Eurotrash douche hipster
I got my first piece of hate mail, and I have to say I was as delighted as I was proud. Bravely commenting as an anonymous user on my recent poem about breasts, this brilliant fellow called me a Eurotrash, douche hipster who looks like a sloppy version of DeNiro’s character in Taxi Driver. I almost peed myself with delight. I am seriously considering using this quote on my about page. I tried to track him down, so I could thank him properly, but his IP address only led me to Baltimore. I have a few pals there, but I know it can’t be any of them, as they can all actually write. Really, I would recommend reading the whole comment, it is hilarious and there is a wonderful line about me writing horrible poetry about sex to make up for my lack of a life. Feel free to reply to his lovely comment, and, if you are reading Mr Anonymous, please come back and say more, I think you are fantastic and I would love to give you a guest spot.
you filled my mind today
and you filled my heart
you filled my pants too
Sorry to break it to you like this, but I think that you’re a bit of a cunt. Okay, sure, you created the universe, and I have to say that I’m jolly impressed, but why did you have to ruin it by acting like such a dick? You’re jealous and shallow and bitter and twisted. Your commandments are almost totally self serving. Craven images? Really? taking your name in vain? Get over yourself you wanker! Do you really think we need tablets of stone to tell us that lying and stealing and killing are wrong? Seriously dude, I know fucking eight year olds who could figure that out, and killing? What about Jericho? Every living thing, you had slaughtered, women, babies, even the fucking cattle, you lying hypocritical motherfucker, and what of rape and slavery and racism and child abuse? Don’t see a fucking mention of that in your bloody commandments, and what is it with that boy of yours? You decided we were sinners, not us. You decided we needed redeeming, we were quite fucking happy thanks, until you stuck your almighty nose in, and look how you chose to save us, you sick cunt, by torturing your own son to death! You need fucking help buddy, seriously. You have caused nothing but pain and anguish and suffering and guilt and countless war and death, ever since you showed up. If you really care about us (and I seriously doubt you do, you are too wrapped up in yourself to be able to really care) then please, just fuck off and go annoy someone else, or, ideally, just put a fucking bullet in that sick and twisted brain of yours.
Yours. very sincerely
PS. Thanks for the cookies, the missus says to say that the cinnamon was the perfect touch.
PPS. Stop watching me when I masturbate, you fucking pervert.
The seven deadly things
I said long ago, that I would no longer be accepting blogger awards, and it wasn’t because I thought that they were a pointless (but very imaginative and caring) form of chain letter, but because being nominated gives me such an almighty erection that, I would fear for my mortal safety, were I to be nominated more than once in quick succession. It is only thanks to the swift action, and early arrival, of my cleaning lady, Mrs Go’onanonanonagan (87 but with the tits of an 85 year old), that I was not later discovered drowned in a pool of my own semen, after having received three such awards within the space of a single afternoon.
As I lay here in my hospital bed, recovering from an ego overdose, I think it only fair that I respond to Rhonda from Help Me Rhonda (The Seven Things About Me Award), Maureen from Magnolia Beginnings (The Five Best Books Ever Award) and Mad Gay Man from Diary of a Mad Gay Man (Bitches Love Awards Award), for their flattering and honouring nominations.
As per my doctor’s orders, I will respond to each nomination with a post of its own and start with Rhonda’a ‘Seven Things About Me Award’.
The rules of this award require me to first thank the nominee, then to reveal seven embarrassing facts about myself and finally to nominate 463 other bloggers.
Thank you Rhonda:
Rhonda’s blog, Help Me Rhonda, is a witty, sweet and charming, daily dose of life-affirming wisdom and side-splitting humour, beautifully taken photographs and cleverly observed anecdotes. If you have not yet discovered her, then do so now, or I will have you cruelly murdered.
- I could read by the age of three. I kinda taught myself but was encouraged and helped by my family, who seemed to think I was possibly some kind of prodigy. Sadly it was my only trick, I simply had to learn “how to do words”, and after that I was, academically, something of a disappointment.
- I know 30 different ways to kiss – 31, if you include ‘on the mouth.’
- I think its wrong to use poetry or art to get into a woman’s head. It’s much better to use them to get into a woman’s pants.
- I once was a cartoonist, for a chain of pot-selling coffee shops in the Netherlands. I used to get paid in pot and only got the job because the previous incumbent had been tied to his push-bike, by the Dutch Mafia , and thrown into a canal. A very Dutch way to die, their bikes are very heavy.
- I had a girlfriend who ran off with my best friend, and I still miss him.
- I have a notepad and pen in every room in the house. It’s because I never know when I will have an idea. I even have a notepad in the lavatory. Once, after taking a large amount of magic mushrooms, I discovered the secret to life there and, obviously, wrote it down. The following morning, upon realising that I had run out of toilet paper, I had to use it to wipe my arse. Well? What would you have done?
- I have no idea what the pre-wash function on my washing machine is for.
Normally I claim to be unable to nominate anyone because I never bother reading any of the shite you all write. This is not actually true. I do, I avidly, read every word of all your blogs. The reason I can’t nominate anyone is because I am simply too lazy and way too busy masturbating over your gravatar images.
Tell me what you want to read and I will oblige…
we stood there on a late night tube, as it rattled its way between camden town and euston, and kissed. it was one of the best kisses i ever had. it was gentle but passionate, not deep and tonguey but full and sweet.
we had met just five minutes earlier. we had been sat opposite each other. we were both a little drunk and we were both reading the same book, hesse’s narziss and goldmund. its a book i read over. its about two men, narziss and goldmund. narziss is a scholar and lives in a monastery all his life. his friend, goldmund, is an adventurer who escapes from the monastery and fucks and fights his way across mediaeval europe. he breaks a lot of hearts and gets his broken a lot too, he falls in love with every woman he ever fucks. he becomes a sculptor and survives wars and plagues. he is not really a good man but he is a man to his core.
she got off at king’s cross and i never saw her again.
what i was trying to say but just said better than i could
i turn up at your workplace, no flowers or chocolates, just a grin on my face. i want to know if you have a stationery cupboard. you giggle and blush, but you lead me there anyway.
inside, i push you roughly against the steel shelving and the foolscap foldering and drop to my knees. i lift your skirt and pull down your already dripping panties and start to kiss your waiting pussy. my tongue laps at you hungrily and your lust grows inside you and your hands grip tighter at the shaky steel scaffolding of our metal and cardboard love nest. paper clips begin to rattle in their boxes, soft, shiny leaf holders quiver in their coloured cases. staples shudder and hole punchers grind as your orgasm rises and your knees tremble in time with the thrusting of your pussy, and the rattling of the loose, grey shelving, as you fuck my face, folder holders and post its fall and flutter around your face mirroring the vivid tingling of your orgasm as you grit your teeth and savour the rushes of your pussy as your whole soul is washed with wave after wave of hot, bursting shudders. you bite your lip hard to stop yourself calling my name, so hard that you leave the only tell-tale sign of our liason, a tiny drop of love red blood on my shaven head.
your workmate doesn’t notice it when he knocks on the door and all he sees when he comes in is me, on all fours, helping you find your contact lens.
i ask you if i can get a stamp for my parking permit. with a giggle and a wink, you tell me, “not a fucking chance.”
Make friends with your demons
I don’t do the blogger award thing as a rule, I worry about the exponential growth inherent in such systems. Do the math; if every blogger given an award nominates seven other bloggers, and they each nominate seven more and so on, then within two weeks, every WordPress blogger on the planet will have received that award (there are over 72 million WordPress blogs). Within a month, we will have all been nominated over a 100 times.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love being nominated, I love having my ego stroked, (although I prefer to have it sucked,) and I get so flattered that I have to jack off every time I get a nomination, and that’s the problem, too many awards and my ego would just collapse under the weight of all that love and I would most likely be discovered dead by my cleaning lady, having drowned in my own semen. Not a pleasant clean up job for anybody, as I’m sure you can imagine.
However, today I am making an exception and not because I think I am worthy of the award but because of who has nominated me: the wonderful Gypsy, author of the outstanding Through my eyes: Adventures in Borderline land. Her blog truly is outstanding, unlike my trivial and masturbatory attempts at entertaining you, her blog is a powerful, poignant, heartfelt and heart-warming journal of her struggles and victories over Borderline Personality Disorder.
Gypsy nominated me for the “Outstanding Blogger Award”, the rules are as follows:
- Thank the nominee.
- Share something important about yourself.
- Nominate other bloggers.
Thank you Gypsy: your blog is just awesome. It is straightforward and honest and bursting with emotion and you have helped far more people than you realise by documenting your life so bravely. Thank you.
Thank you also for encouraging me to write this next bit. Its about something I’ve never written about before (well not publicly) and if it weren’t for you, I may never have.
Something important: I was an addict. For years, I threw a large chunk of my adult life down a big dark hole. I have never written about it before because I still carry a lot of shame for having wasted so much of a life who’s every second should be savoured and not squandered.
Addiction nearly killed me, it turned me into a liar and a thief and a cheat and a rascal. I lied and stole mostly to and from the people that loved me the most, well, who tried to love me anyway, its not easy to love someone when they hate themselves. In the end I drove everyone away with my snivelling self-pity and misdirected anger.
Every day I would wake and promise myself, ‘no more’ and every day, before noon, I would have failed. The failure sapped me dry Every day, month after month, year after year, failure after failure. I lost all faith in myself. My soul nearly disappeared, I nearly extinguished my own humanity. In the end there was just this tiny, flickering spark of it left, cowering deep inside me.
One day, I decided to face my demons head on. It was that or die. seriously. I tossed a coin: heads, I go seek help (again), tails, I end it all. You can guess how it landed, and I re-entered that mill of detox and rehab and therapy and those fucking rooms. Somehow it clicked, and is still clicking five years down the road. Maybe it was because I had driven everyone away and had to do it on my own. Maybe it was because I knew the alternative was to die, but actually I think it was because I discovered the true nature of my demons. They were not the fearsome devils of my nightmares. They were not powerful angry, ugly monsters. They were me, me when I was young, and hurt and sad, the neglected me and the scared me. They were little me and they hurt. They didn’t need battling, they needed loving and accepting.
I didn’t really change, and I’m still a complete shit-bag – just ask any woman I’ve ever dated – I just learned to accept me and enjoy being me, love me even. Life hasn’t really changed that much either, there is still as much sadness and pain as there ever was, but there is laughter and love too.
Nominate other bloggers: I’m not going to nominate anyone else for this award, and its not because I don’t want to, its just that I don’t know who to nominate, because I never actually bother to read any of the shit you all write.
Thanks again to Gypsy for the honour. Everyone please visit, like, comment and follow her wonderful blog, or I will have you brutally killed and your corpse fed to your pets in front of your children.
swoon late 13c., swogene, probably from O.E. geswogen “in a faint,” pp. of a lost verb, perhaps *swogan, as in aswogan “to choke,” of uncertain origin. Cf. Low Ger. swogen “to sigh.”
i wanna make you swoon
i wanna make you come
i wanna make you
come so hard
that you scream
and then pass out
i wanna make you
feel so loved
that you can
no longer think
i wanna fuck you
into a coma
i wanna lick you
’til you feint
When we were in Belize there were these Americans making this movie, Dogs of War, I think it was called. Christopher Walken was in it, I remember that. Anyway, it was based somewhere in Africa but the political situation was too sensitive there or something and they filmed it in Belize instead, where all the foliage was more or less the same. The director, John Irvin, or someone like that came to our camp, wanting soldiers to act as extras.
Obviously, we all wanted to be in it and all lined up hoping to get a part as dead soldier #23 or limping soldier #37 or whatever. Cuddles and I were hoping for ‘soldier getting a blow job in background’. This guy Irvin was very disappointed with what he saw, said we didn’t look like soldiers, said we looked like a bunch of spotty teenagers. Sad fact is that that’s what most soldiers do look like, spotty teenagers. Our Sergeant Major did his nut. “What do you mean, they don’t look like proper soldiers, you fucking homo?!” he ranted, “Have you any idea how many battles these men have been in?” Irvin was unimpressed, he wanted gnarled looking 40 somethings, not spotty teenagers.
Afterwards Cuddles and I chatted up some of the production assistants and Cuddles landed us auditions in a low budget porn movie, “Nymphoid Barbarians in Dinosaur Hell III”. I was reluctant, “I don’t have a big enough dick.” I argued but he said that it didn’t matter, as long as I could maintain wood. Now, that was one thing I could do, so I went along with it. The auditions went like this:
I stood there, naked and erect, in front of a group of strangers, they all laughed and pointed and told me they’d let me know. Cuddle’s audition went a little better, they were impressed with what they saw and it only went bad when they suggested that he performed a gay scene. Needless to say, some noses got broken and we were lucky that we were on good terms with the local chief of police.
Cuddles and I went back to soldiering, back to what we knew and what we were good at. We never became porn stars, we never should have. He would whip it out, nevertheless, on occasion.”See that?” he’d challenge everyone, “I could have been fuckin’ famous for that!” He was right too, he could.
ron and i used to work as a team. he’d help get me girls and i’d help him get boys. we had a whole bunch of routines worked out. at least one of us would nearly always get laid and often both of us would. occasionally though neither of us would get any, usually when we’d got too wasted and spent our night losing money on the pool table or chucking it into one of those machines that lets you play commando with a bright blue plastic gun.
on such nights, we used to hang out in these neat under-the-railway-arches clubs in vauxhall and would often wind up at his flat in clapham, or balham, or one of those places. It was a one room flat: kitchen, living room, bedroom, all rolled into one, and I generally crashed on the couch.
one night ron says, “why don’t you come sleep here?” in his big double bed – and i have to confess, that the smell of those freshly-washed, 700 denier, egyptian cotton sheets was appealing. i climbed in next to him, half expecting what was to come.
he began to run his hand softly over my back and i turned to face him and we kissed. the sensation of stubble against my cheeks was a new one to me but not unpleasant. he was a great kisser and i was surprised at how easily i had become erect. he pushed himself close to me and our cocks pressed into each other, his was magnificent and i could feel it and throb against mine. I took it in my hand, feeling it pulse and bulge and began to kiss his chest and belly. He pushed playfully at my head, urging me down towards his rigid member. I kissed it and ran my tongue wetly along its length and then slipped it into my mouth. ron pushed my head down onto it and fucked my face roughly, telling me how much the sounds of my gagging turned him on. we were not there to make love and he came quickly and powerfully, his cum spraying the back of my throat in long thick spurts.
we kissed briefly, him enjoying his own taste on my lips, before he went down on me. he knew exactly what to do with a it and worked my throbbing wet cock expertly, using all his mouth, his lips, tongue and even his teeth to bring me to an astoundingly strong orgasm, shaking my whole body and rattling the bed. he pulled away as i came, it’d been days since i’d had any, and i splattered his face and open smiling mouth with hot sticky cum, gasping and panting and trembling as i did.
we kissed, finished the joint in the ashtray and fell happily asleep.
look out everybody – here comes the amazing cut and paste man
Bitten by a radio active sea cucumber, our hero… Bitten by a radio active porn star, our hero…. Bitten by a radio active radio, our hero…. Bitten…
Bitten by a radio active porn star carrying a sea cucumber and a radio, our hero sets out on an epic quest to find….
Cross Out Words Man was last seen with Bold Italic Girl and Links To Nothing Boy fighting the evil Underline Man and his trusty sidekick, The Purple Font….when suddenly, from out of nowhere aliens from the planet,
swoop down on Earth in a reign of lasers, and cool machine sounds all in rich Dolby(tm) stereo.
Humanity as we know it is in trouble.
- The Numbered List Agency, A
- Bipartisan group dealing with Super
- Heroes and Villains alike implores
- All of Earth’s mightiest to work
- Together to rid our planet of
- The evil Aliens!
All of Earth’s…
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Reblog: fill up my spice rack with your kisses
“fill up my spice rack with your kisses” awesome
Dawn Chorus or Words to that affect
My local cemetery, is wild and overgrown, not only a resting place for the dead but a magnificent nature sanctuary. Several times a year they hold guided walks at 4 AM, to hear the dawn chorus. The walks are led by a qualified ornithologist, who identifies which bird is responsible for which song, along with lots of other interesting stuff.
I went along once, and it was fascinating. I learned all kinds of things. For example, I learned that birds are descended from dinosaurs and that owls do not go “Taawit-taawoo!”, and in fact one bird, the male, will call “Taawit!” and the female will answer “Taawoo!”, although that might be the other way round. I also learned that a lot of birds will mimic other birds if they think that bird is bigger and stronger than them. A lot of these birds mistakenly think that mobile phones and car alarms are bigger stronger birds and have started mimicking them.
There was one very stupid women there and remarked how nice it would be if we could understand what the little birdies were saying. The guide said he knew exactly what they were saying. “Hear that robin?” he asked, pointing, “Its saying to all the surrounding robins, ‘This is my tree you bastards and you come anywhere near it and I will peck your fucking eyes out!’ or words to that affect” She shut up after that.
Better than afternoon telly
Elsie is a little old lady who lives alone in a large house. To help with her meagre pension, she has taken in a lodger. He is a handsome young writer and, being a writer, he never earns any money and rarely has enough to pay his rent. There are however other ways, he has discovered, that he can pay of his arrears.
Elsie knocks on his door and asks if would mind coming through to the sitting room. He knows what she means by this, what she wants him to do, and he undresses and walks through to join her. He stands in the doorway, more than a little surprised to see that Elsie has a small gathering of her friends around. They sit around a table with a delicate lace table cloth sipping Earl Grey tea and nibbling politely on buttered scones. “Come on,” smiles Elsie, “you know what to do.”
“W-w-what?”, he stuttered, “in front of, in front of’ your-”
” My friends? Yes. Unless you have three months rent with you. ” Elsie answers, spreading some quince jelly neatly on her scone.
He crosses the room and kneels down, facing them. He does a lot of yoga and has a very supple back, he also has a very large cock. Little old eyes widen as he makes himself erect and then, holding the base of his shaft between his finger and thumb, he leans forward and takes over half of his quivering cock into his own mouth. As he begins to pump his head swiftly up and down over his glistening member, there are polite giggles and the occasional ‘Oh my!’ and “Goodness!’ from around the tea table. Giggles turn to chuckles and gasps as they see and hear him begin to come. “Well I must say,this is much better than afternoon telly, dear.” one old lady remarks to Elsie, as they listen to him gulp and watch his thick white cum cascade down his still throbbing cock and squirt from his nostrils.
“Oh this is just the start, dear.” grins Elsie, and, as he kneels up, his face and cock a dripping, creamy mess, she opens a drawer in the antique Welsh dresser, her granny had left her, and pulls out a 14 inch long, 3 inch thick, solid silver dildo and hands it to him.
He knows what to do…
Another nifty noem
is this a noem?
i’ve no way of knowin’.
am i a noet,
and yet do not know it?
Back to blank by Fringewalk
follow this blog or i will have you killed
The sweetest slut of all
She was the sweetest slut
That I have ever met.
She had handcuffs in her wardrobe
And rose petals on her bed.
She had butt plugs in the kitchen
And a vibrator in the hall.
She had a teddy on her pillow.
She was the sweetest slut of all.
this is just beautiful
These messengers appear through the lines, curves, and negative spaces to do different things to me. These words your fingers type have become the vestiges of your heart for my eyes to behold and they affect me in all the right ways.
Some of your fingers have a feather soft touch and pull, flirting with the vixen within
Some of them draw pictures of ideas with thoughts I could have never imagined
Others beat a rhythm on my heart so softly, that my very soul stills to listen
Some fingers can so very gently guide my sight to forbidden lands allowing me to safely explore
Some slap my ass to attention- awakening a powerfully driven clarity of desire
Some of your fingers join together to hold my tears and my hand at the same time
Some fingers focus me with sarcasm and blunt honesty as they brush away the polite pretenses
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The call centre
“Good afternoon sir, can I take your account number please?”
“Er, can I talk to someone at my branch please? Its the Stoke Newington High Street branch.”
“That won’t be necessary sir, we can manage any requests you have from here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Seriously sir, whatever you want to do, we’re fully automated.”
“I understand that, but can you put me through to my branch please?”
“There’s no need sir, you can transfer funds, apply for an overdraft, set up a direct debit, anything.”
“Ok then, can you tell me if I left my wallet on the counter?”