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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Chronicles of a Cunt

Funerals for some people are a way to say goodbye to their loved ones, for others it is a chance to draw a line under their feelings for the deceased and for still others it allows them an opportunity to pay their final respects to a person who touched their lives in someway. For me it is a chance to crack onto vulnerable, mourning tit bearers whose emotions are so raw and ragged that they’ll mistake a salivating bell end for a shoulder to cry on. That’s why when I get the call asking me to attend the funeral of an old mate i’m all over it… ‘of course i’ll prepare a little something to say’ I growl in my most sympathetic tones, ‘hmmmm, oh yes love we were very close he was a great source of inspiration to me,’ I babble, attempting to force some semblance of compassion into my voice whilst desperately trying to remember if the widow I’m on the dog and bone to is anywhere near half fuckable. ‘What? oh yes I’m sure he did speak very well of me…will his little sister be coming?’

Now, I can only half remember this dearly departed fuckwit, I have some nagging doubt as to whether or not we were actual friends or whether he was just some desperate, crazy, random  associate. I seem to have a vague recollection made hazy by the intervening drug fuelled years of debauchery of a disagreement involving me fucking one of his girlfriends, I decide that this is exactly the reason I should attend. I mean what if he married that girlfriend and she’s just been sobbing down the phone at me with the underlying message being ‘come and put something in my bum’?

The grim day fast approaches and I have my respect filled, heart wrenching, and not at all generic tribute penned out in full and well rehearsed. The night before the big day I’m out on the lash snorting coke off a strippers left tit (her right wouldn’t stay still) and when the weak and dreary sun finally filters through the blanket of roiling grey clouds it finds me looking suitably mournful if a little wild in the old eyeball department. Luckily I scrub up well and I’m looking dapper in my black three-piece suit, upon my arrival at the crematorium I am greeted by a tear stained wailing little sister (who I can’t remember boinking) a slightly scowling older brother (who I can’t remember fucking off) and a heartbroken tiny wasted big bottomed widow (who I definitely haven’t fucked before, but am giving serious condition to rectifying that situation) I am ushered into the oppressive gloom of the chapel where hushed mourners sit like plump impatient vultures, Somebody is fucking around pinning something to my lapel and my first shocked words are broadcast across the packed rows of cunt filled aisles on my new discreet microphone. ‘What the fuck is thi…..‘ a nervous titter fills the dour setting and I quickly get myself positioned behind the lectern in case the vultures decide to charge me because of my blurted obscenity.

My winning way with a crowd kicks’ in and I’m soon delivering what can only be described as moving sensitive oratory, keeping my head down and eyes on the speech is working well but I decide that despite my dilated piss hole eyeballs I really should look up and try to get a bit of eye on eye with the attentive listening vultures. My eyes scan across the front row, weepy would fuck sister, still angry disgruntled brother, wants’ one in her shitter widow, head in hands wont look up father and finally I’ve been nut deep in her clunge with her tits in my mouth mother….wait, what?!….. My eyes flash back, our eyes meet again and this time there is no doubt in my mind, her eyes may be red raw and a little haunted but there is a definite sex spark of recognition going on, ‘It wasn’t his girlfriend. It was his mother’ the statement bursts from my mouth before I can stop it. There are a few confused frowns and the brother looks like he wants to put me in a box next to his sibling, mother dearest has an almost half amused raised eyebrow thing going on. ‘Who told me what a great lad he was as a child’ I quickly cover up my slip and am quite impressed with my speedy reactions.

I make it through the rest of my tribute with no further outbursts despite extreme provocation from a mourning mother who now clearly wants something inside her box. When all is done she grabs hold of me by the arm and frogmarches me out of the chapel and around the corner away from prying eyes. At first she is furious, how dare I turn up at her sons funeral let alone read the tribute at the service? How could I be so insensitive after all the trouble I had caused by stuffing myself up her all those years ago? Who did I think I was hi-jacking her sons day, had I no shame? I quickly explain that I was there at the widows behest and that I’d totally forgotten about our liaison, I even raised a sultry smile as I told her I thought it had been a young sexy girlfriend we’d fallen out over. Within a minute she’s squatting down on her tottery high heels cock in mouth and within two I’m holding onto her hips’ making life in a graveyard. In typical unrestrained fashion and since we’re in a bit of a rush, I can’t stop myself from cursing coarsely and engaging in a bit of hair pulling. Once I’ve deposited my ashes and dust, we quickly tidy ourselves up and return to the rest of the mourners, who are all gathered in a bustling packed twittering mob near the entrance to the chapel. ‘What are they all doin…‘  My enquiry echoes around the chapel from the speaker positioned over the entrance door. My eyes widen in horror, mucky mum gasps in unrestrained terror by my side and her grasp on my arm tightens, we both start grasping for the still operational microphone as the true scope of what has happened starts to sink in. A roar from the crowd of ‘I’ll fucking kill the pissing fucking bastard!’ is closely followed by a charging father and son combo of vengeance. Kicked the shit out of me they did the bastards, my own fault though I suppose.

Stupid Cunt.

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Cunt of The Month

Hosni Mubarak longest ever serving President Elect of Egypt and fucking annoying-won’t-leave-guest at cocktail party’s wins this months’ cunt award on the basis that the stubborn cunt is lingering around like the noxious release of intestinal gasses on the morning after eating a four cheese cauliflower bake.

‘Fuck off you freedom threatening despotic election rigging cunt!’ screams a frustrated nation of oppressed huddled masses, ‘Yeah ok I will…. in seven months, I just want to finish watching this TV programme first, it’s my favourite.’  The arrogance of this power hungry cunt is surpassed only by his sense of self preservation. I don’t give a fuck about proper processes and legal procedures if I had an entire nation telling me to go and stick my Just For Men daubed Dracula inspired head up my own ringer, I ‘d probably get the message. Whilst television images of his people enraged by his clingy on attitude and incensed to the point of rioting with the now habitual wailing and gnashing of teeth accompanied by flip flop waving are broadcast into his golden encrusted palace, he blithely carries on as if it’s just another Sunday in Paradise.

El Presidente – ‘Ok Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll leave in seven months.’ 

Baying Mob – ‘No fuck off now you fucking invalid.’

El Presidente – ‘Alright what if I promise not to do anything and let the Vice President rule… can I stay then?’

Baying Mob – ‘No just fuck off Count Fuckyoula, we fucking hate you, you fuckpig!’

El Presidente – ‘Ok I hear you, I hear you… What you’re really trying to say is stay a bit longer isn’t it, I can read between the lines you know’

Baying Mob – ‘Fuck me, what a cunt.’

I can hear the frustrated cries now, ‘But Motherfucker, this cunt is an obvious cunt, why’d it take you so long to crown him Cunt of the Month?!’  The problem is that this tyrannical, Machiavellian extra from the Adams family has managed something that only a select handful of politicians and a scattering of holy men throughout the ages have ever managed. Muslims and Christians have been seen holding hands, breaking bread and chanting arm in arm. Both religions showing each other respect, unified in their bitter contempt of an utter wankbag, acknowledging each others worth as Egyptians rather than letting their different interpretations of raving mad man stand between them. In one swift move of stubborn incalcitrance  this shady and deceitful pitiful excuse for a statesmen has done more for religions harmony in Egypt than all the eulogising of pedantic Priests and the ferocious tirades of irate Imans  could ever hope to instil. Hence my brief stall whilst I summed it all up, weighed the good and the bad so to speak.

Turns out he’s a massive cunt.

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Where’s that Motherfucker?

If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire… A Motherfucker.

That is a fucking craking pair of cheeks, everybody cheering is putting me off saving this for my wank bank and what is that, is it a fucking egg?!

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Where’s that Motherfucker?

Last week was easy, it was like hiding from a convention of deaf and blind five year old children with learning difficulties. Try again you spunk éclairs!

I refuse to walk like that, I’ve struggled to get on here to post this and there’s a lot of fuckers lobbing shit about!

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Weekly Bumming Stick

Well folks,  for obvious reasons I’ve been hanging on to the stick this week in a bid to tactically outwit my growing horde of enemies and give them a good old bum sticking, but I’ll be the bigger man for now and I will instead keep it employed in the public domain.

Traitorous, foul, lying politician cunts of the former government, you know who you are.

Well known for your superior spin politics and ability to lie to and mislead the very electorate who first enabled you to take up public office on the misunderstanding that you had the publics’ best interest at heart, you have truly surpassed yourselves this time. No weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? No problem we’ll lie…Massive financial deficits about to explode in our faces? No problem lets just cook up a fib…Want to release a terrorist responsible for the deaths of 270 innocent people? Lets just invent a fucked up bullshit story and blame it on the Scots, everybody hates those alcoholic ginger cunts anyway.

‘Woah, Woah, Woah’ says an ex-foreign office minister shocked that the media spotlight has centred in on the part he played in this duplicity, ‘Fuck me’, he pleads desperately, ‘It was the fucking Scots not me!’ Hang on you duplicitous shitbag, who schooled the Libyans in the first fucking place? Who warned them of the upcoming medical report that would allow the murdering Allah loving maniac to go free? Who pointed out the legal loopholes that would become the result of it?… You did you cunt.

But just like everything that that Regime of compulsive liars touched it went fucking wrong for you didn’t it? The cunt didn’t die as you expected and he’s currently living the fucking high life on his home soil, spitting in the eyes of the families of the loved ones left behind and laughing at us for the Nation of Fools that you and your cunty bosses have painted us as.

As you are trying to answers your questions on a topical debate show, in that horrible stuttery manner that all politicians who have been caught in the act adopt, I will sneak up behind you, smash your lie filled cranium against the desk an enlist the help of Jeremy Paxman to whip off your Marks and Spencer trousers… Pass me the stick Jeremy…Yes I’m going to bum him with it…Yes, bum the two faced, deceitful fuckpig with a MASSIVE stick.

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Chronicles of a Cunt

Well fuck me hard with a thermos flask and collect and store my juices for scientific research this has been a tough old week and no mistake. I know you may all take a bit of convincing on this one but believe it or not their are folk out there who are even more fucked up then me. ‘Go Bollocks, you sick fuckpig!’ I can hear you cry but it’s true! Exhibit A for my evidence? Some daft twatbag has asked me to be his Best Man?! I mean how fucking insanely desperate would a fucker need to be that they’ve resorted to asking me?! I like desperate, I also like the title of BEST MAN and more importantly I love the idea of fucking  one of the bride-to-bes’ sisters (either would do) so I accepted his request courteously and set about plotting.

First off the bat and being new to this whole procedure I was at first overwhelmed by all the shit that was expected of me. Soon my intrinsic nature kicked in and I managed to dodge all of the boring bollocks which I have no interest in and get stuck into organising the stag night, which apart from the speech and boinking bridesmaids is the only aspect of this fucking circus that I’m willing to get involved in. Now because the only person I really know is the Groom, I’m a little unsure of what type of Stag Event people are expecting. This is easily solved by setting up something that I  would want to do and fuck what all these strangers are bleating about . I set up a  three dayer in Amsterdam amidst worried calls from strange men I’ve never even spoken to and looks of alarmed concern from the future Mrs Knobhead. Even the Groom-to-be is starting to realise he’s made a MASSIVE error of judgement.

Fast forward a few months to last weekend and I’m the City of Sin sat in a pungently smoke filled room with approx twenty unknown, vacantly grinning men. There’s more glassy eyed expressions going on then in an American anal porno. The Stag is nudging me,  he is worried that his father and uncle are not going to make it and insists that maybe me force feeding them two big space cakes each was not a good idea. I’m more worried about myself to be honest, the various mushrooms and weed based products i’ve consumed have left me under the impression that my mate is an actual stag.. and as a concerned, nervous looking stag is quite a comical looking fellow I can’t help but roar with laughter into his bemused, confused face. I pat the bag by my knees making sure that the full leather effect gimp suit I have just purchased is to hand.

I knew what would pick the timid fuckers up and I was bang on right but drinking in Amsterdam is expensive, luckily most of these fucking lightweights are smashed out of their faces after several pints with chasers so it doesn’t completely rob me of all my casheesh. Getting them into the swing of things we soon have the Stag dolled up in his brand new S&M suit, complete with collar and lead. Even Stag Dad and his Uncle Knobhead are perking up as we march him through the streets of Amsterdam, passed slut filled windows and into a Live Sex Show, where we are promised ‘Quality Sleaze and Filth’  The beer is kicking into these typically average British fuckers and their starting to get a bit rowdy in the show, being two feet away from birds having at each other with banana’s probably doesn’t help. Which gives me an even better idea, like a lightening bolt of miraculous epiphany thrown from the fist of  the God of Fucking. I move amongst the crowd, soliciting contributions from those who I feel are likely to be willing co-conspirators.

I’m speaking to a Russian Slut, who’s Bikini is a neon looking Star Trek number, she’s leaning  casually against the door frame letting me ogle her massive tits. Her English is very good and she grins at me nodding as I explain what is required from her, she tells me that she’ll need half an hour to prepare, but no problem. Thirty minutes later and my co-conspirators and I have dragged the Stag who is pretending to be an unwilling victim to his destiny. He sees Russian Titwhore and stops struggling.

We all stand around waiting for the Stag to emerge, like a butterfly from a neon spunk filled cocoon. Five minutes in we hear a startled whelp, I allow myself a grin and waggle my eyebrows at my new friends who chuckle sheepishly like a bunch of schoolgirls. About ten minutes later we are all treated to a horrified yell of shock, swearing and anger filled roars proceed the Stag bursting from the whores window.  He has not pulled his mask back on, tears are streaming down his face, hate fills his eyes as he swiftly scans the awaiting pack. They alight on me. He chases me through the street for at least half an hour, until I loose him. I even had to fucking rent a new hotel room for the night.

Apparently the plastic sheet spread over the bed had not triggered any concerns. The massive pair of milk bags and tight round arse had entranced him so much, that although shocked at the intruding butt plug being introduced into the proceedings, he allowed its’ continued presence. It was the swift removal of the intruder at the point of ejaculation forcing him to crap himself freely and uncontrollably that pushed him over the edge. It moved him to tears, the big bloody baby.

I spent the next two days alone. Apparently it was not appropriate for me to arrange this type of scenario. Apparently my services as Best Man are no longer required. Apparently I am sick for thinking of such a thing in the first place. Apparently I will not be fucking two Bridesmaid sisters in two months.                Bastard Cunt.

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