I was recently nominated for The Booker Award by the delightful Maureen, author at Magnolia Beginnings, and although I never accept blogger award nominations – my ego being already over-inflated – this one had me thinking about all the wonderful books I have read over the years.
Here is a list of my top, all-time five:
- Catch 22 by Joseph Heller
- The Dangerous and Painful Masturbation Magic Pop-Up Book by Paul Bollokov
- Gormenghast (trilogy) by Mervyn Peake
- The Mechanism of Mind by Edward de Bono
- Narziss and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse
- 101 Recipes for Kittens by B B Q Feline
- Fermat’a Last Theorem by Simon Singh
- Catcher in the Rye J D Salinger
- Mark Twain by Huckleberry Finn
- Trainspotting by Irvin Welsh
- How to lose Friends and Irritate people byDale Carnage
- The Fractal Geometry of Nature by Benoit B Mandelbrot
- The Yoga Guide to Self-Felation by Ike A N Bendova
- Watchmen by Alan Moore
- How to Count to Five by Arthur Unknown
I’ve not followed Maureen for long but her blog is a must-follow and full of sweet, smart, well written observations and musings, and her avatar picture makes for fantastic masturbation material. Thank you Maureen.
Today I decided I would write a deadly computer virus and unleash it on you all.
It turns out that I lack the necessary programming skills, so if you wouldn’t mind sharing this message with all your followers and manually deleting all the important files from your hard drive, I’d be very grateful.
Thank you 🙂
the food was awful,
i told her,
the service sucked,
the restroom was
a total disgrace,
and the parking was
i waited ages
for my meal,
the beer was warm,
the fish was cold,
and what she said
when i complained…
she said “sorry but
i don’t work here.”
I really thought I’d witnessed something miraculous this morning. In my own kitchen.
I like my coffee hot and the one I had made earlier had just begun to cool a little. It was still pretty hot but needed 20 seconds in the microwave, just to get it right. I popped it in, set the dial and waited for the ping. When I took the coffee out, it was stone cold. Well, not stone cold, but room temperature and a lot colder than it was when I’d put it in.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I know enough about physics and how microwaves work to know that what I’d just seen was simply not possible. I pinched myself, not asleep. I tasted the coffee again, still cold. My heart started to race as my mind tried to figure out what had happened.
I peered into the oven, unsure of what I was looking for, when it struck me. At the back was a mug of coffee that I had placed in there last night to heat up and had then forgotten about. During the 20 seconds, the turntable had revolved by half a revolution and the two mugs had changed places.
“This play is really boring.”
“They can’t hear us.”
“Shush! It’ll be over soon.”
“I don’t know what’s going on.”
“It’s your line.”
thanks to cowards for this
The entire city of London, it would seem, has become obsessed by the Olympics. Now, while I’m delighted by team GB’s successes, I gotta admit that I have been more absorbed by an alternative sporting event, the Cunnilympics, which is held every four years in the Twat and Merkin pub, down the Old Bent Road. Like the original Ancient Greek version, Cunnilympic events are performed naked, although, unlike the originals, they consist mostly of contestants performing athletic, and sometimes dangerous, sexual acts. There are parallel bar events and ring events and several kinds of marathon. There are sprints and shooting and a very interesting variation on weight lifting, and this year synchronised masturbation was included in this venerable (venereal surely: ED) sporting line up. The Cunnilympic version of the pole vault is probably the most dangerous event and, after table tennis, was always my favourite, until this year that is, when I was able to get tickets to the men’s relay final and the heavyweight cock wrestling.
Four teams of strapping, naked and erect young men, from America, Russia, Great Britain and China, stand in the centre of the arena, in front of an audience of mostly women and gay men and wait for the starting gun, all of them stiff and twitching in anticipation. The idea of the competition is for each athlete to grasp their neighbour’s ‘baton’ and bring them to orgasm, at which point the neighbour grabs his neighbour’s cock and so on until all four contestants have come, the first team to have all their athletes blow their loads, being declared the winners.
The instant the starting pistol fires, four powerful hands grasp four pulsing pricks and start furiously pumping them up and down. The Chinese get off to a flying start with How Hee Cum squirting a thick streak of jiz over the back of the Russian reigning champion, Boris Jerkov in just under 20 seconds. Next to come is the American Mark Spurtz, who, despite his nine inch member has been training hard for up to eight hours a day, and as he comes into his partners face he shouts “God bless America!” and turns expertly to grab Joe Spunks twitching prick. The British are in a close third place and catching up fast as Bradley Cummings lighting fast fist coaxes several hot, thick squirts of cum from Robin Bellend’s tiny but potent shaft. Then disaster strikes as Paul Bollokov slips in a puddle of Karl Kumova’s semen and drops his baton, earning the Russians instant disqualification. After one minute forty-eight seconds the Americans and Chinese are neck, and neck and Cum So Fa and Dick Seaman start to shoot their goo together. Its going to take a careful examination of the slo-motion replay to decide this one, and as they both grunt and jerk their way to conclusion and glory, the crowd cheer “Come on Britian!” and they do.
Still sticky with sweat and each other’s juces, the team captains mount the podium, erect with pride, as the queen herself hangs their medals on their throbbing members. The crowd go wild and get ready for the heavyweight cock wrestling, where two amazingly well endowed athletes will clash cocks until one of them becomes flaccid.
When I’m talking with a woman, I make a point of not staring at her boobs, its not polite or respectful, “apparently”. The other night though, I was on a date with a girl who talked about her breasts incessantly. I figured it would be rude not to look.
You walk in and look at me. Its hard to know, from your expression, what you are thinking, but when you tell me to take off your shoes, I know. I slip them off, one at a time, and place them neatly side by side at the end of the bed. “Now, take off my dress.” you say, and I unzip it and let it fall gracefully to the ground. Under your dress is a sexy black silk slip. “Take it off.” you tell me.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m sure.” you say, confident and certain of what you want, and I inch it gradually down, revealing matching, skimpy black panties. “Take off my bra.” you instruct me, a fire burning in your eyes as I unfasten it and place it down on the chair.
“Take off my panties.” you tell me with a definite insistence. I edge them down gradually, gingerly almost and look up at you.
“What now?” I ask, trembling slightly.
“Now,” you tell me, “if I ever catch you wearing my clothes again, we’re fucking finished!”
so, its about a six months back, and i’m talking dirty, on facebook, to this woman in south africa, or one of those countries, and its just text, but she is awesome at that shit, and we’re both about to blow our beans when there’s this pause. now, i’m thinking, ‘ok, so she’s popped already’, and i sit back and wait for all the gory details, keeping myself on the verge of the old vinegar strokes, when she types,
“fuck off and die you sick pervert bastard!” now, i’m a little surprised, because this is not her usual modus operandi, but i’m flexible and can work with pretty much any material. so, i’m about to type back,
“go on… tell me more?” when i realise – silly cow has left her laptop open and this is her hubby, whose rumbled what she’s up to. so, i types back “hello stan, nice to meet you mate. how are you? your missus is a right dirty bitch ain’t she? you lucky fucker, you!” almost instantly he’s back at me with this wonderful stream-of-consciousness, ‘rot in hell motherfucker’ stuff and its awesome. i wish i’d kept it. i’m like pissing myself here and i type back,
“wow that’s hot stan, you’re getting me proper fucking stiff. tell me, what are you wearing right now?” and he’s all like,
“i’m gonna hunt you down you piece of shit and cut off your cock and feed it to you.” now, i’m nearly wetting myself at this point and tears are streaming down my cheeks, i’m laughing that hard.
“damn stan,” i type, “you just made me come! you’re better at this shit than your missus!” at this point he unfriends me and blocks me and it all ends there, but it was as funny as fuck, i tell ya.
I checked my bank balance today.
I have enough money to last me the rest of my life.
Providing I don’t ever buy anything ever again, or die tomorrow.