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.’
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.
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
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!’
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.
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.
This weeks’ ankle holders are likely to be a controversial choice and may even be a cause of contention. I never said bumming people with this stick was easy and sometimes I may just have to man up and make those difficult choices.
Invisible, lurking, blushingly shy readers of my blog, you know who you are.
You sit there bathed in the unnatural light projected from your computer screen, smirking and, god forbid, maybe even relishing in a tightly controlled chuckle as you read my gibberish and the comments of the brave and the bold. Terrified to leave the cosy protection of your anonymity and venture into the minefield of terror that is a blog sites comments section, you lurk there in the metaphorical shadows safe in the knowledge that you can read away to your hearts content, free of the burden of input.
Nervous fingers hover over a keyboard that quivers in anticipation as you so very nearly complete the signing up process… but no! What would I say? What if nobody likes me? What if i’m mocked? What if I just wait until tomorrow I can still read if I want can’t I?! Of course you can dear reader, in fact I’d much rather you read and didn’t comment then just fucked off completely, but I do worry about your pride and sense of self worth. I mean if you’re to nervous too talk (in a totally virtual environment mind) to a bunch of wankgrenades how will you ever cope with face to face human interactions?!
Now this may not be the best way to tempt you all out and no doubt some of the current crop of virile, cock hardening commenters’ will have something to say about me scaring off potential converts with this stick, but really examine the process going on here and I think you’ll agree that you all deserve this. Now then… touch your toes.. that’s right…pull down those tasty little cotton numbers… now use those flaccid should be typing fingers to prise it all the way open… and prepared to be bummed…With a stick…Bummed by a MASSIVE STICK.