Monday, 27 February 2012

The Probability Of Being Different

Do you ever feel like you’re totally alone in the world? Do you feel like no one quite understands or feels the way you do? Do you believe that you are completely unique in your thoughts, opinions and feelings? If so, congratulations, you special little, talented, trend setting individual, you.

Understandably, it is quite difficult to accept just how mundane and unimportant our lives sometimes are. When you work as a coat stand in an office day in, day out, then go home and watch “inspirational” celebrities buying caviar-covered cars with little to no discernable talent, it can be quite easy to fool ourselves into thinking that we’re destined for greater things. After all, if a Kardashian can be famous, surely we all can make it too, right?

Consumerism tries to make us feel special at every turn. If you buy this product, people will be jealous of you. If you take out this insurance scheme, we’ll strive to personalise our policy, just for you. This new gadget has been designed solely around you as a unique customer, and can be can be customised to your specific tastes. If you don’t like the camera angle on the Tennis right now, press the Red button to view it from a different angle, or perhaps watch the ball boy scratch his arse instead. Press the Yellow button to squirt him with water if he doesn’t fetch the ball fast enough. Yeah, that’s right, ball bitch! Don’t make me press the Blue button, for god’s sake!

As a result, we all walk around in our little bubbles feeling cosseted and special, just like the other 7 billion people on the planet. Obviously, this excludes people who live on dung heaps.

What I’m trying to say is, your thoughts and opinions, in all statistical probability, have already been thought of before. Every hilarious joke you’ve come up with has, more than likely, been said a thousand times. As I’m typing this now, I hold no illusions that no one else has ever thought of this before, and then typed a Blog post about it. I feel as though I’m plagiarising someone who I’ve never met, nor am I even aware of their work!

Try telling that to teenagers though. Teens are the worst group for this type of thinking. This is probably down to their protected childhoods, leading them into an insular, hormonal brain maze of frustration and angst. But since we’re not here to examine the social issues around this, I’ll just settle for calling them idiots instead.

A unique person makes a valid point

So if I am ever to breach any copyright laws in the future, my defence is already sorted. Chances are that any and every word, concept, and penis joke on here has been duplicated somewhere else. It’s like an infinite forest, at some point you’ll find the same formation of trees even amongst the random chaos of tree growth. That’s rather humbling isn’t it?

In conclusion, there’s no point trying to carve out a niche. Next week, I’m going to save brain energy and write about the deal with airline food.


On another note (a C major, if you're interested), the wonderful, talented, and infanticidal Lily from Incoherent Ramblings Of A Moose has given me an award.  The award is for being Creative, which is humbly taken by myself and displayed proudly:

Beautiful.  As with anything, there are some conditions:

1.  Link back to the person who gave you this award.
2.  Share 10 random facts about yourself.
3.  Pass the award onto 6 other people.
4.  Follow the person's Blog who sent it to you.

As the post is already too long, I won't be sharing any facts today.  Below are some people who I would like to award for being "Kreativ":

1.  A Beer For The Shower - Always great illustrations, and always hilarious.  Always!
2.  HILL BLOCKS VIEW - Flip is a great Blogger with a wonderful comedic perspective.
3.  How To Hate Everything - This lady doesn't post often, but when she does, you better hold on tight.  Utterly hateful poetry.
4.  Pickleope - The unholy union betwixt a pickle and an antelope, which is already enough reason to visit!
5.  The Beserk Herc - Bersercules can draw, write, and point out the flaws in religious propaganda videos like no one else out there.
6.  Thoughtless Gibberish - Bumferry Hogart!  The guy is called Bumferry Hogart!  If you're not already impressed, I don't know what's wrong with you.

So yeah, thanks Lily, and thanks everyone else for a great laugh.

Friday, 24 February 2012

Brain Shits - Vol.2

I decided to try another Brain Shit.  I hope these are as much fun to read as they are to write.  As before, this is completely uneditted apart from spelling corrections and addition of a few images:

Have you heard the saying “Oh, if these walls could talk!”? Why?  What if these walls could talk? What are you expecting them to say? Perhaps they’ll fully educate you on 13th century French philosophy, whilst discussing Sandra from the office and her bingo wings. Maybe they’ll tell you all the latest gossip from the latest UN summit on third world debt. “Boy, the German ambassador has gotten faaaat!”
I imagine that if walls could talk, they’d threaten us. They know that we can’t really fight back. Seriously, try punching the next wall that smart talks you and you’ll end up with a broken fist and a night in an asylum. Plus, we can’t take out the wall because the building would fall down. It’d be like having a floorless disco.
They're wathcing me
I had a friend who tried to live his life without floors. That was the fastest New Year’s Resolution to get broken in the history of the world. He made the papers and everything. Unfortunately, he felt so ashamed about the whole thing that he tried to commit suicide. He wanted to throw himself off a 30 storey building, but he couldn’t find one, so he threw himself off of a 2 storey building 15 times. I felt sad watching him drag his broken carcass back upstairs to fling himself off again and again, but like a wildlife cameraman, I felt I couldn’t interfere with the forces of nature. Instead I filmed it and sent it off to the BBC. I met David Attenborough who did the voiceover for it. He gave me a Werther’s Original and a rare cane toad found only in Papua New Guinea.
I named the toad Samson. You know, after that guy who got all his strength from his hair. It’s ironic because he doesn’t have any hair, being an amphibian. But then, it turned out not to be ironic because the toad was physically weak, like a withered shrub. He couldn’t leap more than 0.5 millimetres and suffered with bronchitis. In the end I had to put him down; I was so sick of carrying him around. He didn’t do much better on the floor, and died shortly afterwards.

This had me contemplating death for the next few minutes. What happens after we die? After my granddad died, we went and had a few sandwiches, then some people cried and we all went home again. But what happens to the person who dies? My girlfriend doesn’t like me discussing this at the dinner table as it’s morbid, but I want to know how much flesh a single maggot can consume in order to calculate decomposition times.
A young Heston Blumenthal tries to fix his car with liquid nitrogen

Speaking of breaking things down, my father once had a break down. His car stalled on the M1, and the constant rush of traffic as he waited 6 hours for the AA to arrive made him have a nervous break down too. Unfortunately, there’s no recovery service for that kind of break down. When I tried to get him covered by the RAC, they asked what make and model he was, and I said “He’s bald and a terrible role model. I once caught him eating biscuits before dinner!”. The man said I should never call back again, but I did call again later that day, wearing a fake moustache. This time I spoke to a lady who said she’d be happy to cover my dad, or perhaps I’d like to cover her in Maple Syrup instead. I told her I don’t like to mix sweet and savoury, and hung up.

Shortly afterwards I watched George Alagiah’s Dastardly Flying Machines. It’s a reality show in which the news reader is sent into a surreal cartoon set during the war, and he tries to stop a carrier pigeon delivering messages with his asthmatic pooch. It wasn’t that good. I was disappointed that I didn’t get to vote anyone off via a premium rate phone number.

Monday, 20 February 2012

Based On True Events...

I am a very polite person. I’m so polite in fact, that I would queue up to get to the front of a hostage situation which involved my own family. This is why I had an immense internal struggle when I decided to tell a lady that she was smelly.

She was sat beside me on the train. She was a true behemoth of a woman with troughs for eyes and hunks of ham where her hands should be. I don’t like to insult overweight people, but she was pushing the very limits of existence with her overwhelming size. The fabric of spacetime was lower in mass when compared to the fabric of her tracksuit bottoms. She plonked herself down and grunted disapprovingly as she parked half of one bum cheek on the seat, as though the social responsibility were on me to move out of her way. I couldn’t move even if I’d wanted to, and certainly could not circumnavigate her without an ordinance survey map.

So there she was, balanced precariously on the edge of the next seat, leaving her suitcase in the aisle for other passengers to trip over. How rude of them to ignorantly step on her luggage and crush the 25 litres of Walkers Sensations she’d stuffed in there!

She then proceeded to produce a bag of pork scratchings from under her coat. She probably farms them under her armpits or something, then bags them up as snacks for later. I couldn't comprehend the audacity of her actions. If you were so big that the train begins to creak to one side, you’d think you’d make an effort to appear as though you’re trying to lose weight. The seat was buckling and I was starting to get nervous.

The next thing I noticed was the smell. Perhaps an expedition team had been sent down her gullet to find a lost dog or something, but had become trapped and died. She stank like a barge made of rotting corpses carrying a shipment of shit over a sewerage lake. That’s not even an exaggeration. You know when people say that smelly things make them feel sick? I was at the point where I considered having a shit, just to give everyone something more pleasant to sniff. My very soul was determined to escape from this cataclysmic death star of dung looming over me, and I'm pretty sure it climbed out of my ear and joined league with the devil.

Being fat is fine. I enjoy food as much as the next person, unless the next person is bulimic. But that god awful smell was inexcusable. It was the type of stench that could cut through safe locks. I took this as a personal assault; on me, my nasal passages, and my fellow commuters who had the common decency to shower and change their clothes once in a while. Rocking the sun-dried bacon and urine smell is just not on when using crowded public transport.

“Excuse me” Said I as I tried to clamour out of my seat like a puppy being sucked down a sinkhole. But she didn’t move. Perhaps she didn’t hear me because my hand was firmly clamped to my mouth and nose. Perhaps it was because my mouth was full of sick. Either way, she continued to munch down pig snacks faster than a relapsing Jew.

“Have you tried not smelling so much?”

As soon as the words popped out of my mouth, I instantly regretted it.  An internal struggle had occurred where I weighed up the pros and cons of this potentially delicate and dangerous situation, like a man contemplating whether to stroke a sleeping tiger.  In the end, my nasty side won the contest, causing me to meekishly make the above statement.

“Whaaaa-?!” Squealed Mount Thrushmore, turning in her seat and instantly creating enough friction to turn her labia into crackling.

“Err, I just meant, could you keep your stink molecules to yourself?” Was the politest thing I could think of saying. Essentially, flecks of her shit, piss and sweat were floating into my nasal cavity, which is tantamount to assault in my book.

She leaned forward towards me. I could smell those hot, salty, semi-digested scratchings were already mixing with various other flavours to produce a noxious gas of which science has yet to categorise. I felt like I was coming down with 100 undiscovered tropical skin diseases just by being breathed on. The floor began to dissolve beneath me as the train chassis gave way, exposing rushing rail tracks beneath me. Was this the end? My life tried to flash before my eyes, but my long term memory had been wiped clean, and my eyes had crusted together. She leaned forward yet further until she was right in front of me, and her mouth opened like a harpoon wound on a stretched seal as she emitted a noise.


Nom?! Was that it, an eating noise? I was confused, was I being threatened? I concluded that her saturate-addled brain hadn’t mastered the art of communication. Then she took the unexpected step of unzipping her coat. As the sides drooped down by her waist, it was like Pandora’s Box had been opened. I swear I heard someone crying from within a cavernous fold of her t shirt. The room was spinning, or the train was crashing, I wasn't not sure. My nerves got the better of me and I started banging on the window in hopes of escape, or fresh air.

Then, she began to roll up the bottom of her t shirt. An unholy thought crossed my mind. A thought so unholy even Satan himself would say it was "a bit much". Perhaps she was going to mate with me. Maybe she had decided that somehow, my human and her porcine genomes would combine successfully to create superior offspring.  I searched my person in vain for something to commit suicide with, but there was nothing I could use, unless you can kill yourself with a swiss army knife, a length of hessian rope, a can of petrol, and a whole bunch of cyanide pills. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of a combination of those items that would do the job effectively.

It was at this point that I noticed the air rushing past my ears. As I looked at her belly button I noticed that it was literally sucking matter out of the universe. I held tightly onto my seat as we (me and the other passengers) all crossed the event horizon of her navel, and watched as several other people were sucked in and crushed like cream crackers protesting in Tiananmen Square. I couldn’t hold on any longer. The seat gave way and threw me into the void.

And where did I end up? Paradise, that’s where. As my eyes began to adjust, I found myself on a sandy beach. The warm sun was bearing down and heating the calm ocean to a comfortable temperature. All the other people were beautiful, not a single sag in sight. Was this heaven? I asked someone if Coldplay existed and was greeted with a blank stare. It was heaven! I ordered a cocktail and found myself a massaging sun lounger, then began to drift off to sleep.

This is when I awoke. The woman was gone, the train was intact, and I was a long way past my stop. Did I dream the whole thing? I asked my neurologist and he said the most likely outcome was that I was affected by neurotoxins that altered my perception. The chemicals in my system were similar to human sweat, indicating that she’d been emitting hallucinogenic chemicals. The military want to take blood samples from me to find out if my body holds the secrets to a new biological weapon.  I'm told that my lifespan has been greatly reduced.  Still, you've got to laugh, haven't you?
*Dramatisation may not have happened.*

Friday, 17 February 2012

Chat Up Lines

So, how was Valentine’s Day for you? No doubt you screwed up your relationships beyond repair by baking your other half a pie made from your own hair, or something equally creepy. I told you not to make hair pie again! Nobody likes it!

Anyway, now that you’re a certified bachelor/bachelorette, you’re going to need to get back in the game again. No one wants to be left on the scrapheap. As the dating game can be like a warzone, you need to make sure that you’re combat ready, armed with an arsenal of chat up lines that would make Johnny Bravo look like an amateur.

Please find below a list of the world's most irresistable chat up lines.  These are guaranteed to work, and they have all been tested on animals to ensure their quality. Ladies, feel free to use these too. Men are notoriously shallow and stupid so you probably don’t need them, but it always helps to be prepared:

Here's a vague image of a heart, which illustrates my point succinctly

• You must be a parking ticket, because you’re expensive and often found spread over the front of cars.

• Did it hurt? When they threw you out of heaven for being drunk and disorderly.

• You must be tired because you’ve been running from the police all day.

• I may not be Fred Flintstone but I can make your bed into a rocking chair. As a carpenter, I can do these things.

• If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would be dyslexic.

• If I said you had a beautiful body, would you even believe me?

• That’s a nice dress/shirt. It’d look great in my bedroom wardrobe.

• What brings a guy/girl like you to a penis/vagina like mine?

• Do you have a girlfriend/boyfriend [No] Want one? [Yes] Then try They have thousands of suitable matches just waiting for you.

• Do you have a map? Because I have a very poor sense of direction and I can’t afford a GPS.

• What’s your sign? Mine is “Danger. Keep Out”

• You must be a thief, because you stole my heart and sold it on the black market to an illegal organ dealer.

• Your eyes are amazing. On the Dulux colour chart they would be “Muddy Skink”.

I think that’s enough for now.  If I were to write down any more, the overwhelming concentration of sexual energy would actually kill Peter Stringfellow.  For the sake of his life I implore you, go out there and get laid, pronto!  Either that, or you can contribute your own chat up lines in the comments box below.

Monday, 13 February 2012

Valentine's Day

Valentine’s, the most sexual of holidays, is upon us. I can always tell because this time of year has an adverse effect on those of the feminine persuasion. For some reason that I haven’t quite fathomed yet, they become sexually aggressive around this time of year.

It’s not like I’m asking for this attention. I’m not exactly wearing buttless leather chaps and a t shirt that says “get it here”. If I were single I’d welcome the advances of young women, but as I’m not, I live in constant fear that my girlfriend might think that I am bringing this on myself.

For example, at the train station this morning I stopped for a coffee and a cookie (as part of a nutritious breakfast). As I went to the till to pay for my items, the young lady prodded at the cash register a few times, then smiled politely and said “Sorry I pressed the wrong button”, then proceeded to charge me less for my items, saving me £1 in total. This was totally unacceptable. Blatant flirting on this scale is an attack on me and my human rights. I have the right to purchase coffee and cookies with money, and not be expected to make up the shortfall in sexual favours, as she was obviously proposing.  In retaliation, I overturned her little coffee stand and threw her cash register into the path of an oncoming train. That’ll teach her for sexually assaulting me!

Then, when I boarded the train, a lady came by and asked to see my ticket. When I handed over said ticket, she smiled broadly and told me to have a nice journey. A nice journey? What, with you? To the bathroom? Not a chance! I smashed the emergency glass and demanded to be let off this instant, before she raped me. Many people were angry that I caused the train to stop and delayed their working day, but what they fail to realise is that I was almost a victim of a violent crime. The train company told me that I couldn’t ride their service again, and tried to charge me £50 for improper use. I decided I’d fight this fine in court.

The symbol of fear!

After I walked all the way back into town, I went to my lawyer’s office to discuss my options. After steering clear of the women on reception (who were no doubt hornier than a rhino-skin pin cushion), I was horrified to learn that my lawyer also possessed ovaries. At any other time of year I wouldn’t have a problem with this, but she was obviously on the prowl by the way she pulled out a chair for me and patted the seat, inviting me into her lair. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and sat down, but my initial trust was soon shattered as she told me I had an “interesting case”. What is that, some kind of disgusting euphemism?

In my panic I accidentally threw a chair at the window and tried to escape through it. The lawyer was shouting for help; obviously calling for backup from the reception girls. Who knows what they would have done to me. I ran across the nearby fields and lived feral for the next two hours, until I heard a siren in the distance.

Hoping for assistance, I ran into the road and began waving my arms to flag down the passing police car. As it pulled over, a female police officer got out, tackled me to the ground and put me in handcuffs. If it wasn’t for her burly male colleague who picked me up and bundled me into the police car, I’d have been at her depraved mercy.

Thankfully, I got to spend the night in the cells away from molestation at the hands of these women. I met some nice people in prison. One chap called Carl kept cuddling me to comfort me after my ordeal. Then he had me bend over and he gave me an injection in my bum, which would ward off any potential lady rapists. He had to do it again and again for about 10 minutes before he managed to discharge the medicine from his thick, warm syringe. Still, at least it’s all over for another year.

Friday, 10 February 2012

The Big Freeze

Shocking incidents have been occurring up and down the UK this week. Millions of people have reported white flecks of crystallised water falling from the clouds and blanketing the ground. This unprecedented phenomenon has caused slight disruption to transport system, and has caused many people to experience slippery underfoot conditions.

Whilst experts are speculating on the nature of this unusual incident, many religious groups are branding it “Devil’s Dandruff”. Due to the drop of temperature in the usually clement month of February, many leading science teachers believe that this white, solid rain may freeze and cause two killer scenarios known as “Ice” and “Frost”. People are advised not to emulate Torvil and Dean, as they may snap their spines during this unrepentant end of times.

Of course, this is all hyperbole. Without wanting to carp on the sensational nature of the media again, this is almost how the “Cold Snap” or “Big Freeze” is being reported this year.

What the pissflaps is that?

I’m sorry, but the “Big Freeze”? Why do we have to attribute a hysterical title to a naturally occurring weather front? Come April time, will the news be reporting on the “Big Grow”? Or perhaps the “Massive Melt” in August?

It’s just snow. Bloody snow that’ll melt and turn to murky slush in a couple of weeks. Sure, it’s a bit colder than usual (thanks climate change!), but nothing that a thick jumper won’t fix. Even your nan, who according to the media is at “special risk”, would just tell you to put on an extra layer and get on with it, you sopping great dickless wonder!

The shops at the weekend were swarming with people buying ludicrous amounts of bread and milk. Unless they intend to churn and mature the milk into a delicious cheese and host a cheese sandwich party for the entire town, I don’t see why people need so much bread and milk. Why not buy Pop Tarts? You can always drink tap water, or Irn Bru from the tap if you live in Scotland. If you’re going to go shopping crazy, why not buy that delicious, sugar-filled cereal you’ve had your eye on, safe in the knowledge that any weight gain will insulate you and stand you in good stead for the harsher weather? Why not buy a 200 strong pack of novelty curly straws, tape them together into a liquid assault course, and race your husband/wife/other half in the world’s nuttiest drinking contest? Why not buy a unicycle and a French stick for a riveting unicycle polo tournament? You might as well do something interesting if you get stuck in the house.

People in Europe and other snowy places think it’s hysterically funny how badly Britain copes with snow. As soon as the mercury hits -1, flights get cancelled and people flock to the shops for emergency supplies. Snow shovels go out of stock in seconds, forcing B&Q to go into meltdown (ironically for this time of year), all while people in Slavic regions enjoy a relaxing Jacuzzi in liquid nitrogen and go skinny dipping underneath frozen lakes.

Nothing could ever interrupt Rover's walkies

As a country that was once invaded by and bred with the Vikings, why can’t we handle a little frost under our bear belts every so often? Even if it causes our longboats to shrivel up a little bit, where’s the hardy spirit that had Norse warriors traverse the North Sea to find a land nearly as ravaged by ice as theirs was? I don’t really know where I’m going with this Viking theme, but I wanted to make a pun about my longboat, which has carried many a maiden to Valhalla and back. I suppose what I’m saying is, you’d expect us to be made of hardier stock.

Although the snow has yet to get anywhere near as bad as last year (or “Snowmageddon”), you’d be forgiven for thinking that the British public has never seen a single snowflake. I hope it snows more than ever, if only to whip the weather presenters up into such frenzy that they think the world is coming to end and start indulging themselves in their every waking perversion, live on air, before they die. And once the BBC, the last bastion of goodness in this shallow husk of a planet, falls to corruption and becomes a high budget version of Babestation, I can begin my eventual climb to world domination. Myessss, myesssss! Anyway, I must be off, I have plans to make. Robot armies don’t build themselves. Toodle pip!

Monday, 6 February 2012

Dogging Times

Thank you for signing up to Dogging Times, the UK’s premier online newsletter for dogging hobbyists, amateur and professional alike. We are pleased to publish a bumper edition this week, full of handy hints, tips and editorials from industry veterans. Whether you’re new to the hobby, or a veritable connoisseur of all things dogging, I’m sure you’ll find something useful in this instalment.

What You Will Need:

• A Car – Anything with dropdown seats will be fine, but remember, space is comfort.

• A Wife – No one turns up to a dinner party without a bottle of wine!

• Contraception – Condoms, femidoms, morning after pills, bin bags, whatever you need. The details are at your discretion.

• Lube – Vaseline is the industry standard, but anything slippery will do.  Fairy liquid will do if Vaseline is too expensive.

• Reading Materials – This isn’t compulsory, but it is considered polite. There will be times when people are waiting for their turn, and a range of magazines helps to pass the time.

Location Spotting:

As we all know, it can be difficult to find a secluded spot to engage in our pastime, and it can be especially embarrassing to climb naked into someone’s car, only for them to be parked in that lay by for legitimate reasons like engine failure.

Anyway, I’d recommend staying away from urban areas altogether. The general public just don’t seem to appreciate the beauty behind you rutting with a complete stranger in the back of a convertible BMW Z3, even if it is the deluxe model with oak panelling and chamois wipe clean seats. It’s a beautiful machine, it really is.

Next, try and stay away from farmland. A lot of the UK countryside is taken up by farms, so be doubly sure you’re not parking on an irate farmer’s land otherwise you’ll end up with a buttload of buckshot in your..well..butt. Farmers can’t see well in the dark, and the sounds of your intense lovemaking carrying across the valleys are easily mistaken for rabid livestock, forcing farmers to try and kill the offending animals before they infect the entire herd. Mrs Brown really does make some odd noises whilst in the throes of passion.

Otherwise, fields are generally good places to meet. Don’t go too close to the road or you might attract the attentions of a passing police car, or even worse, a breakdown truck. Being towed down the hard shoulder of the M1 whilst attempting an intense lovemaking position (the Backwards Howler Monkey, if you’re interested) can become really complicated, let me assure you.

The Doggers Code (Dos and Don’ts):

1. Good things come to those who wait. Be patient, don’t cut in line, and sit quietly in your car when you’re not participating.

2. Don’t play music. Not only will this attract the attention of outsiders and advertise our whereabouts, it can also be a real mood killer. I remember when I first started, there was a young lad who’d play the latest Kiss Garage ’98 or whatever dance bollocks was doing the rounds then. Trying to keep rhythm to 200+ BPM is something even a Gerbil would struggle to do.

3. If you’re going to watch, don’t talk, and don’t offer tips or advice. No one appreciates it.

4. If your windows have steamed up, you’re blocking the show! Turn the air con on, or crack open a window.

5. Don’t be jealous! Remember, sharing is caring.

Tales From The Dog Track:

One of the worst aspects of dogging is taking your car for an MOT. Unlike you, your car doesn’t recharge in between bouts of sexual gymnastics, so it can come as a surprise when you find out the effects your exploits have had on your vehicle.

Although dogging is generally considered to be an inexpensive hobby (at least, people in the street are always calling my wife “cheap”, which I assume is what they mean), you’d be shocked at the amount I’ve spent on our Ford Fiesta. Everything has had to be replaced at some point. The suspension needs a total overhaul on an annual basis. I can always tell when it’s time for an MOT as the car starts to scrape across speed bumps. This also wears out the underside of the chassis, and being able to see daylight through the floor isn’t considered to be particularly healthy, even if you can pop your feet through and run like you’re in The Flintstones.

Then there are the seats. I have to have new backseats put in every year, and the front one doesn’t tilt anymore, meaning that I can’t relax whilst receiving oral sex anymore. I’ll have to replace this at some point too.

Sometimes, if you get a lively Philly in the back, your car ends up with the most unexpected injuries. Miss Goss spent 20 minutes on the back seat, during which time she put a fist through my back window, and kicked off my handbrake, sending the vehicle into a ravine. It’s great when you find someone who expresses themselves sexually, but sometimes I think restraints should be allowed in dogging. Stirrups and chains in the boot of your car might give the wrong impression though.

Healthy Doggers:

Due to our pastime, decent healthcare can be quite difficult to come by. Those do-gooders in the NHS tend to frown at us when we try to get treatment for our dogmatic ailments, at the “expense of the taxpayer”. Doctors fail to recognise Athlete’s Testicles as a real condition. Private healthcare companies such as Bupa don’t tend to cover us either, because we’re a “liability”. They fail to recognise that when we get that feeling, we need sexual healing.

Either way, you’re going to need some good excuses to save yourself some blushes at the doctors. Here are some common problems and some good excuses to get you by:

Blue/Bruised Balls – “I was playing with a newton’s cradle when my trousers and pants slipped down”

Stretched Labia – “I was rushing to the loo when I got it trapped over a door handle”

Scratch/Bite/Fingernail Marks – “A colony of ferrets has taken up residence in my wardrobe. They attack me whenever I try to put on a shirt”

Gonorrhea – “I sat on a public toilet. You can catch it that way, right?”

Phew, wasn’t that all jam packed with exciting titbits? A little bit like my Ford Transit on a Saturday night! Hahaha! I hope you’ve found this informative, enlightening and ... informative. Next week’s instalment includes some ideas for nibbles and dips for your dogging party, and what to do when someone brings a chinchilla. Tally bye!

Friday, 3 February 2012

Brain Shits - Vol.1

Sometimes I think that I over think things, and this is much to my own detriment when I'm writing.  I find that I'll start with a joke that I'll write down, then I'll analyse it and think "will people get that?"  Then I'll try and elaborate around it so that people understand where I'm coming from, try a couple of different combinations, experiment with a synonym or two, and totally reword it.  Then I'll read it back and find a garbled mess where my joke should be.

That's why I decided to detox a little bit.  Basically, I decided to just write and see what came out.  Aside from the odd spelling correction and the addition of a couple of relevant images, this is an uneditted stream of consciousness I wrote in a short amount of time.  I promised to upload it regardless of the outcome, so here it is:

Today I went to the sperm bank to try and make a withdrawal. I’ve been depositing there for many years, so much so that I’ve been told that my account is literally overflowing. As a long serving customer I expected a much better level of service. I did not expect to be told that I couldn’t take back my sperm, and was asked a number of probing questions like “what do you need it for?”

It’s a disgrace. I’ve never been asked that question at the regular bank, even for mortgages and loans. My branch is down a dark alley and the manager is Tony “The Shark” Tickett. Some people think he is an unscrupulous character, but I see his breaking of knee caps as a measure of his drive and determination. That’s the kind of guy I want to trust with my money, someone who gets the job done. I once saw him beat a guy until he was a pile of mush with shards of crunchy bone in it, like a peppercorn poo. But hey, that’s what happens when you don’t keep track of your finances.

Backstreet bankers are just getting younger these days

I had a friend whose finances ran away with him. Oh wait, no, he ran away with someone’s fiancé. That explains the problems he had when they went on honeymoon to the Cayman Islands and he tried to deposit her into his secret, offshore, illegal bank account that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about. He tried that with his last wife too. He’s wanted by Scotland Yard for trying to embezzle women. If he ever approaches you and offers to take your wife/girlfriend/mother/brother turned sister on a relaxing spa break offshore, my advice would be to decline. I’ve lost too many girlfriends that way.

So what is a tax haven? By definition, surely it’s like heaven for tax, meaning that there’s going to be a lot of tax involved. Or is it like a relaxing spa resort for investment bankers? Perhaps it’s a cruise ship for bureaucrats. We’ll never know unless we kill someone in the financial sector, then bring them back round at the last minute. For science!

The science community tend to frown upon my methodology. They prefer to do “tests”, whereas I like to just jump straight in and find out, like a grassroots scientist. My biology teacher failed me when I tried to find out what his brains taste like. I only wanted to find out why zombies find them so appealing, and if there’s anything we can do to the flavour to put them off. I only wanted to (brain)stem their appetites! Har har!

We can do a lot with genetics these days, so my proposal would be make a person’s brain taste like a tramps trousers. Perhaps thinking alters the flavour of your brain, so it tastes like the thing you think of most. If so, mine would taste of honey. Albeit, honey smothered on naked women, but honey all the same!

Sweet dreams are made of this

But then, what happens if you think about abstract concepts? I spent a whole afternoon thinking about time once. Did my brain taste like time?

That’s impossible. The human tongue is unable to taste time, that’s why I’m not enjoying a fictional medieval banquet right now. If we could, history books would become playgrounds of taste as we explore plague victims with our mouths. Dysentery in the 100 years war would be alive and well on your tastebuds. Religious sacrifice would dance on your tongue like a fiery pixie. I think further research needs to be done in this field. I’ve always wanted to know why fried dodo would be like.

I’m sure people will think that a real time machine would be easier to develop. Quitters!