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.

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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?

Skyfall? SkyBALLS.

7 Nov

So, I should precede this article by firstly saying that I have not watched every James Bond film, nor have I seen the most recent variation on a theme, entitled Skyfall; (I should point out that Skyfall is SUCH a stupid name, my spellchecker has highlighted it in red.) But I don’t give a tiny rat’s arse – I’m going to slam it anyway…

WHY do I feel like it’s Groundhog Day and I am, once again, having Daniel Craig’s dry-lipped pout being rammed down my throat? As offensively sexual as I would actually find that, I am BORED of seeing his good looks plastered across every billboard, TV screen, chocolate bar, condom packet etc… In fact, I hear he’s even advertising Heinken beer now. I mean… REALLY?? Get some standards, Danny C. Shake and don’t stir THAT bad boy and I’ll tell you what happens: beer jizzy. All over your face.

Needless to say, I shan’t be spending my monies on watching Skyballs on the big screen. In fact, I will bet you money that I could predict the beginning, middle and end, as well as any twists. (I won’t. But only ‘cause I’m poor.)

SPOILER ALERT!

Daniel Craig is running/jumping/sexing in some corner of the world. He receives a call from Agent M (or Agent A, or Agent B, or Agent C, or even Agent F-U-C-K-O-F-F) telling him to stop mouth raping the woman he is with and get his tight little arse back to London. He then gets shown some pictures of baddies. He then goes to find them. He finds aforementioned baddies. He shoots them with all of his big scary guns. They shoot back. He shoots again. They shoot back again. He shoots some more. Bang bang bang. Shoot shoot shoot. Woops – he accidentally trips over and lands with his cock inside several hot women. The baddies shoot some more. Daniel Craig throws a bomb and everyone DIES. Except for him of course. Because if he didn’t die, none of us would be able to sit in the cinema in 2 years’ time watching the same bullpoop.

You’ll notice that I forgot to predict the big twist. The twist is that Adele turns up and sings a song about never minding cause she’ll find someone like you and then she’ll make them feel her love and then they’ll roll in the deep before she sets fire to some rain (how do you even do that?) and it’ll be a song in a minor key that is all about getting your heart broken and bla friggin’ bla. Oh, wait. THAT’S not a twist. That’s Adele’s Groundhog Day.

So, one and all, enjoy spending many of your Great British Pounds on watching a great British tosser run around and shoot ‘em up. I’ll be bitterly flicking my bean to the thought of Daniel Craig tripping over and falling on me. Or in me. Or both.

Yes it’s Hallowe’en. No I don’t want to see your gooch.

4 Nov

I love Hallowe’en as much as the next fat kid. I’m all over it like a tramp on chips. It means for one day of my life, I can wake up, get out of bed, not put on any make-up and generally walk around like the munterish slob that I am, and yet people will still think I’ve made a conscious effort to look that fugly.

It’s an excuse to eat even MORE junk than usual. You can be creative and cut shit shapes into large fruit. For some girls, it’s an excuse to knock on random neighbourhood doors in the hope that your future husband may be waiting behind one of them. (I don’t do that…) For some guys, it’s a way of hiding in dark alleyways ready to commit the most violent crimes, and fob it off as a Hallowe’en “trick”. It’s a valid way of scaring the bejeezus out of unsuspecting small children without getting arrested, just because it’s funny. Everyone’s a winner.

Everyone, that is, except for anybody that has EYES and happens to be outdoors after 7pm. For beware the Curse of the Exposed Flange.

Somehow, somewhere, appear a generation of females that think it’s OK to use Hallowe’en as an excuse to LITERALLY get their wounds out. I, for one, do NOT appreciate seeing readily available gooch wherever I turn my head.

The other night I had the absolute displeasure of sitting at the train station opposite not one, but TWO peeping vaginas. Added to that, my eye was nearly poked out by an unsheathed nipple. Apparently it is now effort enough to wear what I can only describe as NO CLOTHES, draw a couple of stitches on your neck with an eyeliner pencil, et voila, you are now a zombie prossie. I know the look is meant to be monstrous, but this really takes the word “growler” to a whole new level. Whatever happened to just wearing a bed-sheet with eye holes?

I honestly do love Hallowe’en. But please, ladies, for the love of GOD (and for the sake of my visual and mental health), put your minge away.

What a ball-ache.

29 Oct

I’ve set up this site to report or rant on all things that I consider to be a ball-ache. I hope some of you may find solace in some of the things written here, by knowing that someone else shares your pain. Others of you will find the things written here offensive. That’s because you yourself are a ball-ache.

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