Carefool What You Wishfore

I didn’t believe my friend at first when he told me in the utmost confidence that he was a “rising and falling” rapist. Indeed, when he was finally convicted in 1999 for his crimes, I believed I giggled a little, shook my head in disbelief, and continued eating my plate of bad. Thing is, no one believed it was true. Being just 4ft 5” tall, he was just too tiny to be a rapist. But a rapist he was, and a rapist with a box at that.

My friend’s demise is noteworthy, principally because it highlights how any one of us could fall foul to the temptations of forcewet; of pressurelust always needing more for the same ends, turning slights of desire into the full-blown worship-warship greedyneed of a perpetually burning Kinky Jesus. Beware.

But don’t strain yourself. Visit A New Type of Church.

Phonekall KommandOH!

lift receiver > pull to face > finger down > 999 > "police" > "hello?" > "I'm raping a murderer" > "which one of us is worse?" > "come quick" > "bye bye" > hang up > come quick > END

Home Apply Ants Ease

When asleep at home, mechanimation
Provides persistent penetration
Up you

When all the household appliances
Behind your back have formed alliances
Against you

Freezer froze stiff cockatoo
Which microwave defrosted for you
To fry against your will young man
Despite you

Toaster branded you with smoulder glow
You are toaster’s bitch now
Owns you

Oven roasted your pups last night
They went woof alright alright
Without you

Dishwasher drowned the kitty alright
between the pots and glasses bright
To spite you

And just when you can take no more
What’s this the blender has in store?

Some Notes on Slang

Gepetto’s Wood – A lie told about anything sexual in nature

Mingetucker – Australian slang for cunnalingus, as in “Godda go home early tonight, mates. Godda get me some mingetucker”.

Bovine Tightrope – used to describe the situation of someone who pushes weights so often that he/she is endangering his/her health.

Howitzer Sunrise – A hangover brought about by the successful completion of a yard of ale without subsequent vomiting.

Mantle Snare (also known as a performing a Topshelf Ingram) – Distraction technique whereby an ornament broken by a visitor to a house is replaced by an object similar in size and shape to the broken object. The visitor can then seek an alternative replacement in the hope that the replacement ornament will not highlight the broken ornament’s absence.

Osama’s Lunchbox – Stealing and devouring all of a colleague’s lunch, but leaving the apparatus on which it is served, with no trace of the lunch itself and providing no clues whatsoever as to its whereabouts.

Bungle’s Trust Fund – a platonic relationship in which one of the party is obviously a potential physical threat to the other, yet between whom there is no tension whatsoever.

Ghandi's Loot - The prize of stealing a blanket lent to you when staying over at a friend's house.

A Poem; A Lesson

As 2005 rolls in,
You git to rememberin
How resolution made through beer and gin
As you saw last year in
Thoughtless boy.

“This year”, you drunkenly proclaimed
“I shall spend in the naked buff
To celebrate the naked frame
And show we underneath are all the same.”
Falsehood boy.

But what you’d missed
When drunken hazy
Was how you’d bloated
Through greed and lazy
Wicked, glutton boy.

And past four years
You found abhorrent
The flesh beneath
Your undergarments

You then declared
“This was on whim
For I’m too scared
To go to gym

“All naked,
Fat and undesired
All this worry
Makes me tired”
Pathetic, lethargy boy.

To sleep you go
All through the year
You never see a soul
Through fear
Now reclusive boy.

Explosive weight
Nuclear waistline
Your friends now hate
What you became in time.
The hated even fatter boy.

Bastiard

Not many people are aware that back when the Tories were in power, there was a different Foreign Secretary for just one day. Hermanzie Bastiard had worked hard to get into the position, only to be removed the same day following a press conference in which he made explicitly racist, xenophobic and homophobic comments. The conference was cut short, but not before Bastiard had managed to offend a majority of the room, along with an impressive portion of the world to whom the conference was being televised live and, incredibly, with no delay system in place.

Asked about European relations, Bastiard was animated:

The French cannot help but run away from danger. I say, stop running, and while you’re at it, clean up your drains and sort out your dog shit problem. I kid you not, I stepped in 7 separate dog fouls just in a recent booze-cruise to Calais. I will have nothing to do with Sweden, who are overtly homosexual and who therefore risk bringing disease and whining into this country in epidemic proportions if allowed to do so. I do however feel for the Germans, who we beat in both of the world wars, and who could forget 1966’s World Cup, which was in my opinion a kind of Third World War.”

Asked about the current problems with racism in the workplace, Bastiard had responded:

“There are clearly biological differences between the blackies and [God’s gentle] white folk. For a start, they are biologically black. They contain theft glands more than 300 times the size of a [gracious] white man, and their hearts work through what are called ‘niggervalves’.
John Major, having recommended Bastiard’s resignation, had admitted that the appointment of an extrovert xenophobe had been “a gross mistake, which is easy to say with hindsight. I remember asking him to tone it down somewhat prior to the meeting, but he assured me that because the conference was being held in Liverpool, no-one was likely to be intelligent enough to understand anyway, if they weren’t even too busy stealing cars or raping folk. Clearly he was wrong.”

Oily Skin, Dirty Sin

When I arose from out of my bed at 6:00am this morning’s afternoon, I had no idea what the day would have in store. I had to be in Stepney for 8:00, in order to begin work on emptying the house we were contracted to renovate. My mind turned to wanking a bit, when the phone rang. It was my mother, trying to catch me before I left for work, checking that all was well. I felt rather agitated and frustrated at this maternal wank-block, but before long I had quite forgotten. We talked for long enough to ensure that even a mass-quicksturbate would have been out of the question. I hurriedly left the house and left for Stepney.

Once there, I realised that my late arrived had ensured I received the short straw. I had garbage collection duty. George had drawn the best lot which entailed sitting at the window with a pair of binoculars checking that no-one was trespassing and vandalising the property. This is often called “bagsying the Bill Oddie”, as most of the shift is taken up bird-spotting.

I got to work. The house, which had been unoccupied since the early 80s, was crammed with old rubbish and with it, the occasional gem. In amongst the Walker’s Crisps and Top Deck cans, I found a practically unused deck of Super Top Trumps – Superheroes Edition. More rubbish, then a copy of Razzle from March 1982. And, with it, the best possession of all – a 23-year-old bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil. I stared at the vision on the front of the bottle. Luckily, the bottle had been lying face-down on the floor, and so the baby picture on the front had remained unblanched by the sun’s wicked rays. I tucked it in my pocket, eager for the ok so I could sneak my loot back home for a filthy funtime.

Back home, I raced upstairs, locked the bathroom door, and frantically snatched my prize from my hot pocket. I dribbled some of the vintage oil onto my hands, and I was away. Gazing into the picture on the bottle, I felt so very ashamed, but undeniably horny, as I fired my naughtyjustice into a tissue, and once more became overwhelmed by a terrible mixture of lucidity and shame.

Still staring at the bottle, I unlocked the door and made my way to the front room. I sat down, gazing at the photograph of the baby, and considered whether my mother would still remember the time all those years ago that she took me to the Johnson studios for that very first photoshoot.

Mimefields

During the Nazi rallies of the 1930s, it certainly wasn’t all hard work and hand-raising. Indeed, foreign minister Herr Otto Schlankgeist raised more than the occasional eyebrow when it came to the raucous, lavish banquets laid on for higher-ranked attendees. During these occasions, Herr Schlankgeist would amuse fellow guests by imitating with stunning accuracy playing a variety of the instruments used in the background music. An ex-mime by trade, Schlankgeist would pretend to play the tuba, the piano and the accordion with astounding dexterity, minus the instrument in question. His ability was particularly honed to the Spanish guitar, and this soon got around like such wildfire that a regular slot would be penned into the rally banquets in honour of “Herr Guitar”. Schlankgeist would compete in realtime with a genuine Spanish guitarist, who would improvise to make it as difficult as possible to be mimicked. This was no match for Schlankgeist, who eventually became responsible for the guitar-mime phrase “schpielen die ‘Herr Guitar’”, which eventually became known as the playing “air guitar” in the American 1980s.

"Thank-you for the Prozac"

The yearly “ABBA-Deen” festival will be held one week earlier than usual in 2005. The festival is growing in popularity year on year, as practically all of Aberdeen gets together to pay tribute to that famous Swedish band, The Hives. The usual Aids restrictions apply.

Hit Laird

How many Hitlers does it take to change a lightbulb?

Nein.

Hetty’s Jockstrap

Those of you who managed to catch my article in last Thursday’s Teleguardian will probably have noticed the somewhat embarrassing typo in paragraph 3. An unfortunate slip on the keyboard produced the word “anus”, for which I apologise. The intended word, of course, was “motherfucked”.

Oh! Bees Itty!

Dealing with my morbid obesity has been surprisingly easy – I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I cut all foods out of my diet, instead living off only Kiwi fruits and Guinness Extra Cold. I have taken up darts for exercise and this, combined with a new year scag habit, has seen me shed the pounds like a footballer in Ladbrokes! I can see my ribs now, thanks cripes.

Going to Eye Beefer

Book early to avoid disappointment for this year’s “18 to Querty” outing. A maximum of 60 Linux enthusiasts will be coached to Ibiza to dance to the sounds of their ringtones and fuck to the rhythm of their own baud rates. Wireless raves and the renowned “FORMAT C:” evening are all part of a package you simply can’t afford.