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My Grandma’s naughty email. And my Dad’s boyfriend schedule update.

17 Jan

My Grandma's naughty email. And my Dad's boyfriend schedule update.

I’ve opened my inbox to find an email from my Grandma with the subject title of “Naughty”. I’ve not yet opened it. I’m too scared that I’m going to find some sort of sex video, dildo order confirmation or S&M magazine subscription that has been accidentally forwarded on to me due to those 85 year old eyes failing her.

What is just as worrying is that above said email, there is another one from my father, with the subject line of “Boyfriend schedule update”. Now, I know time is a-ticking and I’m not getting any younger, and God only knows the extent to which I’ve put myself out there for some unsuspecting member of the male species to ask me to MARRY HIM, desperately so at times.

But I was completely unware that Daddy had some sort of schedule to which I was to stick to, in luring these poor men to fulfil the position of “Boyfriend”. Maybe he’s toying with the notion that, having never had a boyfriend before, his daughter may in fact be a lesbian. (I’m not.)

Unless, of course, the email is actually a long over-due admittance from my father, that he himself is gay, and has decided to find himself a boyfriend? Something that comes along with a mandatory periodical update?

I’m not sure which is worse; It’s all swings and roundabouts I guess. (Urgh, image of grandma on sex swing/ S&M carousel.)

So, the question now is, do I open these emails and confront the kinky Old Aged Pensioner and watch-tapping, possibly gay father?

I may just fail to acknowledge having even received these messages, and just forward them both my daily Penis Enlargement special offers instead. That, or the link to my online sex tape. Awkward much?

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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.)

“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.

It’s a pussy. Now get over it.

11 Nov

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If you are an animal lover, I’d suggest you stop reading this now.

If you are one of those people who buy calendars with pictures of fluffy white kittens, or birds regurgitating into each other’s mouths, I’d suggest you stop reading this now.

If you are the sort of person that takes any sort of offence when I say “Bambi’s mum died, big whoop”, then, again, I’d suggest you stop reading this now.

This particular rant stems from what I can only describe as the FECKING UNNECESSARY posts that have been showing up on my facebook news feed from one of my facebook “friends”. Not a real friend, mind, but a fake facebook one. So I’m allowed to crucify their moronic behaviour without feeling the slightest bit of remorse.

I understand that being in the situation where you might possibly lose a loved one, can be a very stressful and upsetting time. For example if one of your parents have been diagnosed with a terminal disease. Or if one of your siblings has been in a life threatening accident. I could go as far as being able to understand if your second cousin twice removed (whatever that even means) has had an unfortunate sex accident with a hoover and has ended up in the hospital. It happens, it’s stressful, and such is life.

But, so help me God, when I see my facebook feed constipated with the posts of someone asking for the world to PRAY FOR THEIR CAT: shit is gonna start going down.

To the fucktard in question: Have you lost your FRIGGIN MIND? There is a reason why cats have the ability to land on their feet after falling from a great height – that is because everybody wants to KICK THEM FAR FAR AWAY. They are annoying. And bitchy. Yes, BITCHY. And they walk around like the world owes them something. Well, we don’t. So you can take your pouch of Whiskas and shove it up your tiny pink cat anus.

And this one cat in particular really takes the cat chew. UGLY? Ugly doesn’t even begin to describe it. It has the facial expression that one would imagine you’d pull if someone had shat on a slice of toast, eaten it, vommed it back up into a bowl and served it to you for breakfast, i.e. unamused. (At least, I would hope you’d be unamused. If not though, I may know some people who may know some people who can hook you up with that sort of thing…)

However, I’m not sure what’s worse – this particular culprit asking all the world and its friends to pray for their stupid ugly cat OR the mundanely clichéd comments that all of their friends are posting in response:

“It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” REALLY? Is that why Cat Girl is missing a cat-shaped piece of her heart right now whilst I happily chow down on Pepperidge Farm cheddar goldfish..?

“He knows how much he was loved”… Errrr, no he doesn’t. HE’S DEAD.

OK, so some of my words may be slightly harsh. Only slightly. Very very slightly. Pretty much not at all. But am I the only one thinking that in the grand scheme of things, a CAT is what I have to be praying for? How about money, love, and world domination? Or getting chocolate BN biscuits back into supermarkets? Or, more importantly, getting that fuckwit Justin Bieber off my radio and into Room 101?

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