The Night I Acted With Maturity And Dignity…

This blog isn’t really about the night I acted with maturity and dignity, I just wanted to see what it would be like to write that instead of “the night I got drunk and pushed a man in a wheelchair down the stairs of a club”…

In summary… I’ve had a pretty shit night, but I figured ‘hell, somebody might find this amusing’ so I thought I’d post it here for you guys to laugh at my misfortune. The following is kind of a documentation of my night out. I just thought you might find some of this amusing. (Yes, I know, I’m immature to post drinking stories at the age of 21, but I’m Irish, and drinking is kind of the only facet of culture we have here – besides farming potatoes and hating on the English – so don’t blame me for being involved in it)

My night started at about 8pm, a late start for anybody who’s Irish, the natural time to start drinking in Ireland is ‘as soon as you fucking wake up’ any later than that and you’re not doing it right… Anyway, I went out to meet two friends, Mike and Bart (he’s german, hence the weird name). These guys are pretty good guys, but we’re a bad influence on each other. Bart is kind of a raging sex addict who hits on everything that moves and Mike is a sheepish kind of character who despite his feeble demeanor can drink a hell of a fucking lot. Myself? I’m kind of an easily led immature asshole who after about 7 pints can’t tell the difference between being funny and being abusive… I’m told I have an addictive personality. I like to think this means I’m a great guy to be around… But it really doesn’t… Needless to say, this threesome is not a good combination.

Anyway, like I say, we go out at 8, we head to our favorite pub: laveries. I say favorite. What I really mean is ‘the only pub in town that has both women and cheap drink that doesn’t smell of urine and isn’t filled to the brim with old men’.

So we start drinking, we go through one pint, then two, then three, then four, then… quite a few.

Anyway, Bart, being the natural sex addict he is starts hitting on women. He uses his usual line: “hey ladies, I’m German and I need help improving my English, will you talk to me for a while”. It works, as it always does, and we find ourselves surrounded by women. It should be mentioned at this stage that I am a bad wingman. I am a backstabbing asshole. I declare Bart to be gay and Mike to have just come out of a long term relationship. I am the center of attention after this proclamation and I am loving it – because I’m an asshole. It’s coming up to 10 and I’m pretty fucking drunk. We’re talking to a bunch of Canadian girls and things are going well. I’ve managed to get them to come back to our place. So we leave the pub. When we’re leaving a skin head approaches; hilarity ensues. The following is the actual conversation that took place between us and the Skinhead.

Skinhead: ‘Jennifer, what the fuck are you doing with these cunts?’
Jennifer (one of the Canadians): I’m going home with them?
Skinhead: But your my girl
Me: Awk look at the big angry skin head with his weee feelings (like I said, I’m an ass)
Skinhead: You looking for trouble?
Me: Not really, I was looking to get laid, what about you babes?

At this point I am punched in the head. Probably deserved it to be honest. Note to anybody who encounters a skinhead in future, DO NOT call them babes – they do not take kindly to it. Also to be noted, if you can’t fight for shit -like me- do not antagonize people.

It works out ok, because I get massive sympathy points from the Canadians and they start to make the journey home with us, and the bouncers kick the crap out of skinhead. (Which I obviously find hilarious)

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had to listen to a Canadian when you’re drunk. But it’s kind of like having a thousand bees inside your head while somebody pounds on your face with a pneumatic drill… Or so I found anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, they were nice girls. but fucking hell their accents drove me insane. It was fine listening to them inside the pub, when they were drowned out by background noise and the shitty DJ who played Bob Marley all night long. But when you’re walking home with them, and there’s nothing to drown them out, by christ do you notice it… It drove me insane. The entire way home I had a voice inside my head screaming ‘SHUT UP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SHUT UP!!!!’

We finally get home, after a brief pit stop to chat up some Christian girls who were offering soup and coffee to drunk people. (Yes, I’m aware that this was ridiculous, I actually spent half an hour talking to one of them about the Italian countryside – I have never been to Italy, and I know nothing of it’s geography or countryside, I bluffed my way through this conversation and lied through my teeth… At one point she started talking to me about art. Again… I have no fucking clue about art. I just smiled, nodded and pretended I knew of the people she spoke of. At one stage she said something about enjoying solitude, which somehow prompted me to tell her that I spent a year living in a lighthouse… – I was very drunk.)

So we’re finally home, we have 3 Canadian girls and a Christian who expects me to be able to entertain her with witty banter regarding the Italian countryside and art, but jesus, we’re home, it was a long trek and we’re finally home. I lye down on the sofa, light up, and the whole world dissolves around me… I am completely at peace, the Christian isn’t impressed, but fuck her, I love smoking… I am at peace… Until the Canadians start speaking… I can’t take it… They’re ruining my vibes. I could get laid tonight, but fucking hell, can I really bear fucking something with that accent? What if she says some weird Canadian/American thing like ‘tell me who my daddy is’ during sex? What if she says something worse? Like ‘tell me who my daddy is, EH?’ Or calls me friend or some weird shit like that… God I can’t take it, they have to go home. They have to leave. I cannot listen to anymore inane dribble about Quebec anymore. Bart is really digging one of the girls though so I can’t send them home… It would be bad wingmaning. But then again. I’ve always been a bad wingman, because I’m an asshole. Fuck the moral dilema! They’re going home!

Me: ‘Everyone who isn’t God fearing, OUT!’
Canadian girls in unison: What? (they try to laugh it off, they think I’m joking)
Me: Look, you’re real nice girls, but it’s late, I’m tired, and I can’t take the shrill cacophonies that resonate in this room as you speak… you girls kinda need to fuck off now.

Two of the girls leave, one stays

Me: You’re staying?
Canadian: Um… Yea (this one massively wanted to get laid by Bart)
Me: Just … Don’t use words, for the love of God, stop using words. Just stop speaking. It’s driving me insane.

Needless to say the Christian girl is not impressed by my behavior and promptly leaves. The Canadian stays and fucks the hell out of my friend Bart. Mike is not a happy camper at this stage; nor should he be, I just threw 3 easy lays out the door over an accent. So I decide to make it up to him. I take him out to a night club called Thompsons.

Now, anybody from Northern Ireland knows, Thompsons is a dreaded hole of a place. You walk in and your greeted with a haze of condensed sweat that smells of a mixture of Es and rohypnol. You could get date raped on the fumes alone in this place. It is a horrifying club and ending up in Thompsons is a definite sign that it’s time to go home. But we stay, we start talking to a group of girls and we’re doing great, they’re from here, we don’t have hideous accents to contend with. Plus it’s pretty late, so they’re clearly desperate to not go home alone. So it’s easy game.

Enter the gay friend.

Now, I should say, I’m not homophobic and I’ve nothing against gays, really I don’t. But Jesus Christ, this guy could out gay a gay pride parade that was being led by Graham Norton. He was the gayest man I’ve ever met. Gayer than Elton John. Gayer than pink feather bathing suits. Gayer than an all male dogging orgy. Gayer than musicals. This man put the gay in gay.

I’m trying to chat to these girls and the entire time I have a gay man hanging on my shoulder, grabbing my ass, pinching my cheeks, stroking my face… I cant take it anymore. I’ve told him I’m not gay and I want to fuck his friends like a hundred times already and he’s not getting the picture (he’s off it on E’s – so I kind of understand). I have to go. I get up and leave, on my way down the stairs I bump into a man in a wheelchair (completely accidentally, I really didn’t mean it, I was rubbing my eyes at the time) and send him flying down the stairs. Drinks go everywhere. Women are screaming. Men are shouting. The Dj stops playing. Everyone looks at me. I have just turned into the guy who pushed a man in a wheelchair down the stairs of a night club…

At this point I realize the night will not end well for me… I promptly leave, as fast as I can. (I of course apologized and helped the man up and bought him a drink, I’m not a complete dick, well, I say I apologized by this I mean laughed later on, and by bought him a drink, I clearly mean, bought myself a 6 pack on the way home)

I got home and retold the events to my flat mate Stew. Who found it hilarious. I guess it might be one of those things where you had to be there. But I felt like sharing tonight. I’ve never had such a woeful night in all my life.

Oh and in the end Mike came home with a couple of girls so everything turned out ok. But still. A fight with a skinhead, being near raped by a gay man, and pushing a man in a wheelchair down the stairs in a club… Not a good night.

Anyway, I thought some of you might take some delight in my misfortune, so I thought I’d post this for you. (Yes I’m aware I’m an ass)

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Published in: on 04/07/2010 at 10:46 pm  Comments (2)  

2009: A Review

2009 was as shit as ever year that preceded it.

Published in: on 04/01/2010 at 5:13 pm  Comments (2)  
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10 Ways You Know You’re An Alcoholic.

1.  You can only tell what time it is by how many drinks you’ve had… Oh, look at that, it’s 3 whiskeys past a vodka.

2. You have no friends.

3. The friends you do have are over 60, unemployed and hate everything, including you.

4. You wake up in bed at 3am, wet yourself, then go back to sleep.

5. You don’t so much go to bed as you do fall into the bed, miss, and smash your face in the floor. You then make no effort to correct this error.

6. Being drenched from head to toe in your own vomit and urine is no longer the ‘faux pas’ it used to be.

7. Your daughter asks you,

“where do unicorns live?” To which you respond,

“You’re why daddy drinks…”

8. Your idea of a romantic night out with your partner is starting a fight with the waitress in your local McDonald’s because she wont let you light a candle on your anniversary (which was actually 3 weeks ago) due to it being a fire hazard and also your drunkenness.

9. Drenching your friends from head to toe in your own vomit and urine is no longer the ‘faux pas’ it used to be.

10. You pass out before reading this far.

My Blind Date

Hey guys, so yesterday was a fun day for me, a friend set me up on a blind date, usually I can’t be bothered with blind dates as the only women who go on blind dates are boring as fuck, dried up old prunes, who lead lives less interesting than that of my last bowel movement.

My fear of blind dates comes mostly from experience, last year a friend had set me up with a girl he knew, just out of interest I decided to go. Anyway, he gave me her number, I called her, we chatted, and eventually we decided to meet by City Hall. When I got there, I sat on a bench and proceeded to text my blind date, I wrote the words, “I’m here, sitting beside some fat chick, hope to see you soon,” needless to say the phone I just texted belonged to the fat chick… I’ll let you guess what happened next. Incase you can’t guess, here’s a clue: HULK ANGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

However I owed this friend a favour so I went for him and I have to say, blind dates rock. You can stare at their tits all night long, pour salt on the table and tell them it’s braille and you can have a hell of a lot of fun directing them into the kitchen instead of the bathroom… I did that three times.

The third time all I heard from the kitchen were the words “Oh, for fuck sake! Not again!”

The night went pretty well despite my picking on her, I ended up back at hers, we spent the night together and I left in the morning…

I don’t think she’ll call me back though… Mostly because while she slept I moved her furniture around and put her phone in the kitchen sink…

I wonder how long it will take her to realise?

Bending To The Beats… (This title will be 300% funnier when you finish reading this blog.)

So my friend’s handicapped brother, let’s call him, Jack, decided he can live a normal life just like the rest of us… Making a decision like that as a handicapped person usually is quite a proud and momentous occasion for handicapped people, often it marks the end of being cared for and looked after the beginning of their own attempt or success in the field of self-sufficiency…

Now, call me cruel if you will, but I just thought it was a good excuse to get him wasted off his tits and leave him in the middle of nowhere for the lulz.

So we take him out to this club, Thompsons it’s called, a nice enough club, if you like E-heads rubbing their faces against your 100% cotton jumper for three hours. Cotton jumpers are like E-head magnets, I had like 6 of them rubbing my jumper at one point. I think one of them actually followed me home… Which is slightly worrying.

Anyway, we took our handicapped friend to a club and fed him full of Es…  And I have to tell you ladies and gentlemen… You have not seen funny untill you’ve witnessed the hilarious vision of a man with cystic fibrosis raving and dancing to pounding, pounding techno beats. I dare say it is the funniest imagery I have ever been witness to. Incase you’ve never seen a man with cystic fibrosis, off his tits on Es, dancing to techno, it looks a little like I imagine the Stretch Armstrong toy would look if you melted his arms and legs then threw him down the stairs.

Many hours later when he’d had his fill of being the only man on the dance floor, very much like a dancing version of the elephant man, he decided he wanted to go home. He was pretty off it, so we put him in a taxi and sent the taxi to Dublin…

We haven’t heard from him since… Hope he doesn’t have to walk home, I can’t imagine he’ll get too far with his legs, probably be better off walking home on his hands…

I wonder if he still thinks he can lead a normal life… I don’t think witnessing a man with cystic fibrosis walking over 60 miles on his hands is normal… Then again if he does it we may well have accidentally created the ultimate endurance sport…

…All jokes aside, if you do see a man with cystic fibrosis walking towards Belfast from Dublin do be a nice chap and pick him up, as we may or may not have sent him down there with no money… Or clothes.

Published in: on 26/11/2009 at 4:38 pm  Comments (1)  
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The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.

Better in theory than in practice…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other captions I thought of for this were:

The Teddy Bears’ Picnic… It’s for bears.
The Teddy Bears’ Picnic: How to become it.

 

Published in: on 26/11/2009 at 4:13 pm  Leave a Comment  
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I was going to update this.

But I didn’t.

What apps do I have?

I don’t have “apps” I have fucking applications because I’m not a fucking cunt.

Stop fucking abbreviating everything in the name of sounding fucking cool and hip.

The only “app” your ipone needs is a sharp rusty pike that pins your skull to the curb any time you say “app” instead of application “because” you think it’s cool and hip to do so because iphone adverts told you so.

Also, how about an app to pull your god damned trousers up, I’m sick of seeing you faggoty assed nancy boys prancing around with your asses showing, your ass is not sexy, it is a lump of shit, go to the gym and get some proper trousers that fit.

Also, you need an app that teaches you some God damned manners, how about an app that turns your phone off when you’re around other people, oh wait, you need to not have an iphone to have that because it’s called fucking civility and only people who aren’t utter cunts have it.

My phone is a 4 year old, pay as you go, brick which can only accept incoming calls. It has two games, snake, and snake two, and it doesn’t have a colour screen and it’s battery lasts approx 12 hours. When somebody calls me it goes “ring, ring”, instead of “I KISSED A GIRL AND I LIKED IT! HOPE MY BOYFRIEND DON’T MIND IT!” over and over again.

Why own this instead of an iphone? Because my phone doesn’t turn me into a raging trend hopping metrosexual faggot. Instead of changing me, my phone reflects who I am, and that is a heterosexual man’s man.

Fuck your technology and your faggotry, they are one and the same.

Published in: on 01/10/2009 at 11:53 am  Comments (1)  
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I fucked an amputee…

Last weekend was wilder than a jaguar on crack with its cock into a toaster.
A friend of mine, James, was holding a little B.B.Q. house-warming type shin-dig and invited me along (I very much think he regrets that decision now). I’m not entirely sure why he invited me because we don’t know each other that well, and anybody who does know me, knows it’s better not to invite me to these occasions, regardless he invited me.

I was meant to be there at around 5pm. I showed up at 11.30 in police custody.

I was meant to bring a house warming gift. I threw up in his shoes and punched his friend.

I was meant to help him get into some girl he likes. I fucked her to prove I could then fucked her amputee sister to win £50.

Let me explain. You see I was planning on showing up and being civil as I so often do… However circumstance prevented it. I just so happens that an old ex-girlfriend was in town, so I decided to go meet her, I don’t really know why I did, but I guess I don’t really have to since my cock made that decision for me, as it does with most decision which relate to vaginas.

Anyway, I went out to meet her and all went well, and we’re meeting again next week. I wasn’t entirely drunk when she left and it was only 7.30 and I don’t arrive at parties at 7.30 as far as I’m concerned if a party ends before 4a.m. it’s not a fucking party, so I had a few drinks on my own…

Untill I met some Americans. Now, the Americans fucking love us Irish and it’s pretty much mandatory that we leach the fucking shit out of this one way relationship. And so, like a 13 year old Japanese school girl taking advantage of elderly perverts through the medium of used underpants and up-skirt videos I pounced. They bought me so much fucking drink I went fucking blind. Who would have known that watching Irish people drink is like a fucking Olympic sport to Americans? I was not fucking complaining.

I don’t quite remember how this next part happened, but the bar got shut down… I’m sure I and a rather rowdy crowd of Americans were responsible somehow but I really can’t remember how.

And so, we took to the streets and like freshly liberated Guantanamo inmates breathing fresh air for the first time we threw up, en mass, all over the street, and then all over a police car, then all inside the police car, and a more beautiful sight I haven’t seen since.

The police dropped the Americans off at their hotel. They were actually quite nice about the incident, although, I “should have known better” according to P.C. Jim Davies, or whatever the fuck his name was, who decided to drop me home, needless to say, I lied about where my home was, and told him the address of my friends house.

When we got there, the B.B.Q. had expanded and there were a few smokers standing outside the front door and you could see some people round the side drinking.

“Are you sure this is your house?” He asked, to which I replied,

“Why yes fine sir, I am most sure that this establishment is my home, you may drop me off here sir and I shall trouble neither yourself nor these streets any more with my jovial antics, and here is a tuppence tip for your fine services this eve!” Which translates roughly to “Course, thus is..my?….. house… I KNOW WHERE I LIBE!!!!” (I was still quite drunk, and a little drowsy.)

After a brief conversation at the door between James and the nice policeman I was allowed in on the condition that James wouldn’t let me out of his sight. This is no small task, but neither James nor the policeman though this would be an issue, as both of them thought I’d be passed out in an hour… How wrong they were…

When the policeman had left James escorted me through the hall and up the stairs as quickly as he could to prevent me being seen by his lovely presentable friends, to which I took great offence, I believe my exact words were,

“James! No! James! Look at me! James! FUCK YOU! What? What is it? Am I not fancy enough to be around your friends!? I can be fancy James! Want me to be fancy?! I’ll wear a fucking doily and drink tea and talk about the establishment and lick bums James! Is that what you want James!!!!”

It was at this point that James’ shoes were to become the victims of an oncoming barrage of Technicolor fluids which would make a great excursion from my stomach to my mouth and inevitably into James’ shoes.

On completing the arduous task of vomiting all over my friends household I decided I had become sober enough to join the party, so I cleaned up and went downstairs to chat, I was talking to the girl James wanted into, and for a good 15 minutes straight some long haired hippy mother fucker who dressed almost entirely in fucking hemp was staring at me, needless to say I initiated a confrontation, only to find out, after punching him, that he had a lazy eye, sounds cliche, but this is my life. I was nice enough, I apologised and helped him clean up his bloodied face and we’re good friends now. In so much that I didn’t do any of that he hates me.

Anyway, James’ supposed woman to be, Jennifer, was quite impressed by my awesome face breaking skills and we fucked in James’ bed, I felt that if I were to betray him I should at least do it with a degree of class.

This is where we get to the fun part of the story. After fucking she introduced me to her sister…

This was awkward for a number of reasons, the first being that I offered her a hand shake, regardless of the fact she had no arms or legs, the second being that 10 minutes later I did the same thing drunkenly thinking she was somebody else. We did not get off to a good start. Inevitably my male friends started joking about how little Nancy No Legs wouldn’t fuck me if I were the last man on the planet. Needless to say I took this as a challenge and a bet was made, all my male friends chipped in raising a total of £50 if I fucked her I got it, if I didn’t I would be left with neither pride nor dignity.

Truth be told after I got talking to her she was actually quite interesting and I kinda wish I’d talked to her sober and not fucked her for money, but alas, this is life. As it turned out, she had climbed various mountains and on one trip she ended up having to be rescued after getting lost or some shit like that and for some reason (I can’t remember what) that had to take her arms and legs off. Anyway I feigned sympathy and interest for a while and told her plenty of men would like her (she had no self-esteem, which I’m guessing should be fairly obvious considering the fact she’s no fucking arms or legs) and the conversation went a bit like this:

“I have no arms or legs lol”

“That’s awesome, does that make rolling down hills more or less fun?”

“MOAR LAWLAWLAWLAWLALWLWL!”

“Your sister’s a good lay”

“I’m ugly”

“You are…. LOL”

“That hurt :(”

“Sorry, you’re not really, want to fuck?”

“OK!”

Obviously the conversation was longer and more complex but I can’t be fucked going into the whole thing, and also, I don’t remember most of it.

Anyway, I don’t know if any of you have ever fucked a girl with no arms or legs but there are certain things about doing it that can be a little… strange.

We’ll work backwards, from the end of the sexual experience to the start.

When you’re finished you have the option of stealing her clothes and moving her wheelchair into the hallway… I thought for a good 5 minutes about this. On the one hand it’s hideously cruel, on the other, it’s horrendously funny and a once in a life time opportunity. I’ll let your imaginations decide which option I went for.

When you’re fucking, you feel so much bigger in proportion, it feels like fucking a 2/3 human size bag of potatoes with a face.

Undressing her kinda takes the spark out of the moment a little (well,  that’s assuming that the lack of arms and legs hadn’t done that already.) It feels like you’re 7 again and taking the clothes off of your sister’s Barbie dolls to see what’s under them, except at the end you don’t bite the head off and spit it out the window…

The worst part about the whole experience?

Before we did it she wanted me to take her to the bathroom… I won’t even go into what that was like…

Fuck the BBC

I am so fucking sick of the BBC’s bullshit. Their entire philosophy seems to consist of:
“Let’s make the news more accessible to the lay man!” and “I like doggies lawl!”

We get 2 or maybe 3 real stories presented to us then we’re being presented with a feel good story with a picture of some ugly ass dog with three legs who climbed a shitting hill or some shit like that…

The worst part about the generic  “feel good” story is the presenters banter between  each other. For the most part you can clearly see the presenters have never met before, are awkward with each other because they fucked at the Christmas party despite both being married… and both being men. Or alternatively they are clearly feeling very uncomfortable sitting together because of what happened last time in an incident referred to by their co-workers in hushed tones only as “the incident.”

This is the fucking news, we do not need fucking “chemistry”, you’re not presenting a thriller-drama-buddy movie special. Go back to presenting the news properly you fucks.

Also, Neither I nor anybody fucking else gives a flying fuck about other peoples’ fucking pets. Nobody does. Not even the people who own “Mincy” the shitting shit bag dog care about her.  Nobody cares about the cat who gave birth to 16 kittens and died, nobody cares about your fucking goldfish that can wank a baby, and nobody fucking cares about your fucking horse with no fucking legs who can roll around like a big giant fucking worm…

STOP WITH THE NEWS STORIES ABOUT PEOPLES FUCKING PETS, IT’S NOT NEWS AND NOBODY FUCKING CARES.

And also, fuck the lay man, he’s a lay man because he can’t be fucked being anything more than that, if he can’t be fucked it’s not your job to water down the news and make it more fun and accessible to him.

And another thing, I am so fucking sick of hearing about Af-fucking-ghanistan. I do not care that our troops get shot and killed or wounded, they joined the fucking army, if they didn’t want to die, they shouldn’t have joined, because (and I hate to burst your fucking hippy love bubble you’ve been living in for the last 15 years) IT’S THE FUCKING ARMY.

I’d spell check this but I couldn’t be fucked and today is my “sit at home and wank myself to death” day.

Published in: on 03/09/2009 at 3:55 pm  Comments (1)  
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My computer is broken.

I know it’s been a while, but I am back, sort of… In so much that I’m using a friend’s computer to write this.

My computer has finally died. It lived fast and crashed hard, like sex on speed our time together was fun but all together far too short and my computer has finally been ravaged by all the violent sadistic porno hiding within it.

So please join me in a one minute silence by means of a ball gag in the name of my old computer… Terrence.

That’s right he had a name and I loved him very much.

Also, I’ve noticed my viewship has become quite high in my absense… Strange.

Well, regardless, I will update this at some point, just not today… Today’s a “sit at home and wank myself to death” day…

Published in: on 03/09/2009 at 3:24 pm  Leave a Comment  
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It’s Sexism Sunday!!!

Published in: on 03/05/2009 at 5:29 pm  Comments (1)  
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Oh, if I could compare thee to a post-apocalypic fear factory.

Just in case you weren’t drugged up to the eyes on fear and anxiety already, the media has found a new ‘global disaster’ story to perpetually masturbate to. I speak of course of swine flu…

Unless you have a rampantly uncontrollable pig fetish and start rubbing their sweaty balls in your face, while masturbating in a pool of your own filth and having a goat take you from behind you’re relatively safe from the dangers posed by swine flu. The best part is that even if you do that, chances are you won’t actually die from swine flu, unless you live in a shit hole country where the health service consists of a voodoo medicine man doing a dance around you and blowing some weird shit in your face to ward of infection, like Mexico.

Note that the only deaths from swine flu so far have been children with fuck all immune system, the elderly, and Mexicans. Let’s face it, your kids suck, the elderly have fuck all use to society except keeping public transport well funded and nobody likes Mexico anyway.

Besides, you live in Britain, if you have swine flu just go to your GP pump yourself full of drugs and do what you’d do with regular flu, sure you’ll probably die from MRSA following your trip to the GP because British medical staff insist on wanking all over themselves and everything around them and rubbing their shit all over themselves (at least this is my hypothesis as it’s the only thing I can think of that could cause the infection rates we have), but you can rest assured knowing that we can deal with the swine flu…

Published in: on 03/05/2009 at 5:02 pm  Leave a Comment  
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My tribute to Jade Goody; the people’s princess, and her family.

I wanted to say that Jade Goody was as useful to society as the cancer that devoured her reproductive organs, but in fairness, this isn’t entirely true, the death of Jade Goody proves cancer has a purpose in society…

Which is more fag-tastic? AIDs or Twilight?

Since Twilight is the biggest pile of malignant, steaming, dinosaur diarrhoea I’ve ever had the misfortune of having been bombarded with – by both retarded, illiterate, emo, shit stains (who you’d be forgiven for thinking are little more than a mass of extras from the lesser known B movie: ‘Chernobyl: the aftermath,’) the media, and countless cretins, perpetually masturbating, in orgasmic delight, to whoever decided to cast that potato headed, mongoloid, queer bait, cunt faced, twat browed, fuck basket as the star (I don’t know or care to know his name) – I’ve decided to conduct some research…

Today we’ll be finding out just how fagtastically bum loving Twilight is.

In Pie Chart A, as illustrated below, we see, through seconds of painstaking research, that Twilight is vastly more bum loving than AIDs:

Having AIDs, it's considerably less gay than watching or reading Twilight...

Having AIDs; it's considerably less gay than watching Twilight... You read it, it's official.

In the next step in concluding just how much of an ass-ramming-bumathon Twilight is, I compared it to a prostate massage.

See Pie Chart B, below, for the results of my painstaking research:

Prostate Massages; recieving one, or giving one, is less gay than watching Twilight... Getting the picture yet you bum loving sphinctal explorer?

Prostate Massages; receiving one, or giving one, is less gay than watching Twilight... Getting the picture yet you bum loving sphinctal explorer?

When I finished my research, I decided that this isn’t really enough to decide once and for all that Twilight is the most massively, homosexual, steaming pile of horse shit ever…

So, I decided to put Twilight to one final test.

If Clint Eastwood watches Twilight in its entirety, then Twilight is officially not a bum licking festival of rampant rent boy abuse, if however, Clint Eastwood cannot watch Twilight in its entirety, then Twilight is, as I thought before conducting this research, a steaming pile of accidentally spilt bum fudge fueled by Gay Pride, sprinkled with the AIDs infested cum of 607k AIDs suffering bum lovers who perpetually masturbate to prostate massages…

Here are the results of the ‘Clint Eastwood test’ as captured on digital camera:

clinteastwoodwatchingtwilightclinteastwoodonwatchingtwilight
I guess that settles it:

If you watch Twilight, you might as well be watching Brokeback Mountain; watching Twilight is the equivalent of masturbating with a rabid (same sex) badger with a dildo up it’s ass and Twilight itself is to the arts what Nazi Germany was to diversity, multiculturalism and acceptance.

Men like porn, who’d have known?

Today was a somewhat strange day for me, I went out for a meal with my girlfriend, it was mildly amusing and we talked of a great many things, well she talked of a great many things, I nodded and pretended I could “completely relate to that” and hit on the waitress when she wasn’t looking since I knew I wasn’t getting sex tonight, and quite frankly, I’ll be fucked If I’m going to pay over £100 for a two course meal and not fuck something at the end of it.

Anyway, we got onto some strange topics of discussion during the course of the meal, one topic being her wanting to understand my having a vast deal of pornography despite having her.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a topic of conversation that is what I like to know as a complete fucking minefield. I’m not just talking a regular minefield here, I’m talking a 30 year old death trap in some weird Asian European shit hole that has claimed the lives and limbs of over 300,000 small third world children despite the best efforts of a load of self-righteous aid workers. Now while that image is fucking hilarious, it is not fun to have to negotiate your way through this minefield on the rickety bike of male linguistic skills after 4 pints and an Irish coffee.

This is how the conversation went down:

“Why do you have so much porn when you can have sex with me?”
“Can I have sex 24 hours a day 7 days a week?”
“No, not quite, but it’s pretty close.”
“Well, that’s why I have porn… Porn’s there for me when you’re not”
“Wouldn’t you delete it?”
“I’m gonna go ahead and tell you that that happening is about as likely as you winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Listen, I hate you having porn… It… Offends me a little.”

Needless to say the conversation ended in the ultimatum:

“Me or the porn” in more words.

I’m assuming you can guess what I chose since I’m sitting at home alone infront of this computer at 4 in the morning…

I guess I’m single again, but I’ll always have porn, porn doesn’t judge me, porn doesn’t force me to make decisions, porn doesn’t complain when I watch Big Butt Bonanza instead of hoovering.

…In hindsight, I should have just pretended to delete my porn, oh well, not that big a deal since I did get that waitresses number.

Some female propaganda.

I found this, apparently, it’s “27 ways to make a girl smile,” as far as I and you are concerned it’s “27 ways to friendzone yourself like a complete fucking faggot and be seen as ‘another one of the girls’ like some cockless eunich.” The original list of “27 ways to make a girl smile” or as far as I and you are concerned the “27 ways to friendzone yourself like a complete fucking faggot and be seen as ‘another one of the girls’ like some cockless eunich,” is in regular font, my changes are in italics.

1. Tell her she is beautiful (not hot, fine, or sexy)
Don’t compliment women until you’re sure you’re just about to fuck them, and even then it’s dodgy territory.

2 . Hold her hand at any moment . . . even if its just for a second.
Holding hands is for faggots.

3 . Kiss her on the forehead.
You know who kisses women on the forehead?

…Their gay friends. That’s who. Are you a gay friend?

4 . Leave her voice messages to wake up to.
Yea, that’s nice, but here’s how a man wakes up

1., wake up,
2., have a piss and a shit,
3., maybe, if you’re feeling up to it, have a wank

Note how nowhere in that list did I say “leave her a voice message like a stalker faggot with no social skills.”

5 . Always tell her you love her every second of the day.
Or, don’t say it in excess of once every 3 days and make her work for it.

6 . When she is upset, hold her tight and tell her how much she means to you.
When she is upset; get a new one; she’s broken.

7 . Recognize the small things . . . they usually mean the most.
Or, alternatively, just an idea, WHO THE FUCK CARES?

8 . Sing to her no matter how horrible your voice is.
You know who sings Barry White? That’s right, Barry fucking White, let’s keep it that way shit fuck, I don’t need to hear you woeing your walking vagina with your tone deaf bullshit.

9 . Pick her over all the other girls you hang out with.
Or ignore her when you’re with other women. Sometimes the most counter productive methods are the most effective, and by sometimes, I mean pretty much all the time, and by pretty much all the time, I mean do what I say faggot.

10 . Write her notes. (she loves them)
The only note you write in your lifetime should be addressed to your family and when you finish writing it you should take a long sip of whiskey and shoot yourself in the head in your study.

11 . Introduce her to family and friends . . . as your girlfriend.
If she actually is your girlfriend, other wise it’s weird. Actually, on second thought, if she is your girlfriend, introduce her as “some girl I met in the pub earlier,” women love an asshole.

12 . Play with her hair.
Don’t you’re an idiot, you’ll just get tangled in it and make a mess.

13 . Pick her up, tickle her, and play-wrestle with her.
Or beat her.

14 . Sit in the park and just talk to her.
Parks are for drinking and frisby, nothing else.

15 . Tell her funny jokes, tell her stupid jokes, or just tell her jokes.
Stupid jokes = goofy = friendzone, boring jokes = boring = friendzone. Jokes = dated and boring = friendzone, write an anecdote, or even better actually have a real one to tell. Then beat her.

16 . Throw pebbles at her window in the middle of the night . . . just because you missed her.
Don’t go near her house in the middle of the night, unless you’re burning it to the ground in the name of vengeance, otherwise, you’re a faggot.

17 . Let her fall asleep in your arms.
Then have sex with her.

18. Carve your names into a tree.
Then have sex with her.

19 . If she’s mad at you, kiss her.
Then rape her.

20 . Give her piggyback rides.
Don’t.

21 . Bring her flowers
Then have sex with her.

22 . Treat her the same around your friends as you do when your alone.
Don’t, your friends will think you’re a faggot, because chances are you act like a faggot when you’re alone with this bitch.

23 . Look her in the eyes and smile.
Or fuck her from behind and make funny faces.

24 . Let her take as many pictures of you as she wants.
Especially if she’s fucking you while taking pictures. You’ll need them for when you fail and get dumped.

25 . Slow dance with her, even if there isn’t any music playing.
If you’re both slow children who travel in the special bus and wear suspenders and socks up to their knees.

26 . Kiss her in the rain.
Don’t the rain is shit, it’s not romantic, it’s not French and whimsical and magical, it’s retarded and you’ll catch the cold.

27 . If your in love with her . . . tell her.
If you’re in love with her, you lost the game.

I like how initially when I started writing this I was actually trying to give real advice, since if a man does everything on this list he’ll friendzone himself after about 3 days, then after about…well… point 1 really I just started being a complete ass.

This is actually little more than a reflection on how horrifically I treat women.

I love being a complete cunt.

It’s Time For A Story / A Day In The Life Of…

As many of you know, yesterday was St Patrick’s day, like most, I decided to celebrate the day of a Saint by drinking myself into a stupor the likes of which even Boris Yeltsin could only have wet dreams about. It was the first St Patrick’s day that I’ve ever ventured out on…

“Odd for an Irish man living in Ireland,” you say?

“No shut the fuck up you retarded wind-bag, twat guzzling, cock fiend, it is actually completely normal to stay in on St Patrick’s Day, because believe it not the only country in the world who gives less of a shit about St Patrick’s Day than the rest of the world combined is Ireland, nobody here gives a flying shit in your mothers flying mouth about St Patrick’s Day and St Patrick can suck my sweaty unwashed balls.”

Anyway, back to my story: getting into town was one of the most horrific experiences of my life; I would rather juggle a fucking chainsaw with my sphincter while being fucked in the mouth by a giraffe with a penchant for aggressive and degrading sex than ever have to use public transport on a public holiday, especially on a public holiday that is really just a massive excuse for binge drinking and for asshole Americans to come to my country and wank to their ancestry that nobody gives a flying shit about.

I waited for 3/4 of an hour for a fucking bus, when it finally arrived some 70 year old dinosaur decided that as per usual her age granted her some magical whimsical right to do whatever the fuck she likes. There’s only one thing I hate more than everything, and that’s old people. Anyway the 70 year old smell merchant thought it acceptable to barge past me in her fucking elderly cretin mobile (she was wheelchair bound). Being the conductor of bile and hate that I am, I decided to give her a piece of my mind, much to the shock of everyone else in the queue, a queue which I had in fairness just barged into the middle of, but that’s neither here nor there and everyone can go fuck themselves.

After the initial shock of my lambastatory assault, and after she had gathered her trailing tits and vaginal frock from the ground she insisted she get on the bus first, and not only that, BUT THAT I HELP HER ON BECAUSE SHE’S IN A WHEELCHAIR! The fastidiousness of her audacity astounded me!

It was pretty much at this point that I decided she had just waved her right to live any longer, the way I see it, she’d lived long enough and in her current state was about as useful to society as AIDs is to homosexuals.

The queue of people stood in awe, children gaped in wonder and excitement, mother’s covered innocent eyes and gentlemen everywhere pee’d themselves while muttering something about the death of chivalry as I delivered the most ferocious upper-cut any woman’s cuntory canal’s have ever had the glory of bearing witness to. Children cried, women fainted, men were astounded, and Captain Falcon screamed in orgasmic delight as he masturbated furiously to a punch that dwarfed his own meager trademark ‘Falcon Punch.’

From that moment forth, it became universal knowledge that I am the destroyer of cantankerous old hags in bus queues, old women part like the Red sea for me now.

Having just wiped some lovely old lady from the gene pool I got on the bus, paid my fee and sat down. It was probably only about 7 or 8 minutes before my nostrils began to burn.
“What the fuck is that smell? God it’s fucking awful.”
I contained myself for a further minute or two until my nostrils were in such agony that even a pro of nose powder merchantry such as Jimmy Hendrix himself would have made a deal with the devil to escape the pungent wratheous smells that were waging a war inside my nose.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL!” It was at this point that I turned around to the look behind me, some drunken fuck had selfishly decided to take it upon himself to pass out and have a diarrhoea shit fest all over himself and the three passenger seats he was now taking up. He started to vomit all over himself in his sleep, his vomit was an odd texture, milky and gloopy, looking like but unfortunately having none of the fragrant properties of a strawberry milkshake. It was comforting to see that people had rallied together to help, a couple of children poked him a bit and a young man made a joke or two to his shit ugly girlfriend, needless to say; I got off the bus, but not before taking a piss all over the homeless drunken fuck.

Let’s face it, who really gave a damn anyway? Besides, no matter what I did, the smell couldn’t get any worse.

I did eventually get into town by walking, which ruined my mood somewhat because it meant I had to both carry and drink a 6 pack of stella while walking, and let’s face it, nobody wants to be seen carrying or drinking Stella, let alone doing both like a complete plebe.

I met up with some friends, the usual friends I meet up with when I go out for the night, a crew of barely hominid creatures as lurid and disgustingly bile-filled and asbestos spewing as I am. We went to the Students Union, as most people know, Students Unions are little more than cheap drink fueled orgies and for the most part the flooring of a union will usually consist of a beer/tequila/sexual fluid/vomit crust that has slowly solidified over years of punks fucking each other in pools of their own vomit and shit, the smell of a Student’s Union is usually akin to that of ‘dead man’s sweaty balls’ and the bands that play there are usually the auditory equivalent of playing a little game I like to call ‘who can jam the most razors into their own ears, at the end winner pisses in everyone Else’s manged face.’

Anyway, I don’t really know or care how it happened, but I ended up talking to some 30 year old hag, she wasn’t entirely unattractive, and I do usually go for the more mature lady, or anybody with father issues because let’s face it, they’re piss easy targets, in terms of its difficulty level it’s like taking a dump on a midget (not very hard if you’ve ever tried, which shamefully, I have, but that’s a story for another day). I’m pretty sure this walking sex hole was engaged but I’m not exactly the kind of man who gives a flying fuck about things like that so needless to say I carried on in my debaucherous ways. As far as I saw it, she was looser than a prostitute who’d just attended the Annual Fister’s Festival in Hamburg, so she was fair game as far as I was concerned. By the end of the night we were fucking rampantly in one of the stalls of the Student Union.

This, my friends, is where disaster struck. I was pretty drunk, and when I’m drunk and fucking a stranger from behind, I tend to get a little enthusiastic, pumping harder than a giant tentacle monster in some Japanese porn, slapping asses, being degrading in general tends to become second nature when I have a drunken shag. Her arms were both against the back of the toilet wall, her knees sitting on the seat of the toilet (terrible positioning, but I had been feeding her on vodka for over 4 hours and she wasn’t showing any signs of making any real effort to help the sexual effort), as I was fucking her I started slapping her ass a bit, one of my slaps was apparently a little too enthusiastic, knocking the drunk bitch flying off the toilet seat into the corner of the stall, where she remained, in a drunken stupor, unconscious, half naked, drenched in other people’s urin.

This ladies and gentlemen, is pretty much where I shit myself (not literally), but here’s what my thought process consisted of at this stage,

“OH FUCK, I’VE KILLED A BITCH, SHIT, FUCK, CUNT, SHIT, FUCK, I’VE ACTUALLY KILLED HER, SHE’S DEAD, I’LL BE IMPRISONED!”

“THEY’LL SAY IT WAS RAPE AND A BIG BURLEY NAZI’S GONNA MAKE ME EAT HIS ASS EVERY FRIDAY IN PRISON…”

“SHIT!!!!!! FUCK, OH JESUS, WHAT DO I DO!?!??! Oh, wait, she’s awake again, might as well finish off in her mouth…”

She was out for about 2 minutes, those 2 minutes, were the scariest minutes of my life, when she regained consciousness, I don’t think she really knew or appreciated where she was, it didn’t stop me from mouth fucking her mind you, and in hindsight, it probably wasn’t the most gentlemanly way to finish with her, especially since when I came I left her there in the stall alone and closed the door on her…

And that, is why I will never again venture out on St Patrick’s Day, that is why St Patrick’s Day is for Americans and cunts.

Man Skills Pt.I : How to survive a Tsunami

Recently, during my little excursion to Asia, I found myself being swept up by a Tsunami, while casually holding my breath for 15 minutes straight, keeping an eye out for underwater debris, and using some man’s dead fiancee and children as a human shield, I had quite some time to think about how most men are completely unknowledgeable in even the most simple tasks regarding manliness and being manly as fuck in general.

As such, I’m starting a new segment to my blogs, called “Man Skills,” let’s see if we can teach you festering wank monkeys some practical skills for the real world.

How To Survive a Tsunami.

Tsunamis are nature’s way of testing your metal as a man, you shouldn’t see them as a natural disaster, rather they’re just one of natures many little tests of your fortitude.

Mindset:
In regards to surviving a Tsunami, mindset is everything.
“Tsunami! I piss in a Tsunami!” or “Fuck everybody but myself! I’ll stitch your dead children together with banana skins and muscle tissue and use them as a life raft!” are two very good mindsets to prepare yourself with for dealing with the inevitable Tsunami.

Practical Issues: Most Tsunami prone areas will have an alert system set up to prepare people if the situation should arise, but since Tsunami’s occur usually between every 6 and 7 years and people continue to live in the same fucking area and have to continually rebuild all their shit every time nature has a hissy fit you can’t really rely on the Tsunami warning center as chances are, like everything else in the area, it’s been flattened and is filled with nothing but the bloated rotting corpses and missing peoples from the previous Tsunami.

Know The Signs: Some foreign git driving around in a shitty hatchback shouting “TSUNAMI!!” is usually a pretty good sign that your area is about to get hit by one, but like I said previously, this doesn’t always happen.

Other signs include earth tremors and earth quakes and if you’re in a coastal area you may see the ocean water recede.

People screaming random shit, women breaking down into tears (thus ruining their chances of survival) and children pissing, not only, their own pants, but yours as well, are usually also good indicators.

What To Do:
If you’re on holiday with your family, friends, or loved one then quickly asses the situation, can you gather your wife three children and wheel-chair bound uncle Albert (who when the wife isn’t around you lovingly refer to as “wheels”) with enough time remaining to haul ass into the mainland?

If the answer is no then you must again re-asses (this entire process should take between 0 and 1 seconds) who do you love most? (The answer is not uncle Albert – Trust me, he’s lived long enough.) Do you have time to get this reduced list of people and yourself to safety? If so then gather them quickly and get as far inland as you can before the Tsunami hits.

Women and children have a tendency to cry a lot when they’re faced with their mortality, so it’s generally a good idea to scream at them a lot until they shut the fuck up and let you take hold of the situation as if you were a professional ball grabber on national ball grabbing day in the Olympic ball grabbing arena.

In getting to inland, your attitude should be one of “every man for himself,” steal a car, punch a 10 year old’s ugly little face and steal his shitty rusted bike if you have to, running won’t be fast enough (unless you’re the bionic man, which you aren’t, because I am)

If you can’t get inland then your only option is to get to higher ground, (optimally you would do both). Hills, tall buildings (before going to your Tsunami prone destination you should have found out a little about the structural integrity of their taller buildings – just in case – if you didn’t and you’re sitting in the middle of a Tsunami right now on your shitty “look at me I’m a working professional” laptop reading this while simultaneously pissing all over yourself like a little girl, then I’m afraid to say that now is probably a tad too late). Wide, well-rooted trees are a good bet, but you probably shouldn’t get too hopeful as Tsunami’s are incredibly destructive and will probably just uproot it and smash you and your lovely tree into the wall of the local deli creating some Tsunami post-modernist tourist related art.

Remember, it’s not over just because you survived the first wave, if you managed to hold onto a tree or get into a high rise building, or inland, don’t stop to thank God, because he’ll probably fuck your shit up for irony’s sake by sending a second wave right up your anally retentive little God fearing ass.

Finally: If worst has come to worst and you didn’t manage to hold on, the Tsunami swept you off your feet and nature is raping you like a big burley lumber-jack raping a lost boyscout then don’t panic and don’t struggle, you’ll more than likely die, but there’s a chance that if you don’t struggle you’ll get swept back out to sea alive, where you can sit for weeks, waiting, in the hopes that somebody will rescue you as you slowly devour your own leg.

If you do manage to survive, and find yourself lost at sea, chances are finally in your favour, it’s at this stage that debris and bloated corpses of your loved ones will start popping up all over the show, use what you can find, and fashion a small boat, you can always use your dead fiancee’s skin as a mast! (It’s what she would have wanted.)

Published in: on 19/03/2009 at 1:09 am  Leave a Comment  
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Where Did All The Real Men Go?

Real men are still around but they are few and far between. Real men, are men who uphold real values, like alcoholism, being bitter, closed from their emotions, smoking, being epic and of course, being manly through the medium of all these things, violence and more.

What makes a man manly? To be honest, it can be anything, from a fabled neck breaking, “face-fuck” kick, (See Norris, Chuck), to violently and gruesomely destroying the living dead, (See Campbell, Bruce), to cutting your own arm off in order to live, (Ralston, Aron). Or even just something as simple as fighting mother nature, and God’s many creatures in drunken states (Cash, Johnny).

Manliness comes in many forms, sometimes, it comes from the simple things, in small doses, like smoking a cigarette, or drinking a beer in under 20 seconds, and sometimes it comes in big doses of vulva-kicking episodes of facial rape, like when a man fights a shark, just because he can.

Most of all though, it’s the name that says “manly.”

Names like Chuck, Bruce, Johnny, Aron, Rocky, Hunt, Rambo, Sue, Clint, Russell, “Face-fuck Al”, Tommy Gunn, Apollo Creed, Tom the rapist, and Kurt are all pretty damned manly. So what makes a name manly? Basically, a manly name sounds like a rock, type of metal, or something you use to cut somebody’s head off or shoot somebody with. Names that aren’t manly tend to sound like something two feminists, a member of Coldplay, or Britney Spears would name their adopted kid. Names like Tristan, Berty, Milton, are all pretty weak in terms of manliness.

Names that have connotations to killing or fighting tend to be pretty damned manly too, names like “Ethan Hunt,” which combines the best of both worlds, a short first name that sounds rougher than shaving with blunt rusty knives, and hunt, which implies murderous rage. Which is fucking awesome. If you can imply that you’re going to main and/or kill people, with little more than your name, you know you’re a man.

So now we know what makes a man manly, where did the “manly man” go? It’s simple, they’re a dying breed, being slowly killed off by political correctness, feminist-Neo-Nazis, over-protective mothers, crappy music, being pussy whipped, and just a complete lack of demand for heroes in society.

Political Correctness has killed off the manly man’s ability to make incredibly judgemental, apathetic, and somewhat obnoxious generalisations about religions, metro-sexualism, women, the youth, politicians and pretty much anything we’d like to make obnoxious generalisations about.

The Feminist neo-Nazi, took away the manly man’s greatest tool, his complete disregard for women and their rights. It is this fundamental aspect of being a man that makes them “manly”, it is this pure lack of a desire to care for anybody, or have them care for you, that makes a man. (See Eastwood, Clint)

Metrosexualism has destroyed the manly man’s pleasing aesthetic, a beard that looks like you just shaved with a blunt rock and used gun powder as opposed to the less manly “shaving foam”, right after fighting a bear, and a voice so gritty it could only be emulated by rubbing granite down your throat while you talk.

Children drinking in the streets have ruined the attractiveness of being a whiskey swigging cowboy, since pretty much every 12 year old in this shitty nation already drinks anyway, it’s just not cool anymore. So now real men are forced to drink paint stripper (which probably accounts partially for their decline) or move on to harder things, like heroin (see Scotland).

Over-protective mums raise their little boys to believe that if they’re just themselves women will like them. Which would work if they weren’t blubbering imbeciles who fumbled their words and said ridiculously un-manly things like, “you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re like a flower, only infinitely more perfect and sweet smelling.” Real men don’t act themselves in front of women, and they certainly don’t compliment them, they say things like,
“Go away woman,” and “Make me a damned sandwich,” or “Iron my shirt, bitch.”
They don’t pander to the egotistical desires of maniac women who thrive on crushing men in front of their friends just for a cheap laugh. If you’ve ever said something nice to a woman on first meeting them, you’re a fucking pussy and it’s because of people like you that men in general have become so fucking needy and weak. Grow a pair.

Women hate you, because you need them.

Crappy music has led to a decline in the manly man’s urge to kill… You can’t kill without good montage in the background, you want to know that when you kill a man using nothing more than a toothpick and a button, that you have some fucking badass music behind you. Not this fucking rap or metal bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, both can be good, but it’s just not quality killing music. The music you kill to should sound like shitting razors while vomiting anthrax all over the faces of small orphaned children.

One of the major contributing factors to the decline of “manly” men, is the lack of need for stealth/guerrilla warfare, with the creation of new weaponry that means entire cities can be destroyed at the push of a button and the turn of a key…

Remember when war was manly? When men shot out 16 rounds of lead into each other in the name of protecting their women and homeland from the enemy…

Or when they fought in a cloud of tear gas, bleeding from their pours, with people of different nations, using nothing but their fists…

We need another fucking war… But a real one, with some proper heroic “defending my homeland and family” man fighting.

Another major contributing factor, around all the others pivot around, is nut job men disregarding all that is manly in the name of peace…

First off, if you disregard man laws, you’re demoted to fucking man bitch. As such, Ghandi is a man bitch. No argument, no discussion, he just is, as decided in the court of man law held by the Miserable Bastard on this day.

Secondly, peace is for fucking queer bait Nancy boys.

Real men kill each other.

War is manly.

End of story.

Like I’ve said before, Ghandi was a pussy and probably a communist. Other weak men include but are not limited to Paul McCartney, Prince Harry, any man who’s liberal about anything.