Archive | November, 2012
Video

Belly’s Gonna Get Ya? I think it already has..

30 Nov

For some reason, the “Belly’s gonna geeet yaaa” chant has been playing over and over in my brain. God might be sending me a message to stop stuffing my face with food-crime, but either way, I thought I’d share this with you all so that you can all feel as shit as I do the next time I eat two Toblerone bars in one sitting.

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“Do u still want me to send u a pic of it?” Errr, who are you?

29 Nov

So the other day, I had the absolute displeasure of receiving this text message from some unknown fucktard called “Phil”.

Phil is a pushy bastard – after receiving no reply from me, he sent me another message asking “Wud u like it hard or soft?” before sending me yet another message, telling me (note, not asking me) to send a picture of myself.

Phil – whoever the hell you are – FUCK OFF.

Would it be completely wrong to send him a picture of a Blue Waffle? (Not my own of course. Mine’s pretty, and not at all blue or waffley.)

Video

Video WTF Of The Week

24 Nov

I watched this. I laughed. I nearly shat myself a little. If you are immature like me, you will enjoy this. A man is thrusting his cock and pulling faces for Pete’s sake, how could you not enjoy it?

“How Cheryl Cole takes her tea?” Who gives a tiny rat’s arse..?

15 Nov

There is officially no hope for planet Earth. Today I had the sheer displeasure of my earholes being polluted by the utter shite that one can hear on the radio – no I’m not talking about Chris Brown or Justin Bieber – I’m talking about the advert I heard whilst in my car, encouraging me to buy a magazine because I could, and I QUOTE: “Find out how Cheryl takes her tea.”

Yes, my friends. I could find out how Cheryl “I’m as talented as dry shit on bog-roll” Cole, (or “Cheryl” as she is now calling herself after her footballer, yes, FOOTBALLER husband cheated on her, I mean who would EVER have thunk it??), prefers her tea. Not only this – I could do so after swapping 250 of our Great British pennies in exchange for said magazine.

Well. WELL. Fuck me sideways and call me Baloo.

I mean, to be honest, I really for the life of me cannot figure out just how I have managed to exist on this planet for 25 and a half years, without this most crucial, most astronomic, most vital and LIFE-CHANGING piece of information.

Pray, do tell, how DOES Cheryl take her tea? What flavour tea does she drink? And what brand? Does she keep the teabag in whilst drinking? Or does she let it brew? And for how long does she let it brew? Does she accompany it with a biscuit? Chocolate bourbons or malted milks? Custard crèmes or jammy dodgers? Does she take it with milk?  Or sugar? Or up the arse?

Because, by great Odin’s raven, until I know this information, I shan’t sleep again. I shan’t be validated as a proper human being until I have been enlightened with this gift of knowledge. I shan’t be able to eat until I know how, just exactly HOW, Cheryl takes her tea.

And once I have found out this information, I shall extend my quest to finding out whether Simon Cowell uses butter or margarine, whether Russell Brand uses ribbed or flavoured condoms, and whether The Queen wipes from back to front or front to back. Because God knows, life is not complete until we are all aware of these nuggets of wisdom.

Stupid frickin’ cats – I rest my case.

13 Nov

In line with the “Cat’s are f*cking stupid” theme that I have been thrusting down your throats, I provide you with video evidence that I am, in fact, right. Bugger me, I love it when I’m right.

The pussy is still dead.

12 Nov

I lied this morning when I said I didn’t have the energy to get passionately angry about anything today. I am still very much snotting all over the place, my nose is redder than Rudolph’s bell-end, and my throat feels as if I’ve swallowed an over zealous cactus. Yet, something has ignited the rage within me. And that “something”, is dead meat. Literally.

Some of you may have read my little rant a few days ago, about the deceased cat that was clogging up my Facebook feed – or rather, the deceased cat’s mentally stunted owner. I thought that, having gotten it all off my chest, and with the cat in question being dead, that this whole sorry state of affairs would clear itself up and I wouldn’t have to read the utter gob shite status updates for much longer.

HOW WRONG I WAS. It is a week later and you may like to know that, whilst the cat is still dead, the owner’s enthusiasm for shitting all over Facebook, unfortunately, is not.

“Let’s all donate to animal charity this month.” Errrr.. let’s NOT.

“Mummy misses you so much.” Sorry – last time I checked, the owner in question still had the remnants of a human brain and wasn’t a FUCKING CAT.

A comment from a friend: “I lost my cat too, I hope they have found each other in heaven and are special friends now.” I kid you not, I couldn’t make this shit up.

Maybe it’s just me and my cold, bitter, unsympathetic negligence for furry beings. Or maybe I haven’t lost my brains just yet and still have a grasp of sanity. Answers on a postcard please, because unless I’ve missed something, and animals have now started having funerals at which there is a wake that I can get pissed at, I’m starting to worry that I may not be normal.

I rest my case: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LhIK8ZW0Gpk

Goodness. Gracious. Great balls of SNOT.

12 Nov

This isn’t so much a rant as a limp verbal excrement. I don’t have the energy to feel passionately angry about anything today. Why?

Because I have the Snot Disease. I am one huge walking sack of bogey. I have the Lurgy. I am having as much fun as I would be if I were sticking heroin needles in my eyes and licking sandpaper. I’ve just blown my nose and half of my brains have made their way out of my head and into my tissue. I literally feel as fresh as a gorilla’s arsehole.

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Added to this, I am nursing a hangover. I had the unfortunate experience of going on my second ever “date” last night, and God knows I needed to intravenously hook myself up to the alcohol to get through it. My goal of getting married before my 893rd birthday is getting slowly farther away. Still, at least I’ll be able to boast a top notch immune system after this shit-party of a cold has departed my body.

Feel free to send me gifts, cards, food, treats, maybe even a hot gentleman to give me a rub down. Or else I’ll have just my nose tampons to comfort me.

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