Weekly Bumming Stick

Easy choice this week, to be honest I’m a little surprised I haven’t pole arsed this smarmy, self righteous chinless wonder before. I’ve got half an inkling that the years of public school will have prepared this fuckers sphincter for the intrusion though, it’s going to be a bit like throwing a chipolata down the M1.

David Cameron, Current Prime Liar, leader of the Conservative Party and Officially Elected Rupert Murdoch Arse-Tounge  boy, you know who you are.

So in what has come as a complete shock to all in the fair isle it turns out the tabloid press are a bunch of lying cunts. The great British only had to pay six million to find this out too, what a fucking bargain eh? Next year I propose we set up an inquiry to find out if our politicians are a bunch of money wasting self important wank grenades. I reckon we could find out for about four million, watch the pennies and all that. What does the feckless fop decide to do with the six million quids worth of advice and recommendations? Ignore it of course.

Desperate not to offend or upset the fallacious fuckers who put him in power in the first place, Chief Cunt starts warbling and bleating about freedom of the press and the difficulty or regulating what is obviously a very difficult to regulate form of media. It’s not that hard David, if they get caught out lying fine them or throw them in prison, job fucking done. But that’s not the real problem is it? The real problem is that these smug, sanctimonious, peddlers of shit who formulate the everyday mans’ opinion on everything, from political allegiance to what fucking insect some spunk target on I’m a Cunt Get Me Out Of Here should eat next, don’t really feel like being interfered with. Best not to rock the cart and let the Liberals take the fucking rap for it eh David?

In an ironic twist, I’d wrap the stick up in rolled up old copies of the News of The World. Not to soften the blow you understand, but to add some much needed girth in case we lose the Bumming Stick for good. The only way to get passed his layers of security and eagle eyed bodyguards, would be to disguise myself as Rupert Murdoch himself and gain access to his inner sanctum. ‘Oh G’day Davey, what this me ol’ cobber? It’s just my tabloid stick. Do me a favour mate and bend over I fancy fucking you again. Yeah. With this stick. I’m gonna bum ya with this MASSIVE stick.’


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Cunt of the Month

Mother Teresa, sun-dried, shrivelled up, conker faced, table cloth wearing, dodgy saint and dead nun is our second posthumous Cunt of the Month Award winner. Yes, I know, another dead cunt and a woman again to boot! I don’t want any of you thinking I’m a misogynist or anything. It just turns out that a load of dead spunk buckets are right cunts. I can’t fucking wait for Winnie ‘put a tire around their neck and set fire to it’ Mandela to croak it. I’ll give her the award the very second the first bit of muck hits her coffin.

The previous Chief Kiddyfiddler Pope John Paul II called the sanctimonious shite gabbler ‘Blessed Teresa of Calcutta’. Which was nice. Except that most folk in Calcutta don’t remember her ever lifting a fucking finger to help in their time of need. She apparently set up a school for 5000 poor street urchins and orphans, only nobody could ever find the school or the 5000 pupils who were supposed to be attending it. They’re all probably being bummed to death by some priests somewhere. Which carries us nicely onto our next point, when the desiccated cardigan wearing witch bitch found out that one of her ‘very best friends’ had been caught with his cock jammed up an alter boys arse she was outraged… That the paedophile got fired! I mean what type of world do we live in, where a well meaning priest can’t touch up young boys?! She demanded that he be reinstated at once. He went on to abuse another eight kids. All in the name of Jesus of course you understand.

‘Hey Motherfucker! She raised a lot of money for charity, don’t be so fucking disrespectful!’ wail her contingent of fairy tale worshipping deluded admirers. Did she indeed? Well for a start; a lot of that ‘generously donated’ cash she so willingly accepted came from some of the most despised international fraudsters of her day, Maxwell, Keating and Duvalier all contributed millions of other peoples money to her ‘good cause’. When challenged about this and asked to return the money the filthy old dust bag remained stony silent. She had too. She didn’t have any of it left, she’d passed it all over to Mother Church so that they could silence the growing number of bandy legged Alter boys. Literally millions upon millions squirreled away never to be seen again. This despicable poison dwarf certainly wasn’t spending the cash on improving the orphanages that she’d set up for the poor homeless kids she professed to love so much. The squalid conditions they were housed in were little better then the streets she’d ‘saved’ them from, personally, I would have chose to stay on the streets… less chance of getting a god botherer’s cock in your bum.

The whole world seemed to fall for the fucking bullshit spouted about this backwards peddler of hate, so much so that they even awarded the dilapidated cunt a Nobel Peace Prize. A Nobel Peace Prize, for the woman who refused to give even the most basic of pain relief to the patients who were housed in her ‘Homes for the Dying’?! If you weren’t dying before you went in you fucking were the minute you stepped through the bastard doors. These places were more like horror filled torture chambers then hospices, filled with the screams of patients denied a fucking Nurofen in their time of need. Not only did she lock up the tablet box she also refused to employ any trained medical staff in her doom filled institutions on the grounds that, ‘the most beautiful gift you can give a person is that he can participate in the sufferings of Christ’. Funny that when she fell ill herself she decided to fuck the suffering idea out of the window and booked herself into the swankiest medical facilities (other) people’s money could buy. The hypocritical two-faced, withered old fuckcunt.

When she finally fucked off this mortal coil, the Chief Funnyhat Rape Enabler decide that she embodied his organisations lack of moral fibre and desperation to halt progress so much that he gave the nasty old bint a Sainthood. I mean who doesn’t like a little old Granny eh? That was sure to bring more fuckwits who could be parted from their cash to the Services on a Sunday wasn’t it? A fucking Saint!? That’s like being the largest cunt in a field of cunts situated just outside of Cuntsville.

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Jizz on a Journo – Leaky Holes

This one has been brewing for a while but due to recent events it has only just been turned into a media farce with attending fucking clown music. Julian Assange many moons ago made a few absolute cunts look like… absolute cunts in front of the watching world. Those who silently stalk the Halls of Power were suddenly thrust into the spotlight of International renown, everybody suddenly knew every word the horrible snarky fuckers had been whispering behind closed doors for years. Peoples suspicions were finally justified. We are being led around by the noses by a bunch of untrustworthy compulsive liars intent on feathering their own nests at the expense of those they swore to serve. Those fuckers who have been exposed go into a shock of self-righteous indignation and immediately try to cover their cock and balls with their big wobbly gratuity taking jazz bands.

Senator Cunt – ‘Hey this isn’t fucking fair! If I’d known people were going to hear what I said, I wouldn’t have fucking said it would I?!’

Jizzed up Journalist – ‘Look, I’d like to help you you Cunt. I really would. But I have news to sell and you looking like a two faced fuckpig in front of the World is big news right now. So unfuckinglucky.’

Senator Cunt – ‘What if I said that peoples lives were being endangered by them knowing too much truth?’

Jizzed up Journalist – ‘You’re preaching to the converted mate, I’ve been lying to the gullible fuckwits for years. But to answer your question. No. We’re still going to print whichever bits we think will sell more papers.’

Now everybody knows that politicians have extreme phobia of journalists or Fallicouscuntaphoboia to give it its proper scientific name. I mean why wouldn’t they be, those are the only shits known on the face of the planet who can out lie them. Unable to comprehend that any of this was their fault, they do what they do best, they set out to use some patsys’ to character assassinate the grassing Aussie shitface who stitched them up in the first place.

Senator Cunt – Hello, is that Sweden?

Police Constable Swede – Hej, how can I help you?

Senator Cunt – I need a favour, some prickster, whistle blowing, descendant of a convict has dropped me right in the shit. Any chance you can do him for rape?

Police Constable Swede – But he hasn’t, you know, raped anyone? The girls, they keep changing their stories, turns out they wanted his cock in them after all?

Senator Cunt – For fuck sake! He spunked up someone isn’t that enough?!

Police Constable Swede – Well if you insist, I’m sure we can rustle up some bollocks. You promise we wont come out of this looking like cunts who do your every bidding?

Senator Cunt – Of course I’m sure. Now Fucking Do It!

So Sweden now wants to speak to Assasnge regarding one torn jonny and one jonny that never turned up to play. That’s right they’re not charging him with anything, they just want a friendly little chat. This bothers the media not a jot, they sense a controversy in the making so they switch sides back to their Lords and Masters and start calling the hapless Aussie names. Rapist, sexual deviant, sex offender etc being the pick of the bunch. Sounds like my CV.

Assange quite reasonably asks Sweden to promise that, should he return there to help with their spunk sack enquiries, that they wont hand him over to the Americans who are drooling at the mouth with the thought of water boarding the Tell Tale Tit. ‘No can do I’m afraid and hey if you don’t like it maybe you’ll think twice before cream pieing in a Swede again eh Rolf?’ is the response he gets. With panic mode engaged he turns to the only people who are willing to help him. Ecuador. Yes. Ecuador.

Assange – Any chance I can hole up with you guys for a bit, Sweden are after me on behalf of their American sponsors?

Ecuador Ambassador – Hmmm it depends, what they wan’ you for?

Assange – I artex’d two birds cervix with my man paste.

Ecuador Ambassador – In that case…. Welcome! In Ecuador cock spewing up a senorita is a National pastime!

This disturbs America as Ecuador are one of those annoying little nations who wont allow themselves to be bullied, so instead they lean on the UK, who are notorious brown nosed lap dogs, to do something about it. The same Government who have been unable to eject a hook handed, fundamentalist, hate inciting, jihadist who regularly calls for the death of all British Infidels, for going on nearly three years are able to cook something up in mere days for a Swedish condom faux pas. In fact, the Brits get so annoyed at Assange’s bare backed antics that they threaten to do a repeat of the old Iranian Embassy number on Ecuador should they not play ball.

We have a stalemate. The Swedes won’t come to England to ask Assange if he really did get to fuck two birds whilst he was over there and does he know if they have any single mates? Assange wont come out to play because the UK have said the second he does it’s off to the good old U.S of A via Sweden with him for a nice bit of torture. They didn’t exactly say this, but they’re shit liars so it’s easy to read between the lines. The UK has had to admit that storming the Embassy was probably a bad idea, but that when they see Assange their going to get him. Get him good.

Stalemate is no good for our jizzed on journalists, they need more drama. ‘Whistle blowing Assange is a rapist’ they tell us, ‘he put lives in danger by forcing us to print all his revelations. People could have been hurt by those secrets coming out like that and whose fault is that?’ Well it can’t possibly be the media who made sure all the leaks obtained maximum exposure, likewise the people who actually carried out these dark deeds must also be innocent, after all it was all done in the name of God and Country. No. It’s that cocky Australian cunts fault.

So you two faced peddlers of deceit, every single one of you who has had a hand to play in this whole sorry affair, get your arm bands on and dive into this massive pool of fetid seamen and paddle like you’ve never paddled before, bathe in my cum you cunts.

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Cunt of the Month

William Hague, Foreign Secretary, baldy fucking wankhand and ex Conservative Party leader has romped home in first place in this months Cunt Award. It was touch and go for a bit, Lord Seb Coe was right behind him with a nose up his ringer but then William, the gormless cunt of a Yes man, dashed off into the lead by virtually inciting a war with another nation.

For a start lets have a quick look at this fuckwits credentials shall we? He started his career as being that cunt kid who adults thought was great because he was really interested in politics and they thought they could just shove him onto the stage at a Party Conference and pretend that they were down with the kids. Only this fuckwit was more like down syndrome with the kids. He got himself voted into position of President of the Oxford Conservative Association, which is much like being voted as the wanker with the quickest wrist action at a Pull One Off competition. He won on the grounds that he’d clean up the whole voting process and get rid of any back scratching elitism…And then promptly got caught rigging an election to get his mate a position too, literally caught stuffing false ballots into a box. He’d earned his cunt wings, which automatically qualified him to join the UK Parliament.

Time rolls by and baldyilocks gets himself voted as leader of the Conservative Party, nobody thinks to check if he’s been up to his old tricks again, but the geriatric cunts he’s up against are probably too old to give a fuck anyways. He leads his Party to one of the most devastating defeats in the history of British Politics. He is confounded by this result as he was sure that by telling the nation he used to swill fourteen pints of bitter a day as a kid would win him the vote of the ‘Normal Man’. It didn’t. They still thought he was dicksplash. He bows out of his leadership as gracefully as is possible after being creamed on more then a bukkake babe on a busman’s holiday.

Which leads us to the present day, the UK’s current leaders well known for their ‘Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full sir’ attitude, decide that this fucking bumbling buffoon is just the type of Oxford churned out failure that the nation needs to represent them on the international stage. When America get it’s panties in a twist because some Aussie fellow exposes all their double dealings, lies and criminal activities, they immediately insist that he his brought to them so that they can dole out their own brand of justice… Which is torture (TM).

But they already have egg on their faces, they can’t risk looking anymore like that Bukkake babe and so they call upon Sweden and the UK to sort out this little mess for them. Sweden tow the line by trying to question him for allegedly not putting a cum bag on his bellend.. not once but twice…Filthy Aussie Bareback Rider. Anywhere else in the world this would be called ‘Fucking without a Spermsack’. In Sweden they call it rape. Sweden, a nation that was voted the fourth in the world on a recent Democracy Index, suddenly wants to extradite a man just because he hates the smell of burning rubber. Now the UK steps up to the plate.

UK Govt: Oi Aussie! You’re gonna have to fuck off to Sweden to answer tough questions about why you spunked up two birds.

Aussie: That’s doesn’t seem fair, what if they send me to America to get tortured?

UK Govt: Errrrr, America you say? Errrr we don’t know what your talking about, this is about cum bags isn’t it? *nervous shuffle of feet and wringing of hands*

Aussie: Well if it’s all the same with you, you lap dog lying cunts I think I’ll hang out in my mates Embassy for a bit.

UK Govt: Bollocks.

This is where Haguey Baby steps up to the plate, surely as our Foreign Minister and representative of our Great and Fair Nation he’s going to inject some common sense into the whole tawdry affair? No. No, he doesn’t. He threatens to invade the Embassy and take the Aussie prisoner instead. Fuck International Law. Fuck that every embassy worldwide would become a legitimate target for attack from every passing fucknugget terrosist. Fuck that it makes the UK look like a petulant bullied child in front of the watching world. What a duplicitous bitch whipped Cunt.

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Weekly Bumming Stick

What’s the best cure for a hangover? The answer is obviously relative, it could even change based on an individual’s current circumstances. Yesterday, the only thing that could bring and end to my misery was fried chicken of the white bouffant haired, ex-military paedo variety. Couldn’t get to my local branch though because of the crowd of cunts impeding me.

Olympic loving, mob forming and unduly enthusiastic torch watching cunts blocking my way to KFC, you know who you are.

You have looked forward to this moment for months, probably marked it on the ‘Events’ section of the calendar stuck to the fridge door. You’ve dressed sensibly for the weather and whipped your progeny into a frenzy by promising a spectacular display of Olympian tradition. You’re a cunt. A deluded one at that. ‘Oooh, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity’, or, ‘Oooh we’ll never get a chance to see it again.’ What, you’ll never get a chance to see some fuckwit, drowning in a shell suit that a fucking Sumo could comfortably wear, trot past you at a snails pace with a sputtering fire on the end of a perforated golden dildo? Fucking good, as spectacles go this one is so mundane and trivial, it can cause near instantaneous narcolepsy to anybody observing it, that’s probably why they restrict us to only one viewing per lifetime.

‘But Motherfucker, it’s an ancient Greek tradition that harks back to the original Olympic Games and inspires us!’ Roar a crowd of KFC obstructing bland wankgrenades. No, it really isn’t you fucking Hitler apologists. It was a ‘tradition’ set up by the Nazi party in the 1936 games. By flooding the streets and half heartedly cheering on as come cunt trickles down the road, you are basically denying the Holocaust and saying that you agree with a couple of Jews getting bumped off. But, wait. What’s this? The torch has been passed over once again to a new bearer, this time somebody’s eighty year old, dusty holed Granny set’s off at 0.25mile an hour down the road. She should know fucking better, she was alive during World War II after all. Nazi Nan.

Sorry Granbags, but since you’re the last one holding the fucking Golden Flaming Dildo of Olympic Equality thing it’s now your responsibility to face the consequences. Let’s get you out of that circus tent sized shell suit and use your shaking old lady fingers to pry the backdoor open. Bet it’s been a while ain’t it love? What? This? No love, it’s not another torch to relay with, it’s a stick I’m going to bum you with , I’m going to bum you with this MASSIVE stick.


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Where’s that Motherfucker?

Well I finally got found, albeit by some fucking, shadowy, mysterious, enigmatic figure of undisclosed origin. So I’m off to hide again, Heh Heh come and find me if you can you gang of fucklewits!

I hate the smell of fish, I’m not so keen on the eyepatch, I feel a little safer with this life jacket on and my two new friends are teaching me how to hold a rocket launcher.

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Chronicles of a Cunt

Sometimes the Gods of Fate and Destiny smile upon the deserving and sometimes, just for fun, they whip aside their togas (I like to imagine my anthropomorphised deities in a somewhat Romanesque fashion), squat down on their haunches and drop a divine load of faeces over us hapless mortals. As hapless mortals go, I’ve had a fair showering of saintly shite in my time. Because I recognise and understand that it is an immutable part of the human condition to laugh at others misfortune and because I know the type of sick fuck character you’d have to be, to be on here reading this in the first place, I thought I’d let you all have a little peek into the disastrous events that plague my unsavoury existence.

Not impressed, not impressed at all. That is the one overriding impression I have of the dainty but gormless spunk target sat next to me. On first impressions she’d seemed like just the type of bint I could picture my cock in, Blonde(ish), big milk bags, small waist and a vacant look in her eyes that lets’ me know that whilst she won’t be winning any Nobel Awards in a hurry, she does know a thing or two about making men pull that face where they look like they’ve eaten a lemon soaked in vinegar. You know the type, she can talk for two hours about an episode of Americas Next Top Whore, a show which only lasts for 40mins, but will just look at you blankly and ask sweetly if you want her to hold your dick should you bring up any other topic.

So on the surface there was absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t invite her to the complimentary free bash that my former employers are hosting at a fancy dan castle come hotel. My old boss always invites me in the vain hope that I’ll fuck her again, not realising that the only reason I bashed her in the first place was to get a pay rise. Well that and because I wanted to know what it would feel like to get wanked off by somebody with fingers made of sticks and leather and who wore more rings then Mr T. I digress. I spend a three hour drive listening to Miss Vacant prattling on about horrific reality  T.V shows that somehow seem to be more important to her than actual reality before she finally cottons on to my intense look of unbridled indifference and boredom and offers to get her gums around my plums. She was a 5/10 at best and I nearly crash the car when she decides to spit the fruits of her labour onto my freshly dry cleaned trousers. I should have let that be a warning sign of things to come, but I was too busy thinking of the other things to cum.

We finally arrive at the hotel stroke castle and after a bit of careful dabbing I can negotiate the checking in procedure without the Receptionist thinking I love the place so much I just shot my glue in my keks. Little Miss Spittyspunk is still rattling on inanely as we climb the stairs following a spotty teenage hotely working person to our room, she won’t stop cooing and awwing at the place, ‘Ooo isn’t it plush,’ she breathlessly gasps ‘Wow, it’s so posh, I feel like a Hollywood movie star,’ she gushes. Given that we’re about ten miles north of Scarborough, I’m starting to wonder what fucking ghetto this inexplicably impressed cock hole comes from. We get to our room and after managing to shut her up long enough to rattle one through her, another lacklustre performance on her part, I make my excuses by telling her that I need to go and find some of the fuckers we’re supposed to be eating with tonight.

Her Good Lady of Fate and Faeces promptly douses me with a good dose of her brown benevolence as the first person I stumble into is Ms Leatherfingers, she smiles at me with her faintly yellowing teeth and a sexually predatory gleam enters her bespectacled eyes as she sashays towards me in attempt to show me that she still has it. She doesn’t. Unless it refers to a potentially dodgy hip in a year or two. Grasping my arm in her Skeletor like grip, she frog marches me into the bar, trying to whisper in my ear about all the things she wants to do to me, in what she probably thinks is a sexy gravelly provocative manner but is actually reminiscent of a dog with asthma.

Well, not this time Ms Reaper, oh no. This time I’ve come prepared. ‘Oh I’m sorry’, I say as I take a healthy gulp of my drink, ‘but I have the new bird with me and I don’t think she’d take kindly to finding me with another lady’s tongue in my arsehole.’ Game. Set. Match. Or rather that was what I was hoping for. This dreadful, sexual ghoul is more persistent then I’d given her credit for though and made brave by the gin and tonic she makes a play to grab my bell end. I let her. I don’t want to fuck her but I could never say no to a public wank in a bar, but that’s not on the cards’ either apparently. She let’s go and asks if my new model is better than her or whether Miss Vacant would do the same depraved acts that she promised me. I let her down gently by advising her that blondey had already let me rail her arsehole and shoot in her mouth and that was just on the journey here, I proper filth it up to make sure she gets the picture, but I’m pretty sure that all I’m achieving is making her gash drip with all the sex talk.

Taking my leave of the half pissed geriatric cougar I venture back upstairs to get ready for the meal, Miss Vacant is still getting ready so I fill her in on the events just so she doesn’t get curve balled at the meal should Ms Leatherfingers get a bit touchy feely. The naive slut slug can’t believe people act like this and asks me for some gory detail, which I provide. I tell her how I once came in my bosses eye whilst she held it open. I tell her how I once fit my whole fist in my bosses ringer. I tell her how I once inserted a ruler and various other office stationary into my bosses gaping trench. Shocked and head still shaking at least this boring wench feels a little sympathy for me and she promises to keep everybody’s hands off me but hers. Which was the exact point of her being there, so all good.

We walk into the dining room and I share a few brief nods, hugs and smiles with some of my ex colleagues, before turning to introduce the new fuck piece to the old wage enabler. There are two horrified gasps, followed by shrieks, ‘Mum!?’ ‘Miss Spittyspunk?!’

Slept on my own that night. Unlucky Cunt.


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