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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Weekly Bumming Stick

I’ve been a bit of a narky cunt this week, properly feeling out of sorts. I mean just yesterday I helped this doddering old stink minge across the road without even trying to cop a feel of one her dangly rotting tit bits and the day before that it took me nearly twenty minutes to squirt my paste on my 3rd wank of the day. I put it down to lack of sleep.

Sanctimonious, wankster, hippy urban chicken farmers and The Good Life fucking wannabe’s, you know who you are.

Fucking Farmer Giles you are not, you live in a city you set of livestock owning cunts. A city where people work normal hours, a city where when purchasing a house people normally forget to ask the question, ‘Hmm I like the house, but does Bernard fucking Matthews live next door?’ If you feel you can’t resist the overwhelming urge to open up your own battery farm, then fucking move into the country, there’s already plenty of fucking wildlife there and the native animal boinking farmers would probably be glad for a few more chickens to stuff.

The last thing I was expecting to be woken up at 04:00am by was the sound of a cock apparently throwing up, especially since I’d already performed the same trick myself only a few hours earlier. I looked out of the window into the neighbours’ bastard barnyard only to see fucking Foghorn Leghorn strutting his stuff around the lawn, signalling his intent to fuck every chicken there to within an inch of their lives. The arrogant twat didn’t even flinch when I stuck my head out of the window and started roaring in an attempt to out cock-a-doodle him.

The fucking thing even woke up some slutslug I bought home the other week, which was a surprise. I thought she was deaf. I’ve tried looking on the internet for a Fox to Hire, but keep getting dating sites for sad middle aged prostiwhores. Oh well every cloud and all that.

Rightio then, Mrs Hemp-Recyleton please lift up your tie-dye Inca tribal robe and show me your egg hole. No not that one. The one you shit from. Use your green fingers to prise it open, that’s right. What, this? No it’s not a fence post you gormless poultry wrangler. Although a post pounder would probably help with this. Yes I am going to bum you, bum you with a MASSIVE stick

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Weekly Bumming Stick

Little break in the weekly bumming schedule so that I could spend a bit of time practising the old ‘Voyeur Wank’ on a nice sandy beach whilst watching over privileged daddies girls drag their bikini clad cum troughs in and out of the sea. I’m a little out of practice in the public penis punch department, but it’s good to keep my hand in.

Arrogant, sprog spawning parents who are thoughtless enough cunts to bring the little fucktards onto a five hour flight, you know who you are.

Right from the get go let’s make one thing clear, your little angel isn’t my little angel, but I’d turn the annoying screechy little bastard into one given half a fucking chance. Not content with letting the fucking guttersnipe run up and down the aisle crashing into the ever patient huge titted air stewardess of undisclosed Eastern European origin, you are now sitting idly by, chewing the cud and forcing cunting Pringles into your gormless maw, whilst your bollock spawn, incomprehensibly screams in an endless wall of noise. Not even attempting to silence or restrain young Cunt Jr, Mommy and Daddy haven’t even got the sense to realise that they are locked into a confined environment with approximately one hundred people who are systematically running through scenarios in their heads involving the brutal, sadistic torture and murder of their shrieking progeny.

‘Hang on one minute Motherfucker. Parents should be allowed to take their children on holiday, are you saying families shouldn’t be allowed on planes?!’ Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Either ban the noisy little shit machines or put them in the hold with the rest of the fucking wildlife. Take the little cunts on a staycation or something, sail or perhaps travel by train, just don’t ever think that cramming your unreasonable, restless, fidgety, little bogie faced bastard into a flying tin can is a good idea. In fact whilst I’m on the subject OAP cunts should be forbidden from flying too, sitting next to a urine soaked Methuselah is not my idea of fun. Why do old fuckers constantly smell of piss? I’m betting this one nodded off, got awoken by the toddling banshee, thought we were crashing and let loose a golden stream in panic.

Right, whilst you’re inconsiderately stopping the rest of the planes passengers from disembarking this aeroplane of juvenile nightmares by fucking around with prams and a football teams worth of hand luggage, I’d like to do the opposite of the McCann’s and steal the fuckwit parents.  I’m gonna truss you both up at one end of the runway like a pair of fucking turkeys’ with your bare arses’ dimpling in the cold air and, stick in hand, take a good long sprint at you both from the other side of the runway. ‘Look Cunt Jr! Look what I’m gonna do to Mommy and Daddy! I’m gonna bum them, bum them with this MASSIVE stick!’

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Weekly Bumming Stick

You’d think that the Bumming Stick would have got all dusty and full of woodworm with its’ year off wouldn’t you? Well it hasn’t. Truth is I’ve been using the fucking rod of rightous justice as a makeshift pole vault in a misguided attempt to get a place on the Olympic Team. Turns out it’s not flexible enough, so I’ll have to put it back to its’ original use.

Members of the British public who are fucking stupid enough to pick up the phone and vote on Britains Got Cunts you know who you are.

Fuck the fact that the smug Duke of Cunts, Simon Cowell got caught rigging the votes for his generically boring talent shows a few years back. Fuck the fact that the only time that anybody ever remembers any of the winners is when they’re mentioned on the following years’ shows. Still you sit there and pick up the phone like the happy little fuckwit brainwashed televisual consumers you are.

‘But it’s for the Royal Variety! It Showcases Britains’ talent’ bleat the huddled fucking masses. Yes. This is my point. It turns out that this year, Britains most talented person was a fucking dog! Now I don’t watch the show personally, I’m much too busy do more interesting things like counting my fucking pubes or something, so I’m not exactly sure how talented this fucking mutt was, but surely that’s besides the point?! As far as I’m concerned the dog could calculate Pi to eighteen decimal places or quote Shakespeare, it’s still a fucking dog. Imagine how all the other cunts (sorry contestants) feel? ‘Ahh sorry, you may have a great singing voice, but you don’t eat your own shit and sniff peoples arses do you?’ To be fair I’m pretty sure that’s why Susan Boyle did so well.

So put down the phone. Refrain from voting for whatever nonsensical piece of shit you feel like you’re a part of now that that bollocks has finished. You know the drill, bend over and use those number dialling digits to pry it open. This may cause you a pain in the arse but at least it will reward you fiscally. Here comes the stick. You’re about to be bummed. Bummed by a MASSIVE STICK.

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Where’s that Motherfucker?

New to the game and don’t know the rules or perhaps you’re an old hat and need a little reminder on the rules of engagment? Tough shit pig fuckers, come find me!

I’m surprised they’ve let me in here to be honest, I can’t understand a fucking word these Viking twats are on about and… Fuck who threw that shoe?!

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Cunt of the Month

Diana, Princess of Hearts, the Peoples’ Princess, fuckpiece to the rich and famous and now deceased treacherous mother to a future King, has won a posthumous Cunt Award in the first Cunt of the Month of my resurrected blog. Yes, I know she’s dead. Yes, I know it’s hardily the most satirical of cunts, but blame the pair of shrivelled old nearly corpses I heard banging on about how fucking perfect she was on the train this morning.

There seems to be some kind of mass delusion in the UK that Princess Blinky was some sort of inspirational icon for the country, so much so,  that with a little internet research I discovered that the coiffured tart somehow even managed to get herself voted into 3rd place as the greatest ever Briton! That’s right….3rd. She beat (amongst others) Shakespeare, Newton and Darwin.

‘Could I interest you in a little Hamlet or perhaps Sir would prefer the grand Theories of Gravity and Evolution?’

‘Nah thanks we’d rather have the former fuck hole of a flap eared doddering Prince, a universally despised ginger cunt solider and a knob head rugby player thanks very muchly.’ Bray the unimaginative fuckpigs who must have voted for the dead, bouffant wearing, moron shagger.

‘Ohhh but she did a lot for charity’ would be the typical defence of the Princess of Tarts. Yes, she did didn’t she, but to be fair she wasn’t doing a lot else was she? In fact the great British public, fucking hated her when she was alive, the mock revolutionary republicans and socialists complained just as bitterly about the public funding of her lifestyle as they did for the rest of the Royal Family. ‘Look at her in yet another designer frock whilst tramps are wearing bin bags,’ they’d bitch, or ‘Oh look its ok for her to go to a ballroom dance whilst one legged people have to make do with a quick shuffle in the streets isn’t it?’

It’s only when she died in Paris with Dodo Al’Harrod, that everyone started believing the fallacy which the media quickly implanted into their heads…

‘I loved Diana, did you love Diana? Everybody loved Diana? She did a lot for charity, didn’t she?’

I didn’t love Diana, famous for AIDS kissing she might have been but I used to find her type of media whoring almost as saccharine as her real whoring. Every time some African was wheeled out with no legs, she’d jemmy her way into the camera shot, batting her eyelashes and looking all coquettishly at the camera.

No Legged African Minor – ‘Oh no my legs have been maimed in a horrific landmine accident’

Doctor – ‘Don’t worry we’ve got this blonde winky women to come and give you a kiss, so everything should be ok now.’

Remember the candour of her interview where she weepingly told the nation how horrible it had been for her, married to a rich Prince who didn’t love her, but still showered her with money, gifts and publicity (not to mention showering her womb with future kings too). ‘He didn’t love me and everyone knew he was secretly fucking a horse’. Key word. Secretly. How secret were her torrid affairs with Major James Hewitt and Will Carling et al, about as private as a public dogging session on the hard shoulder of M1 is the answer. Fuck me, it turns out that young Prince Nazi might even be Major James Fuckwitts’ right royal bastard!

To be fair, she wouldn’t normally deserve a Cunt Award, especially since she’s copped it an’ all, but the sanctimonious prattling of the Nation needs to be addressed. If I could award every cunt who thought that this cunt wasn’t a cunt the Cunt Award I would… but I can’t…So she’s a cunt.

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Where’s that Motherfucker?

What’s that in the sky? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No fuck it…. It’s just a Motherfucker.

This is some quality nose fodder right here, the two busty fuckpieces come with the room, I’ll pour us a couple of shots and I’ll take that briefcase of money thank you very muchly.

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