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.

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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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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.

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.

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.

Ugh…

I suppose I should update this shit.

Cigarettes smoked : Incalculable. Over £300 was spent on cigarettes in the 3 week drinking challenge.

Alcohol Units consumed : Also Incalculable. Over £1300 was spent on drink, and that’s just my money. Friends spent around £700.

Times thrown up : 40+

Stomach Pumped : Twice

Fights Won : 4

Fights Lost : 6

A list of Taxi Companies I am now barred from using:
Fona-cabs, Model Cabs, Orchard Taxis, Apple Taxis, Value Cabs , Phonacabs and quite a few others I don’t know the names of.

Money spent on redecorating and refurbishing following epic sessions of drunkenly trashing friends houses: £300

Police Incidents : 3, all for being drunk and disorderly.

Estimated Damages of Pubs Around Belfast: £200 – Give or take 50.

Time spent Passed out: Over 70 hours.

Days Lost in so much that neither I nor anybody else knows where I was : 2

House Parties ruined : 8

Gay men thrown up on : 1

Number of Moments which made me Drunkenly Re-evaluate my Sexuality : 1

Number of “oh fucking fuck shit fuck that fucking girl is fucking fat/ugly, fucking fuck, what the fuck was I doing, oh fuck I gave it my fucking number, I CAN’T BELIEVE I GAVE THE FEMALE EQUIVOLENT OF JOSEPH FUCKING MERRICK MY FUCKING PHONE NUMBER” moments : Shamefully 7.

Friends assaulted: 3

Friendships ruined : Zero surprisingly

General Notes : I’m too ill to go into the details. But it was fucking worth it.

Health Notes: I’ve lost 2 stone, I was apparently the worst case of alcohol poisoning that Dr. What’s his face has ever seen in the Belfast City Hospital. Hilariously the same doctor pumped my stomach twice and recommended I take part in an alcoholic recovery programme. I did not participate in said programme.

Published in: on 23/02/2009 at 1:07 am  Leave a Comment  
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