, in parts of London, in a final desperate act, people started to shit into their hands and smear it onto the windows of Foxtons and Natwest banks. Zulnep took a breath, I say breath, it was like an anus on his neck, fuck knows what it did. “The destruction of…Hoxton….thats it, that’s all, then we’ll bugger off, and that’s that”. People collectively looked, baffled. In parts of India and Africa, they chatted to each other about the skinny jeaned “Beinchods” that live there and how they deserved annihilation at the hands (fins/claws/hooks) of the invaders.

The only people who were not aware of their fate were the people of Hoxton themselves, too busy sipping wanky lattes and using the free internet to “check out” the news of Tracy Emins latest skip full of shit that cretins believe is art.

The huge battle craft made their way to just north of Liverpool Street train station, the rest of the world, breathed a sigh of relief, nobody asked why, nobody cared, people just got on with their day, the fucking Geordies were incensed that the craft had affected the TV signal to the football and were calling them down for a glassing, eventually they went back to their hovels and took their anger out of their wives and girlfriends, artistically creating false tentacles and making them take the appearance of extra terrestrials, before beating them black and blue, with fists, feet and belts.

The craft took position, the idiots below cooed “cool” thinking it was some sort of art installation…

Part 2, absolute wanton destruction and Alien sodomy, coming soon (the writing, not the human fuckees)

Geoff and Lorraine a romance - Part 1

This is an extract from my first attempt at a romantic novel, its called Geoff and Lorraine and I hope that I can use my limited writing skills and sexual experience to truly convey the full explosive sexual chemistry between these two factory workers in Dudley.

Geoff was busy on the production line of “Sanjays Meat Packers”. It hadn’t been the same since the Pakistani’s took over, “Packer Stanis” Geoff thought, chuckling to himself in a way that would make you want to stick a screwdriver into his eye, the cunt.
Further down the line was Lorraine, her job was to control the machine which put cling film around the different meats. Lorraine had a woeful perm; she looked very much like Gene Wilder after a huge shock, such as a close bereavement. Despite the fact that she cut the same shocking figure as a poodle that had been extensively tested on by a cosmetics company Geoff had a thing for her. “Ha” he chuckled again, the thing was his penis. It spent much of the day curled up like a frightened king prawn in his Y fronts snuggled betwixt a rain cloud of unkempt greying pubes.
The casual observer, on seeing Geoff’s constant chuckles to himself, might have commented that they hoped that chuckling caused a terminal illness so bad it made Aids looks like sweat rash. Geoff had an annoying chuckle, similar in annoyance to the sound Kenny G would make through his sax if a pharaoh ant crawled into his anus and stung him rectally mid note.

There was something between them as they spent their day watching hunks of dead animal go past them on huge conveyor belts like a grizzly generation game. She found Geoff funny, his constant little quips and dull observations brought a smile to her wrinkly cigarette raped face. Nobody else found Geoff funny, not his parents; his nan even called him a cunt once. Geoff was happy when she died at the hands of incompetent non English speaking nurses in a care home having spent the two days previous marinating in her own widdle. Geoff chuckled thinking about it, what a tosser.

Geoff had been staring at Lorraine all day; the tension had been building like that of the Libyan who shoved the small shard of metal pipe into the captured Colonel Gaddafi’s anus. Geoff wanted a similar resolution with Lorraine, capturing her with his love, pulling out of her storm drain' and finally shoving his metal pole of justice into her. “Phwoar” he thought with the sexual imagination of a brain injured scaffolder.
Lorraine glanced at him trying to flick her hair, which was a tumbleweed of curls, as she went off for her third fag break of the day, it was only 11, barking out to Glynis to cover her section. Glynis was a pig faced squat little turdlette. Geoff had thought to himself that he would rather stick his penis into a George Foreman grill full of hot glass and used heroin needles than her probable murder scene of a fanny. He didn’t even like looking at her. She was very fat (and ginger) he expected her vagina to look like Mick Hucknells autopsy, he looked away shuddering like a parkinsons sufferer with a chill.

Nothing had ever happened with Geoff and Lorraine, they came close one year at the firms Christmas do when it wasn’t owned by the Pakistani’s. They had got a cab together and they were both more worse for wear than a skinny jean wearing Hoxton twat. Geoff had reached over that night and had tried to finger her, licking his finger first like he was about to turn the pages in a phone directory in some piss stinking public phone box. She was well up for it, the whole event was brought to dramatic close when the jagged finger nail on Geoff’s middle finger struck her labia causing her to yell in pain and turning her off like a vegetables life support.

Geoff shuddered when he recalled the memory.

Lorraine came back and passed Geoff. “Ya alright Geoff” She farted out in a lazy northern way, the syllables all coming out together like they were shy and doing some sort of strange lingual conga. Geoff replied “I’m half left” Lorraine chuckled like an ugly pot faced childless dowdy wreckage of a woman typically would. Geoff attempted to make conversation but Anuj the foreman came along tapping his watch. Geoff thought something unprintably racist and chuckled to himself yet again and Lorraine skulked off back to her section, already contemplating yet another cigarette.

Several cigarette breaks later, a dull sandwich based lunch break and countless cunty chuckles later and it was home time. Geoff, having filed his nails, decided to take the bull by the horns and finish business by asking Lorraine if she wanted a drink down the local. “Ear Lols, fancy a pint of mild” Geoff sprayed out, “Are you asking me out” Lorraine replied (while this exchange was happening a small fly decided to end its life by flying directly into a spiders web, which was better than witnessing this coming together of two of lives biggest wastes of oxygen). After more verbal exchanges the penny finally dropped and Lorraine had realised that Geoff was in fact asking her out.
They left Sanjays and made the short walk to the local pub, the Halfway Inn. Inside Geoff gave a cheery hello to the barman and owner George. George gave a token smile back but wheezed “wanker” under his breath. George had no particular beef with Geoff (Geoff would have found it funny if there was a beef, being that he worked in a meat packing factory and would have done one of his chuckles, which was in fact the reason why George thought he was a walloping cunt).

They sat in the corner of the pub, Lorraine was fiddling with beer mats and poofing her ridiculous candy floss hair up. Their conversation was stale, pointless and stuttering, but despite this, Lorraine felt a stirring in her “fanny”, a bit like attending to a large pan of stew and dumplings that had been left for ages. Several pints later, many bad jokes and a chorus of frankly repellent chuckling, Lorraine finally stepped up and put it to Geoff, “I want you inside meh” she stated, “down thur” she clarified pointing at her vagina. “Get your coat luv, you’ve pulled” Geoff said, in a way which would have arc welded most vaginas firmly shut.
They bundled out of the pub and started to make their way home, her shoes scraping along on every third step. They bundled back her tawdry one bedroom ex coal workers shit hole. Geoff had a sneaky grasp on his “package” to try and get the blood going to it and hope that it performed better than his last attempt at a sexual encounter in which his penis did a perfectly good impression of Stephen Hawking with a flat battery……

Part two to follow…..

Most Pets are pointless

I've always been a dog person; cats for me are pointless and alien creatures, I’d get more pleasure from owning a pet telegraph pole. My childhood memories are always interspersed with happy dog memories (and a couple of sad ones) from our pointer/Labrador Sam chasing us around the garden as kids, and dragging us off the air raid shelter by our flaired trouser legs and back into the house, probably through its distemper addled shit etc. (To the untrained eye, a dog dragging a screaming child would probably look quite horrific, but it was harmless fun and we just saw it as the very poor mans dog drawn sled, the sled in this instance being our flares wearing arses (it was about 1979/80). Then growing up we have the bizarre power struggle between our then 3 dogs (which lasted longer than the Vietnam war) which resulted in numerous markings of territory which basically added up to anything that wasn’t off the floor getting pissed on by the 3 dogs, including our grand piano sized video recorder, which literally filled up to the top of its top loading slot with hot angry canine piss.
The bad memory being when I was pinned to a tree by an Alsatian guard dog which did exactly what it was supposed to when my mate booted the door of the launderette in (for no reason). I got bit a bit, but thank fuck it spared my beautiful face...
The other memory which should technically be a bad one, but was kind of funny was when my mate was interspecially “raped” by an old English sheep dog (bear with me) We was on Tooting Bec Common climbing trees, which for me, just meant standing on a tall tree root as I had technically worse climbing skills than Stephen Hawkins with a flat battery.
My mate Kelly (a boy?) was out with his new Lord Anthony body warmer on and we were all looking for the next climb when suddenly we saw a huge Old English Sheepdog bounding towards us, even at my young age I could see something written across its wooly face, that wasn’t anger, it wasn’t friendliness either, I saw lust, a protective instinct took over me and I practically ran up a tree like something out of the Matrix and watched down as Kelly's indecisiveness became his undoing, and the huge Mutt bore down on him like a furry Fred West, tongue lolling. Me and my brother watched with a mixture of confusion and curiosity as the beast climbed up and rested its huge paws on his shoulders and started doing the “time warp” on his back, me and brother looked at each other and made a confused noise that was half disgust and half laughter. Kelly just stood there crying, resigned that the weight of this dog meant that he was going nowhere.
Don’t get me wrong, the dog at no point penetrated him, but was instead relieving itself on the shiny material of the body warmer, the owner was now spotted, standing in the distance, making no effort to get his randy pet off my mate, but instead standing there belly laughing, shoulders and paunch wobbling. This only served to make me and my brother laugh a bit harder, eventually the dog “finished” put its “lipstick” away and trotted off, realising it could not share a post coital cigarette given its inability to use a lighter, or smoke a fag. We eventually came down to a clearly traumatised Kelly who had what we could only describe as “funk” up his back. He was never the same after that and we soon drifted apart, I neither hang around with dog fuckers or fuckees.

I've thought about the above after writing it down for the first time and actually, it’s my best dog memory ever, and anyone who calls their boy Kelly probably deserves them to have a long and protracted technically underage sexual assault at the hands of another species.

My Cat memories are less “glamorous” and just revolve mostly around looking at them, mystified while they sit there and do one of the following, clean their strange cat barbed cocks/fanny, look disdainfully at a plate of expensive food containing ingredients hundreds of millions of starving Africans can only dream of, lie there in the sun, torture a small animal, any mixture of the above.
I went through a phase of liking them as the girls I was dating, of my age group, generally have one, or more, because they are either too irresponsible or immature to have children, or have had one forced upon them, but it was a convenience thing rather than an actual like, it’s like being a vegetarian because your silly pale but good at blowjobs girlfriend is, same deal.
There are a couple of cats I like, the one where I used to live is nice, well, its actually a horrible bastard, 17 years old, the ex local bruiser, but she has character, she will allow you to stoke her and then fuck you up when she has had enough, like its for your pleasure, she is loud and shouts at you if you have failed to give her a bowl of condensed milk and either chicken or fresh fish, in normal terms I would hate an animal as ungrateful and shitty as that, but what makes me love her is one morning she called me “Terry” it was as clear as anything, well, more like “teeeerrreeeeeee” I was baffled but ultimately thought that a talking cat was well worth liking, overall she has about 40 phrases in her arsenal, they all amount to you being a “fucking cunt” for not attending one of her needs, but never the less, there are youths today with less literacy than that.

Then to the opposite of that was my last encounter with a cat, whose real name shall not be revealed but she should only be known as cunt cat, an animal so feeble, so pathetic that on several occasions I was tempted to put it in a pillow case and swing it into the wall (which is a horrible thing to do more than think about). This poor emotional quadriplegic would start its day at about 1am, darting up and down the flat, coming in the room, jumping on the bed, clawing my back or balls, leave, start the process again, go outside, whine from outside the window, come back in, etc etc. How it never started a row is beyond me. Thankfully, and because of that, I doubt I will ever own a pet, certainly not a cat, unless they are dead hollowed out husks which I am wearing as slippers.

A cat will attempt to reward you for having it (at which no point you will feel like you actually own the cat, it will go door to door like a traveling con merchant poncing food off neighbours and finding its love elsewhere, it’s like an organic timeshare). It might bring you a dead mouse, which will still smell of petrol where the cat has tortured it in the manner of reservoir dogs, or a moth, or a heroin needle or something pathetic, if you don’t act extremely grateful the cat will become most offended and probably bugger off for months leaving you believing it is dead. A dog would kill itself before it betrayed its owner, a dog would take a bullet for you (it would more likely fire one too, having mistaken its owners shotgun for a stick, enthusiastically bring it back to its owner and shaking it, firing both barrel’s of shot into the owners face turning it into a lasagne (which the dog will then eat). Just in the US, more people were killed by canine gun shots than gangs, whirlwinds, or anything else.

In quick conclusion then, apart from maybe a very good or working dog, guide dog, guard dog, most pets are pointless and a fucking drain, they stop you going on holiday or need you to get someone to look after/walk them, feed them. The only people who are really suited to owning a dog and getting best out of it are the long term unemployed or childless old cat hoarding hag bags who treat them like children to make up for the usually tragic crop failure of their own wombs. The scum bag council flat bull terrier owning fuck wits who tramp around like its some sort of status symbol, desperately trying to defend it against being put down after it has delicately eaten a toddlers face off like it was a sweetcorn.
Then you get “fancy pets” reptile owners are usually heavily pierced/tattooed unemployed devil worshippers (generally unemployed, not out of work in the line of Satan worship), coming home to find the temperature of the specialist vivarium has dropped by a half degree and their cock shaped red backed sarin gas breathing elephant killer cobra has gone into a deep sleep for the next 8 months.

Yawn

Arrghhvertising

Advertising, the persuasive lure to get idiots to buy products, the unattainable dream of beauty in little pots of what is essentially salad cream purporting to reverse the act of aging with ridiculous secret ingredients like Spinus-bifidus and something called Q10 and pro-rectinal etc.
The smug perfect ness of couples in the DFS ads, seeing them sprawled out perfectly, gently throwing cushions at each other to pop music while the narrator tells you that this dream can be had for only five nine nine, buy now pay thousands of years after you die etc. What they should show you is the reality of a predominately loveless couple flopping down after a mostly ineffective but busy day at work on separate laptops skimming over pathetic updates on social networking sites, barely looking at each other, just there for each other to split bills in half and then the awkwardness of semi forced drunken Saturday night sex and the attempts at cleaning the spunk and shit stains off the cushions.

Then Christmas brings us repugnant falseness of the perfume/aftershave adverts; perfectly formed females slinking around like panthers on football pitch sized crushed velvet sheets in houses made completely of marble and Narwhal horn, awaiting a chiselled hunk to come back and slowly make love to her, bringing her to a dew beady sweaty 8th orgasm, relaxing back to watch the sun rise over a sandy palm tree adorned beach, and all available to you at the squirt of a crystal effect bottle of Qunt, by Chanel. Or the aftershave adverts where the guy is perfectly erect from the moment he wakes up, his day a perpetual greasy fuck fest, his every movement spearing the perfect vaginas of angelic virginal models like a genital Dalek.
No, the reality is, the “slag” that you have pulled that night has probably no more smelt your ridiculously named scent than she has the 40 Marlboro fags and several packets of cheese “n” onion crisps, bundling her back into your studio flat before an awkward attempt at drunken sex, a farty 69 and waking up flaccid with a condom still hanging onto your penis looking like a legless jellyfish with terminal cancer.

The dreams lure the suckers in, I am one of them, JML, as far as I am concerned they are miracle workers, they could probably invent a device to cure cancer that could be brought for £9.99 which just involves sticking a plastic attachment into your rectum, the reason they haven’t is because nobody has asked them. Informercials, shouty steroid riddled Americans telling you that they went from a 30 stone boulder of lard and impacted faeces into a sculpted huge deltoid muscle by using a device called 30 second abs, before a rival company bringsout 20 second abs, right down to one where in the time it takes for a humming bird to beat its wings, you could have an 8 pack that you could grate cheese on. These are not as patronising as the frosty lens picture perfect lie fest of the beauty product adverts but are in fact high drama and entertainment, drawing in sleepless desperate fatties, probably just channel surfing for something to crack one out over.

There is something far worse than either of these though, much worse, annoying adverts, or Arrrghhhhhvertising as I call it, adverts that put you in a mini rage. I believe that these adverts were responsible for both Iraq conflicts, 9/11, aids and the Ethiopian famine. I don’t need to explain but the high emperor at the top of this shoddy tree of woe is the Go Compare man, if you have recently lost a friend or relative to death, you should probably overlook what the death certificate says, it wasn’t a heart attack, cancer or hanging in that wardrobe having a strangle wank, it was the Go Compare adverts, the very sound of them driving them to an early screaming death.

I’ve sat and pulled an evil smile while I think of ways to kill the go compare man, ok, I’m sure without that stupid moustache he is probably an ok guy (if he hasn’t killed himself in shame, which he probably should have) but I like to sit and let my imagination run wild, I wont detail what I would like to do but it would involve vocal chord removal, 8 bulbs of jif lemon, an empty champagne bottle covered in sandpaper, a hippo and a broadsword. Then, the confused.com ad, over produced, desperate and pathetic, then the fucking meerkats, a bad joke that has gone beyond ripping the arsehole out.

Just when you think things couldn’t have got any worse, Haribo produce an advert so annoying, so blood curdling that it tops the rest by a mile, a European family singing karaoke style out of tune about sweets, I genuinely wanted them to get in the car and wrap themselves round a tree, a 2 minute close up of burning corpses followed by the Haribo bear moving in to chew the burnt meat of the corpses pulling the tangtastic face before furiously masturbating liquid milk bottles into the embers that was once a family (an annoying family though).

I wont use a Halifax cash machine, even if I’m desperate for money, I will not sully my card by sticking it into one of their machines, partly for the Howard ads, the mistimed Bollywood advert, but most of all, the Isa Isa baby one, the woman in that, her head moving side to side, forced my blood pressure up, ill timed, socially out of touch, desperate, horrible adverts, nobody is enjoying them. She is probably somewhere now, so ashamed that her cervix has prolapsed.

But there are some good adverts, I hear you bleat, no there isn’t. End of that argument.

I have my own take on what sells a product, picture this if you will, an old lady clumping along a hall way on her zimmer frame, slowly, making her way to a chair lift, her turns the seat, moves to board the chair lift, slips, falls, tumbles down the stairs, you can hear every crack of bone before she slaps into the marble effect hallway, her last breath wheezing out of her body. The camera slowly moves away from her body and pans across until it fixes on a Haze plug in air freshener. The advert ends. If you saw this you would have the product burnt into you mind forever.

Or an advert for famine that as it sucks you in with desperate scenes of suffering, you suddenly get the McDonalds whistle and the logo appears. They should be forced to make this advert for crimes against the waist line the world over.

Rant over.