Okay, I haven’t posted anything since June of last year even though before that I claimed I was back to blogging, but this time I’m going to make a genuine attempt to maintain a semi-regular contribution to this sexy, dangerous, slutty little blog of mine, and actually bother to promote the thing a little. So what to talk about? Hmm…Dead hookers? Depraved, bestiality-prone Welshmen? The virtues of short-lived 1980’s TV show Manimal? Oh, I know! Let’s talk about the governments of the world molesting our freedom! Yeah, that sounds like a light, fun read. But wait, do I approve of it? You’ll have to read on and find out! DUN DUN DUN!
At the heart of the recent controversies regarding truth and freedom are the non-profit organisation WikiLeaks and their spokesman and leader Julian Assange. Assange recently stated: “To keep a person ignorant is to place them in a cage. The powerful – if they want to keep their power – will try to know as much about us as they can, and they will try to make sure that we know as little about them as is possible.”
Exposing the illegal activities and scummy actions of private banks and the huge corporations that practically own the American government, bringing to light corruption from around the world, revealing information and cover-ups from elected governments with hidden agendas, and removing their cloak of secrecy while they attempt to invade every facet of ours is unquestionably, unarguably an admirable endeavour. But wait, regardless of that, by hacking into private files or leaking classified information, they’re sometimes breaking the law themselves! So let’s agree with the American and British governments, and prosecute and execute those really fighting for our freedom. Yeah, that makes sense!
Publicly castigated by almost everyone in the political sphere and thusly revealing the lack of testicular fortitude on both sides of the political coin, whistleblower Assange is a complicated, fallible but essentially courageous defender of freedom who’s been incarcerated within the walls of the Ecuadorian embassy in London for over a year now. There he is outside of the jurisdiction of the US, UK and others who desperately want to arrest and extradite his (uncharacteristically effeminate for an Aussie) ass on bogus sexual assault charges. Essentially, through their actions Assange and his cohorts have brought tangible evidence to the perennially underlying suspicion of government bullshit and secrecy, of a vague but pernicious sense of ‘they can’t be trusted’, and have simply opened up the lid of a box that’s contents were always under partial scrutiny but has now been exposed to all and sundry for the rotten slime inside.
However, governments lying, censoring or covering up and committing acts of egregious immorality ain’t exactly a recent development. The American institution in particular has been rockin’ with the devil since its civilised inception, but it’s only in recent times that a group like WikiLeaks have publicly exposed a regime to a level never before seen and we the people aren’t ready for it. The group have even published diplomatic and intelligence documents going back as far as the 1970’s. We need to be sheep, dammit! Our eyes must be closed once more! The good old days, right?
WikiLeaks exist largely because the mainstream and corporate media, regardless of what side of the spectrum they sit on, have been hopelessly inefficient in holding the government accountable and are usually prone to unobjective partisanship. But as news stations and newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic continue to manufacture narrative, peddle lies as facts, use non-reputable sources, manipulate and sensationalise events for purchases or ratings, report on topics with their own predisposition and political agenda masquerading as neutrality, and sell endless uninformed negativity and misery to the masses because it’s so just so much easier when they do the thinking for you, where would we be without the winning smile and brainless belligerence of republican blowhard Bill O Reilly, or the effortless charm and insufferable smugness of liberal douche Keith Olbermann? Quite frankly, it scares me to think.
WikiLeaks policy with revealing news is to provide the document that the story is based upon and the reader can make up their own mind. Their small team of reporters have divulged more concealed information than the rest of the world press combined. But who needs that when you’ve got one-sided muttonheads dictating for you what’s right and wrong?
An esteemed philosopher named Jack Burton once said “This is gonna take crackerjack timing, Wang”. That doesn’t have anything to do with the point I’m making here, I just really like Big Trouble in Little China. Congressman Ron Paul on the other hand, one of the very, very few politicians I have any respect for, stated “In a free society, we’re supposed to know the truth. In a society where truth becomes treason, then we’re in big trouble.”
But what Captain Ron doesn’t realise is that TRAITOR TRAITOR TRAITOR ENEMY OF THE COUNTRY THEY’RE ENDANGERING THE TROOPS ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, which I’ll think you find is a reasoned and balanced riposte to those who defend the heroism and courage of people like Assange, Bradley Manning, Edward Snowden and others willing to expose the government for concealing the truth and censoring the public’s right to know the policies and crimes they perpetrate.
Look, I know that WikiLeaks have lifted the lid on innumerable cover-ups and war-crimes perpetrated by the American and British governments in recent wars based on manufactured evidence. I know that the American government has illegally sabotaged the organization online, while the Obama administration has, in its first 17 months in office, prosecuted more leakers than every previous president in history. I know there are around 16 million documents being classified top secret by the American government every year. I know that the government continually conceal text in documents and redact public information, including manuscripts written by former government and army officers such as Operation Dark Heart. I know that good ol’ boy Mike Huckabee called for the execution of anyone involved leaking information to Assange and company, showing that trademark Christian forgiveness and love for all mankind. I know that major companies ensured that WikiLeaks could no longer receive money through their channels, showcasing the loathsome relationship between government and vile corporations (Monsanto are just the coolest!). I know all this.
But these are just indisputable facts, and there is no place for facts in our society. Haven’t you learnt anything from the storied history of our wonderful governments? Keep those peepers shut and be an obedient and complacent member of society. That’s what’s best for us.
Then there’s that major gossip hound (formerly Private) Bradley Manning. I was going to tell him about how cute I thought his sister was but now I know he can’t be trusted. He’ll tell her everything and I’d be like, so totes embarrassed and shit. Despite the fact that lil sis is going to the prom alone now, Manning’s proclivity for scuttlebutt has had many championing him as a hero much like Assange. Exposing the war-crimes of a corrupt and despicable government and their seemingly unaccountable troops may seem like an act of selfless heroism to some of you, but will somebody please think about those poor, defenceless government heads and what this whistle-blowing could do to their lives? It makes them look bad, and the powerful, supremely privileged one percenters have feelings too, you know! Manning may have believed he was exposing information that the American people deserved to know, relating to a war they shouldn’t have been in, but as a result, bourgeois government leaders occasionally get dirty looks from others at their exclusive (read: no Jews or coloureds) country clubs and foreign nations begin to dislike America and its panting lapdog Great Britain. Does Manning have no shame?
Deciding that being convicted for 35 years just wasn’t irritating enough, sexually confused Bradley Manning opted to experience life in the vein of an Ed Wood movie and made the contentious decision to become a “woman” named Chelsea with aspirations for hormone replacement therapy. He was inevitably going to spend the rest of his life as a bitch in prison anyway, so he simply expedited the process by way of gender transformation. From this point on however, all future leaks will be taken sitting down.
Once a month Manning will also bleed from the crotch, develop impromptu sullen mood swings and shout at me for apparently making offensive comments towards her that I didn’t even know I said, when all I ever did was throw it out there that she’s put on a few pounds in the last six months and suddenly I’m a misogynist that’s supposedly having an affair with Cindy across the street. If I am, then it’s because you haven’t opened your legs in a fucking year and Cindy actually appreciates me! So there, bitch!
Edward Snowden is the other major whistleblower of recent times, currently seeking asylum with wacky ol’ Putin and the gang in Moscow after leaking classified National Security Agency documents revealing invasive programs designed to spy on the American public as well as other nations (including allies), and wanted by the US government under the archaic 1917 Espionage Act, despite not selling information to foreign nations or profiting from it at all (you know, actual espionage). You might think the PRISM program used by the NSA and all of the Email and phone hacking as well as countless other forms of nefarious, intrusive government voyeurism is a bad thing, but I just love being watched all the time. The FBI have even admitted they use drones on American soil for domestic surveillance. They should even put a hidden camera in our bathrooms, because we might be conjuring up anti-government propaganda while taking a dump, and besides, big brother watching me shower would make me feel special.
If the government wants to read my private email correspondence with the medically questionable Dr. Van Winkel about my upcoming penis enlargement surgery dates or eavesdrop on my personal phone calls begging family members for money to fund my penis enlargement surgery, they should! Invade our privacy with your immoral and invasive surveillance programs, but redact and withhold the government’s private information from me! After all, I once sat next to a Muslim in class, and I even openly criticized the policies of the Obama administration in the street a few years ago. That practically makes me a terrorist and potentially a danger to the fragile foundations of our society. I need to have everything I do tracked at all times for my subversive ways to protect our freedom!
Oh and Barack, just so you know, I changed my email password so if you need it, it’s “cuntballs”. Feel free to log in, just don’t open any emails from Nigerian princes with sizable bank accounts. And will you stop ordering pizzas with my debit card, you lovable presidential scoundrel! I don’t care that it was ‘Two for Tuesday’. Ah, Hussein, you so cheeky!
This next section is the most important of all, and pertains to censorship of documents by the powers that be. █████████████████████████████████████████████████
████████████████ cunts █████████████████████████ midgets ███████
██████ Mel Gibson █████████████████████████████████████████████
████████████████████ be all up in my grill, homie █████████████████████
█████████ 1.21 gigawatts ████████████████ Dr. Sam Beckett██████████████
████ and that’s why whatever you do, never trust a Chinaman that doesn’t own chopsticks.
So remember ladies and gents, freedom of information and the truth aren’t things we little people deserve, so let’s not focus on our personal liberties being extracted from us while our countries progressively become police states and go back to important things, you know, like the marriage of Kanye West and Kim Kardashian. Stuff that matters. Let’s continue to contribute to a society that constructs importance to unimportant things while increasing censorship of information, language and content.
Don’t reject the actions of a government that doesn’t care about you, instead relegate yourself to tedious squabbling with the other side because I’M RIGHT AND THEY’RE WRONG LALALALA. The cancerous dichotomy of the contemporary political spectrum is clearly more important that any kind of solidarity against an increasingly oppressive minority that’s in control of you, so instead of thinking for yourself and abstaining from political categorisation, stick to fightin’ with those no-good liberals/conservatives! You’ll never take my guns/you’ll never take my drugs!
Let’s not be bothered that our phones are tapped and our private online correspondence is hacked into, or be particularly fussed that we’re being monitored incessantly by an abundance of surveillance equipment on every city street corner. Let’s simply believe everything we’re told, lest we be tin-foil hat-clad loons, and let our benevolent governments continue to ably perform the exemplary job they’ve been doing thus far, in secret. Because corrupt, war-mongering, filthy-rich, overly-privileged men and women in overpriced suits spinning yarns and spewing lies know what’s best for us better than you paeans could ever wish to, so bend over and take it dutifully under the watchful gaze of their all-seeing eye. Ain’t that the truth!
Right then, that’s enough of all that, I’ll just get back to writing about midgets and Steven Seagal again.
America – Land of the free, home of the brave, realm of the morbidly obese. While no longer an exclusively national endemic (with Britain in recent years following the cholesterol-laden lead of it’s plumper, louder and less subtle cousin), obesity is still at it’s most common, dangerous and repulsive in those yoo-nite-ed states of America. A grotesque and bulbous gut, a pair of swinging breasts/man-boobs like deadly cannonballs and a copious array of ever-widening chins are as much quintessentially American trademarks as the Stetson hat, bad reality TV and school massacres. Nothing screams “Gawd bless America!” like rippling rolls of belly fat and the inability to shuffle forward four steps without collapsing in a heap of frenzied respiration. But don’t fret, my rotund Stateside friends, because I’m here to change your pathetic, waddling existence and end obesity for good. Are you with me?
This is the first in a daring new series of articles where I benevolently divulge my genius plans to solve many of the world’s most troublesome issues. Upcoming editions will include ‘How I solved the Israel/Palestine crisis’ (hint: I put the ‘fun’ in fundamentalism) and ‘How to destroy the Welsh’. The latter involves copious usage of sheep and explosives; though somewhat contrarily, I can almost understand the Welshman’s penchant for woolly livestock buggery, because I’ve seen Welsh women. But I digress. First and foremost, I must tackle that most consistently American of problematic epidemics – obesity.
If there’s two things Americans like, it’s their guns and their fattening food. It’s debatable as to which would be easier, eradicating their legal right to own a firearm or prying a cookie from their crumby, bloated hands. While CNN’s Piers Morgan takes a scummy page out of his old tabloid newspaper background, exploiting the Sandy Hook tragedy for ratings and portraying the facade of a moral crusade against the constitutional right to bear arms, people seem to forget that Americans are doing far more pernicious damage to themselves – not with pistols and shotguns but with extra large triple whoppers (with something masquerading as cheese) and a litany of unhealthy processed foods and sugary drinks.
A report by ‘Trust for America’s Health’ projects that by the year 2030, half of adults in the USA will be obese unless things change. It claims that currently 35% of American adults are obese, and that obesity rates have tripled in children since 1980. Obesity is considered to be a heavily contributing factor to somewhere around 400,000 deaths in the US per year, as well as being responsible for increased medical bills in an economy where many simply can’t afford to exhibit such carelessness. To say this would be a problem would be an understatement. Voraciously stuffing Twinkies down their star spangled maws (because Gawdammit, it’s the American way!), nutritionally-challenged Americans might end up exterminating themselves years before the Chinese try to in World War 3.
A lot of the blame also has to go on processed foods. These processed foods contain carcinogens that damage your kidneys and bones, and cause increased aging. They’re also stuffed with additives, because they overstimulate the production of dopamine, which is a neurotransmitter that controls pleasure, and leads to exorbitant cravings. They’re often riddled with pesticides and chemicals, they pollute your blood stream and poison your digestive system, while junk foods often cause chronic illness. In short, processed and overly packaged foods are killing people on the inside. It’s like eating malignant laboratory creations instead of natural food. You think the companies producing these give the remotest fuck about your health? Think again.
It’s astronomically mind-boggling that the world’s foremost superpower (well, until China takes over) contains huge, unrelenting swaths of the most backward, ignorant, small-minded, bible-thumpin’, gun-totin’ cretins and loons on this planet. Not just the parts of the country where most of the inhabitants look like the product of the love scene in Deliverance, but all over. When this is taken into account, it should come as no significant surprise that most Americans don’t care about their weight and health, or that they’re totally uneducated on the matter. Yet when you find out about such esteemed establishments as the ‘Heart Attack Grill’, a revolting burger joint in Las Vegas with a purposely high-calorie menu and a hospital theme aimed specifically at blubbery fatties, you still can’t help but shake your head.
It includes such delectable delights as the ‘Quadruple Bypass Burger’, containing a grease-soaked patty accompanied by 20 slices of bacon; ‘Flatliner Fries’, deep-fried in pure lard; ‘Butter-fat Shakes’; and high sugar sodas similar to the old school Mexican-style Coca Cola. If reading all of this has left you salivating, then you’re a fat cunt beyond help. Customers are clad in hospital gowns and those over 350 lb even to get to eat for free. In a delicious twist, a customer actually had a genuine heart attack while munching on a ‘Triple Bypass Burger’. And they say Americans don’t do irony?
There are some, particularly women, that attempt to defend their bovine physiques and claim they’re attractive and uniquely sexy as justification for being disgusting, lazy pigs, often using the term “Big and Beautiful”. No, fat women. You’re not beautiful, you’re fucking repugnant. Looking at your cottage cheese thighs doesn’t arouse me but makes me want to gouge out my own eyes with the spoon you were just using to engorge yourself with. I don’t know what particular planet you happen to derive from, but on Earth, men aren’t commonly attracted to a woman that resembles a beached whale and has to replace her bed every 3 days after it keeps collapsing to the floor.
And speaking of beds, what about coitus? You think you have a chance of going on top? Think again. You’d crush the guy unfortunate enough to be fucking you and end up becoming an accidental necrophiliac. Even the other way round would be a nightmare because he’d have to wade through an unsightly mass of sweaty, enveloping belly and thigh flesh just trying to locate the gaping chasm that is your vagina. Also, on this planet, Type 2 diabetes and a catalog of heart diseases aren’t usually considered appealing qualities in a partner.
Not long ago British chef Jamie Oliver earnestly attempted to combat the increasing rates of obesity in American children in his show ‘Food Revolution’. In the second season of the show Oliver traveled to LA with his team in order to provide nutritional education and awareness to both the children, the parents and school bosses. While some of the kids reacted positively and genuinely showed an interest in healthy cooking/eating and making a change to their bodies, when it came to those in charge of nutrition and funding, Oliver was met with disdain and disinterest. They hated that Oliver was shining a light on their appalling standards and making them look bad, and time after time doors were slammed in his face. 75 school districts rejected his proposals to improve their canteens, and the LA Unified School District refused to let him film inside their schools. Then the Food and Drug Administration flexed their muscles, extended their dirty, corrupt tentacles and ensured that the show was cancelled.
The schoolchildren therefore don’t have a choice when consuming canteen food, and American school bosses continue to show flagrant disregard for the health of their students, only caring about profitable pre-arranged deals with food companies. Oliver was non-cynically just trying to help alleviate a crippling problem, and in return was essentially told to fuck off. This all screams of a much more pertinent issue, which is inherent American ignorance and jingoism. It’s Tex McFatty screaming “How dare a foreigner come to MY country and tell ME how to live MY life?!” while wiping bacon grease on the side of his stars ‘n stripes t shirt. “I’m an American, dammit!” Tex shouts out, “and I ain’t gonna have mah freedom and mah liberties and mah guns and mah JAYSUS taken away from me by some no-good non-American bastard! Go back to France or wherever you’re from! I know best, ’cause this is the greatest country in the world, buddy! YEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAAA!”. Tex then has a heart attack.
1- Wall o’ Fat:
I propose that all clinically obese people are gathered up, not dissimilar to how Jews were rounded up in Germany and eastern Europe during World War 2, and placed in temporary holding camps. There they shall be bathed, removed of all clothing and applied with a scientific adhesive all over their body. Then the fatties shall then be transported to the Mexican border and carefully placed upon one another in a gigantic human wall, some horizontal and others vertical. Their flabby, well-padded flesh should sink into one another, merging as one with the help of the adhesive acting as a sort of cement. The fatty’s shall be fed only minimally with a series of intricate tubes connected to each of them passing the necessary fluids through. Defecation shall occur naturally and act as a further deterrent against would-be border crossers along with the natural aroma of fat sweat.
This human wall will provide a much stronger barrier against illegal Mexican immigration and thus it’s two birds with one stone. When desperate Mexicans attempt to cross the border, they will be unable to climb the barricade of humans due to the sweat excreted by the fatty’s making it too slickened for them. If however one or two do manage to occasionally grab onto of some piece of hanging flesh as a sort of climbing hold, an officer armed with a crane will be on hand to quickly provide the starving fatty with guacamole and hot sauce and watch as the desperate lard-ass turns cannibal and munches on some tasty wet Mexican.
When one of the greasy fatties croaks, they shall remain in the wall until decomposition sets in, at which point their corpse will be delicately removed and another obese person put in their place. Statistically there are enough obese Americans to build a human wall along the entire border from California to Texas, and will save both manpower and resources. You’re welcome, America.
2- Hypnotism (Just Say No):
Using hypnotism to engage the obese in constructing the necessary willpower to refuse or reject opportunities to get fat and fight urges to eat excessively. Imagine a licensed hypnotist waving a donut as a makeshift watch in front of a fatty’s eyes as their eyes become as glazed as the ring-shaped food and repeating-
“When aiming that thirty-eighth spoonful of double choc chip ice cream towards your gaping mouth, pause, just for a moment, lower your corpulent head and gaze downwards (you’ll probably have to push in your plethora of extra chins to enable accurate vision) at that wide, protruding, bouncing tire of fat that you call a belly and possess the fucking willpower to JUST…SAY…NO!”
“When you try to go outside to go to work in the morning but within seconds find yourself lodged inside the front doorway, unable to move and sandwiched between the sides as groups of local kids regularly come by and poke you out of curiosity with various sticks until you pass out and reawaken hours later as one of the fatter children, out of pity, offers you one of his Hershey bars, JUST…SAY…NO! (And get the fat kid to call an ambulance)”
Obese Americans are hypnotized on their sofas every day by mindless reality TV and asinine sitcoms, so why wouldn’t this work? Just say no!
3- Health Warning Labels on Fattening Food
Since cigarette packets have health warning labels on the packets like ‘Smoking Kills’ etc, then particularly fattening foods should follow the same pattern as those sexy cancer sticks and have off-putting labels on the likes of Big Macs reading ‘Binge eating will give you love handles’ and ‘In a few years your tits will be bigger than your wife’s’. It’s questionable whether the messages on smokes actually have had any discernible impact on dissuading smokers from polluting their bodies with nicotine, but it can’t hurt to put a picture of Steven Seagal or Kirstie Alley on every packet of cookies next to the line “THIS WILL BE YOU SOON, YOU FAT CUNT”.
And so we reach our blubbery denouement. I guarantee that my fool-proof plans to combat obesity, will, with due diligence and determination, be beneficial to all of you American fatties. Of course, alternatively you could always try healthy eating, regular exercise, educating yourself on proper nutrition, dieting and uniting against companies and corporations to stop making unhealthy, processed foods. You could always try turning vegetarian, not consuming butchered animal corpses simply because they taste nice, actually exhibiting compassion and ethics for animal life. By renouncing your instinctive savagery, not only would you improve your health (significantly lower rates of cancer and heart disease, no clogged arteries) and lose weight, but you’d prove that you actually do possess a higher intelligence than other carnivorous animals. But all of these things would take some willpower, and how many of us have that, right?
Despite my article helpfully resolving this whole messy issue for good, if any of this has got my American readers down in the dumps, then let me remind you that things could still be a whole lot worse – you could be Welsh. And that’s a fate even worse than death by quarterpounder.
This is the second installment in a two part post detailing my love for freaks.If you haven’t already, first go back and read part 1. Go on. Just do it. Stop being a stubborn cunt and just do it. I’ll wait. Go.
Done? Good. That tale was completely and unabashedly true, by the way. Everything I wrote about occurred. I fucked the fuck out of that beautiful fucking freak, and she spawned a whole love affair with freaks worldwide ever since. Never again did I make passionate love to a cheeky freak, but I laughed my ass off at some of the most hilarious ones to ever grace the earth. Here are some of my personal favorites:
The Wolf Man
Look at this hilariously hirsute cunt! Can you imagine the bill he has to pay for his monthly waxing? Known previously as the Wolf Boy (before cleverly evolving into the Wolf Man, I didn’t see that coming), Yu Chenhuan was born in a remote Chinese province in 1977, baffling doctors with the lengthy hair that was growing down his spine. This only increased at a remarkable rate until within weeks his entire body was covered in hair. Unlike most kids growing up, his parents were less concerned with breastfeeding him or teaching him maths but more preoccupied with ensuring he didn’t shit in his hands and hurl it at their faces before climbing up a tree and getting a chimp pregnant.
Wolf Man has clearly embraced his hilarious and incurable ailment, even recently signing up for a online dating agency. Imagine what his profile must have read: ‘Enjoys long walks on the beach and howling at the moon. Looking for a woman that can brush me, give me belly rubs and pick up my shit off the street.” Presumably she also doesn’t mind getting a rash every now and again.
Various Siamese Twins
Some of the most famous Siamese twins were the Tocci brothers and Chang and Eng Bunker (both pictured). Siamese twins are among my very favorite of all freaks, and I simply can’t get enough of them. They’re endlessly fascinating and hilarious. Imagine only having one penis between you – what if one of you wakes up in the middle of the night and wants to take a piss, but the other one decides “fuck it, we can hold it ’till the morning”? What happens if one of them wants to bring a girl home for sex, does the other one just lie there and do a crossword?
The Tocci brothers were once visited by a doctor who claimed that Giacomo was intelligent and Giovanni was a dumbass. Imagine how awkward that’s got to be, especially as they’re gonna run out of conversation very quickly if Gia wants to discuss existential philosophy and Gio responds with “Cows go MOOO!”. If I were Gia, I’d orchestrate a conspiratorial plot to kill Gia and have the whole body to myself, even if it meant having a deceased purple head sitting next to me all day. Plus I could practice kissing on the dead head and no one would know or think it was gay.
Many throughout history have died prematurely while others have lived much longer lives. Ironically, one got run over when crossing the road. You’d think with two heads they’d look both fucking ways. During less sensitive times, the majority of these freaks worked in circus sideshows and were extremely profitable thanks to a general public’s increased fascination with the grotesque. Some however have lived far more conventional lives despite their congenital condition, including Chang and Eng (who originated the term ‘Siamese Twins’), who in the 19’th century fathered 21 children and even owned slaves on a plantation. They each had a wife which must have undoubtedly confused things but at least spiced up their sex lives.
I’d love to see a pair of Siamese twins where one was a sassy black guy and the other was an uptight white dude, and they constantly bicker about racial issues and manners and fried chicken. Hey, that sounds like a sitcom…
This hilarious creature was Grady Stiles, who suffered from a deformity known as ectrodactyly, where is toes and fingers fused to look like lobster claws. If I saw him in the street I’d probably throw him in the sea or reach for the nearest frying pan. This kid was literally a real-life super-villain. Once he left the carnival he was apparently an abusive alcoholic with a foul temperament and remarkable upper body strength, and was even convicted of multiple murders throughout his life and sentenced to heavy imprisonment. These are the defining characteristics of a fucking X-Men antagonist. Hilarious but deadly.
Cooking this cunt in boiling water suddenly doesn’t seem so harsh, huh?
The Human Caterpillar
Also known as the Pillowman and the Living Torso, the Human Caterpillar (real name Prince Randian) was one of the most physically hilarious and outlandish freaks the world has ever witnessed. An early 20’th century sideshow performer as well as one of the stars of the controversial 1932 movie Freaks, Randian was limbless and when he placed a one-piece garment over his body resembled a caterpillar or worm, moving himself around by wriggling his shoulders and hips.
His party trick was to roll a cigarette and light it using just his mouth. If he gave up smoking he would have been fucked. I wonder if like a real worm, if you cut him in half the second part of his severed body would grow into another person. Sadly for this human caterpillar, he would never transform into a human butterfly and fly off into the sunset. He must have made a great draft excluder or paperweight, so at least there’s that.
Well, obviously. Move aside bearded ladies and double-headed men, my all-time favorite freak is of course the midget. https://theflyingguillotine.wordpress.com/2011/04/17/midgets-the-worlds-funniest-creatures went into more detail about my passion for these hilarious pint-sized creatures, and they’re head and shoulders above all the other freaks for outright hilarity. Interestingly, while the most famous midget to first gain infamy was General Tom Thumb at a diminutive 2 foot 1, the shortest midget of all time is actually still alive, and is the record breaking Chandra Bahadur Danghi (pictured) who stands at a brilliant 21.5 inches. Haling from a small secluded Nepalese village, he also has three brothers who are less than 4 foot tall. I wish to barter with some of his taller siblings for his purchase – I would love to own this spectacular midget to accompany my long term prey Peter Dinklage.
And that’s that.
Ah, I remember it like was yesterday. The year was late 2000. A sonically questionable but uniquely spirited band by the name of Limp Bizkit were taking the musical world by storm and a young, impish George W Bush was looking ahead to an uneventful first year in office. The autumn breeze rustled through the bushes and the perspiring pubic hair of a passing naked hobo, and as the London skies gently darkened, it seemed like a serene evening for all. But this was not the case. Far, far from it.
The final episode of beloved sitcom Boy Meets World had just aired on British TV, and I was absolutely fucking distraught. The greatest television program to ever grace the screens had finally come to a heartbreaking end, and it had hit me hard, like a cannonball straight to my curiously over-sized nutsack. Dark, deranged, demonic thoughts swirled around my head in a nightmarish daze. I was devastated, and my state of mind manifested itself in the form of a savage beat-down to the wheelchair-bound spastic that lived next door and a profanity-laden tirade towards his carer Betty. Then I beat her up too. “Why, Mr Feeny?!” I squealed, eyes awash with tears, as the bloodied carcasses of Special Needs Kevin and Betty lay beneath me motionless.
Not even the subsequent, phenomenal shit I had next could cheer me up. I was explosive; shelves, tables and even a jar containing my late aunt’s ashes were smashed and strewn over the floor as everything felt the full force of my unrestrained fury that no longer would I get to experience the exhilarating adventures of Cory, Topanga and crazy Eric Matthews. I was angry and lost. So I took to the streets.
My peregrination was unprepared and I paid little attention to where I was going, the only thoughts occupying my mind that of Shawn Hunter and his girlfriend Angela, the black girl that never belonged. The night, just like my cogitation, got darker. Soon I realized I had ventured up to a particularly rough part of town known as Hackney, a fair few years before the vacuous hipsters emigrated to its graffiti-laden streets and gentrification had set in. As I continued northwards, a thin, lepidote Chinaman sprung out of an alleyway wheeling a suitcase behind him.
“You want buy dee vee dee?” he abruptly asked, his narrow eyes aflame with the thought of profit.
“Do you have Boy Meets World?” I mumbled back, dead inside.
“Boy meat?” he replied. “You want little boy porn? You big poof, yes? I provide you!”
“What?” I exclaimed. “No! I like women. Away with you, yellow heathen of the Far East.”
Then, it happened. The moment that changed my life forever and heralded in a newfound love for a subgenre of humankind. I saw my first freak.
I saw her out of the corner of my eye, which was considerably ironic as the Chinaman didn’t even notice, and his eyes were specifically designed for that kind of vision. There she was, across the dimly lit street, scurrying along in a hurried limp. A large beige overcoat did little to hide what appeared to be protruding, tufted wings on her back, while her face wore a fascinating handlebar mustache that was more akin to a Victorian gentleman. For the first time that night, Boy Meets World emptied from my mind and was replaced with the aroused stiffening of the bald headed butler in my pants. I was intrigued.
“I have vewy good snuff dee vee dee, yes?” interrupted the bootlegging Chinaman. “Filmed outside young boy primary school. You want? Five quid!”
“Go stick a chopstick up your ass, Mr Miyagi!” I retorted, wittily. “I have a freak to follow!”
When I turned back around, the majestic mongoloid had scarpered down a quiet residential street, so I hurtled after her faster than an Ethiopian chasing a chicken, needing to find out more about this fascinating freak. By the time I reached the corner, my usually Olympian stamina had confusingly let me down, my face and armpits sodden. Exhaling heavy doses of the freshest north-east London air, I looked up and noticed I was situated outside a grim, monolithic council estate, with a scratched and graffiti-laden sign in front of it reading “Denzel Washington House”. My acute sense of cultural and ethnic sensibilities led me to believe this might not be the best spot in town to stand and sweat. No sooner than had this thought emptied my mind, a gang of 20-something hoodlums, clad in dark hoodies and baggy tracksuit bottoms, approached me.
They were a deeply multicultural mix of black, light black and brown skinned larrikins, the largest of whom appeared to be missing the majority of his teeth. Another, clad in thick gold chains and carrying a can of beer, spoke up, perhaps the appointed leader of this mysterious tribe.
“Oi blud,” he pontificated, clearly also the intellectual chieftain of this ragtag assemblage, “what you doin’ round my endz, famalam? D’you wanna get murked in your face you pussio?”
“I’m sorry gents, but could one of you do me the privilege of acting as an official translator?” I asked, gently. “I’m not sure which particular jungle dialect you speak, but I’m afraid I’m not at all fluent in it.”
The group seemed wholly uncooperative with my language request, and one pulled out a menacing knife aimed squarely in my direction. I concluded that the only way out of this predicament was to stand and fight. It was time to get crazy.
“Come on then, motherfuckers!” I silently screamed with my eyes, pugnaciously tearing apart my Dragonball Z t shirt like Hulk Hogan in his glistening prime, inadvertently revealing a chest tattoo of Jade Goody that I would later regret getting done. “If you bastards want to get hopelessly caught in the crossfire of my barrage of destruction, then step right up!” I shouted at them in my mind. Adrenaline was cursing through my body, my lean but deadly arms shaking like Michael J Fox at the breakfast table. Shockingly, the hooligans seemed somewhat unperturbed by my fearsome display of combativeness, and approached me with a quickened pace.
The one with only two teeth in his diseased gums remarked “Why’s this wanker takin’ ‘is fackin’ clothes off, blud?” while his half-cast (are you still allowed to call mixed race people that? Note to self: Look this up) buddy replied “Eyyy, metinks mans is a batty boy, bredrin!” as the others heartily chuckled in intoxicated bemusement. After holding my arms out and attempting an ill-advised Ryu Hadouken to no effect and quickly realizing I didn’t actually know how to fight, I retrieved my torn T-shirt from the cold concrete and began frantically devising an escape route.
But it was no use. The gang were circled around me like BBC presenters to a 12 year old girl. Just as I was about to offer them the entire box set of Last of the Summer Wine on DVD as the ultimate olive branch, one disc to each of the lads in return for my freedom, the moment I’ll never forget transpired, like a lightning bolt to my soul. And my dick.
She was back. The freak I had been following leapt out of nowhere and decimated each of the employment-challenged gang members one after the other; vicious left hooks, devastating knees and brutal limp snapping. She clearly had retard strength. Her altruistic display and her systematic beat-downs were like poetry in motion. I knew it then and there, this freak, like a mutant Xena warrior princess, was to be my sexual conquest. Each of the men collapsed to the ground in screeching agony as she demolished the gang, her wings beginning to flap in symbolic victory.
My tally-whacker was bouncing against the inside of my underpants with all the impassioned verve of a bongo drummer on crack. My ballbag tingled as she approached me, her sleek auburn hair flowing in the wind, her scabby facial growth pulsating above her splendid mustache.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
“I’m fucking outstanding, dear.” I replied, love-struck. I couldn’t quite placer her accent, possibly Romanian or Slovakian.
“I’m from Romania and I’m half Slovakian.” She said, confirming my suspicions.
We talked for what seemed like minutes but was probably just one minute, I couldn’t tell because my mind and heart were racing. She explained to me that she was a freak from a traveling eastern-European circus that was in town and had fled after arguing with the owner. But soon the words faded and the romance kicked in. We ran to the nearest cheap hotel we could find, and love was made.
She was ravenous. For the first few minutes all I could do was lie there in eroticized shock as if stricken by rigor mortis, my magnificent meat-whistle throbbing beneath her misshapen thighs. Her scaled wings spread apart like the pearly gates of heaven opening for God, her wingspan magnificent and dripping with a glutinous substance I wasn’t familiar with but smelt faintly of Nutella mixed with rotting fish. She removed her panties and my gaze lowered to her effulgent nether regions, where, to both my astonishment and intense arousal, I counted not one, now two, but three vaginas. And I don’t mean just three holes, like women apparently have done there (I say ‘apparently’ as I’ve yet to discover this enigmatic third hole), but three actual vaginas, complete with labia, hood and clitoris. Sitting right next to one another like attentive pink triplets.
I was like a fat kid at a sweet shop given a free voucher. I didn’t know where to start, but I eventually decided to bury my face in the middle vagina and stick two fingers from each hand in the side pussies. Then, after several minutes of cunnilingual delight (I’ve won awards for my pussy eating skills at several European conventions), I rose up for air, shook my face dry of vagina juice like a dog coming out of the rain and, in a rhythmic display of remarkable cadence, thrust my engorged member into each of the vaginas one at a time, three thrusts then the next, three thrusts then the next, like a repetitive beat on a drum-set.
After our 5 hour lovemaking odyssey commenced, we both sat there, nude, raw, alive. Boy Meets World had departed my mind completely, and I just wanted more freaks. She conceded that the touring circus was where she belonged, that most people weren’t like me and wouldn’t accept a deviant like her in normal society. With great sadness she left and returned to her people, while I sauntered home, a renewed spring in my step.
When I arrived back, wheelchair Kevin and Betty were both still lying on the street outside, clearly needing medical attention but I didn’t care. I was over the moon. I knew from that point on that I would keep looking for more brilliant, fascinating and above all else hilarious freaks. Fuck Topanga. Recently Boy Meets World has been revived as a new series called Girl Meets World, with some of the original cast members returning, including Cory and Topanga now as parents of the titular girl. But still, fuck Topanga.
Now then, now then, ‘ows about that?
Shakespeare once uttered ‘Absence from those we love is self from self – a deadly punishment’. However, the Bard was a complete cunt. And as sure as I am that the harrowing ordeal of returning to this blog time after time in the last year and a half with no updates whatsoever has left my
thousands of few loyal readers (including my number one fan and butt-plug aficionado “Rob Redmond”) as consistently distraught as Madonna during her monthly visit to the STD clinic, I certainly don’t feel adoration towards any of you bastards and anyway, my absence from this site can be explained.
About a year ago I traveled back in time in a Delorean with a wild-eyed eccentric scientist (who may have been a pedophile, I’m not entirely sure) back to good ol’ 1955 and accidentally changed the timeline. I must have stepped on a butterfly or maybe it had something to do with the whore I slept with and consequently murdered, but whatever it was had a domino effect and when I returned to the present everything was fucked. Global economic recessions, employment figures in the toilet, senseless wars in the Middle East, Kim Kardashian, Dubstep – none of these things existed in my original timeline. So basically, half of the terrors of this world are my fault, and that put me in a slump for a while and I didn’t want to do any silly blogging. But I least a fucked a 1950’s old-timey hooker. I buried her near the clock tower in Hill Valley. That was pretty darn swell.
But none of that’s important. You can all breathe a heavy sigh of intoxicating relief because the prodigal son hath returneth. Thousands, nay hundreds, nay tens of devoted followers have pleaded relentlessly to yours truly for the return of this life-changing tome, from bruised eastern European hookers begging me to start blogging again before I buried their dead bodies underneath the floorboards (I’ve really got to kick that habit), to Holocaust survivors explaining to me that reading my musings is the only thing that can make them forget the atrocities of Auschwitz, albiet temporarily. So, like a tremendous sunbeam of divine glory, the gift is back. Bow before me, remove all of your clothing (yes, even the thong) and in all your naked splendor (if you’re a chick, preferably under 20 and Oriental but I’m not overly fussy), bask my child…baaaask.
Not since good ol’ J. Christ decided to give some Jews a quick scare during one of the more particularly memorable Easter holidays has such a reappearance sent shock-waves through the civilized world (plus Wales). Yes, internet nerds, diabetes sufferers and basement-dwelling virgins, The Flying Guillotine is back, like a metaphorical internet Jesus. But unlike everyone’s favorite party-trick peddling carpenter, this badboy ain’t here to forgive and (keeping it on a Christian theme, because who doesn’t enjoy copious Biblical references) unlike Moses, the only thing I’ll be turning into blood is the metaphorical faces of anyone I feel like. Or something like that.
One of the main reasons I’ve been otherwise engaged from enriching your mediocre lives with my words of wisdom (other than fucking the space-time continuum in the ear-cavity) is because I’ve been looking after three young women, or rather three ungrateful fucking whores, who obviously didn’t appreciate the freshly furnished basement abode I’d kept them in, nor the expensive cages, bondage whips and Scopolamine (all out of my own pocket, I’ll have you know!) that I regularly lavished them with. To quote Huey Lewis, I taught these girls the power of love (and the importance of not resisting forceful anal sex), and they repaid me with hurtful words and some downright questionable glances. Recently some ghetto crackhead illegally broke into my premises (and was he punished for this felonious indiscretion – NO! Work that one out, folks) and stole my three guests to the peculiar commendation of millions. Needless to say, I’ve had to lay low since then and finding decent wifi on the road has been a struggle. But at least I never have to go back to fucking Cleveland.
As well as time travel and sex slaves, I’ve also been deeply ingrained in a clandestine one-man crusade to clear the name of the alleged kiddy-fiddling DJ and presenter, the late Sir Jimmy Savile. These foul aspersions spewed out towards Savile simply aren’t true. When I was a very young boy in the late ’80’s I met him in a London hospital and he seemed like a perfectly convivial gentleman. Not a shred of indecency about him. Next people will probably be telling me he wasn’t medically qualified to perform my prostate examination that day. It was good news, in case you’re wondering – he gave me the thumbs up.
Since I last posted, the BBC has begun to resemble Coalinga State Pedophile Hospital. I believe it all to be a vast conspiracy, orchestrated by the shape-shifting alien lizard men (known to many as the Illuminati). These otherworldly bastards have even gone after Rolf Harris now! As if such a benevolent soul like Rolf would place a young unsuspecting girl’s trembling hand around his furry genitalia and ask in his genial Aussie tone, “Can you tell what it is yet?”. A pernicious conspiracy! They want to enslave us all! EYES IN PYRAMIDS!!!!11one
A lot’s happened since I was last round these here parts. The world, and particularly the UK, spiraled into a frenzy over some fucking athletics. What a colossal waste of time and money the Olympics were. Despite being considered a resounding success, I thought, like always, they sucked. And I’ve seen my deceased uncle hang himself. Naked. With a dildo lodged halfway up his bloodied, swollen hemorrhoid-laden asshole. The Olympics were a slightly worse experience to view.
Everyone in the UK seemed to be obsessed with the diving. I’m not a malicious person or anything, it’s just that whenever I see Tom Daley standing on top of a diving board I pray that someone forgot to fill up the swimming pool with water that day. And before you patriotic Brits think that would ruin his medal-winning chances, you’re forgetting he’d be a shoe-in for the gold at the next Paralympics. Probably be a more entertaining spectacle anyway, though finding somewhere to park might be a bit more difficult.
The tedious closing ceremony made me wish Al Qaeda had showed up halfway through. You could tell all the various African athletes had been parading around the stadium for a while because all their knuckles were scraped and all the guide dogs wouldn’t stop barking. In fact there were so many black people wandering around I thought Don King was handing out free turkeys again. Kudos to Usain Bolt though, who performed another electrifying display, despite earlier in the day having to deal with difficult parental issues when his young child asked him, “Dad, I have the biggest dick in third grade. Is it because I’m black?” Bolt replied, “No son, it’s because you’re eighteen.”
Lots of other shit happened too but now I’m melancholy again over the altered timeline and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Maybe I’ll go kill another prostitute to cheer myself up. Gee, I sure hope this blog gets chosen for the WordPress freshly pressed page! I’d love my magnanimous musings to be highlighted amongst some romantic fan fiction written by an obese housewife or the daily blog of Skip McGee, who loves writing humorous cereal reviews as well taking pictures of his dinner! To be associated with such literary genius, why, I’d really feel like I belong! Oh, and fuck that cancerous boil on the anus of humanity Noel Edmonds. He never existed in the original timeline either. Neither did AIDS, but I know which of the two I’d rather get rid of.
Below is a video review of the most insufferable cinematic abomination to ever poison the big screen, the accursed tween brat/lonely 500 pound middle aged women franchise Twilight. It was made by the frequently inebriated Aussie prone to the odd sexual misadventure linked on the right hand side blogroll, Cal, aka ‘Stray Butler’. It’s narrated, edited and mostly written by him though I contributed a few lines and remarks (anyone that’s read this blog should probably be able to easily decipher which ones) and it’s a glorious and unapologetic defilement of the most mind-bogglingly terrible set of films since Highlander 2, and it’s even more pathetic legions of sad, obsessed fans. Not only is it a hilarious review, but it’s completely and utterly true in everything that’s said. Give it a watch!
And if you disagree with anything in that video review, you should probably go lock yourself inside a wheeled coffin and arrange for someone to push you down a hill onto the nearest freeway. I’m willing to do it for a reasonable fee. And a blowjob. But take the artificial fangs out first, I’m very sensitive.
Lawyers. Bankers. Politicians. Hipsters. Women that read vacuous gossip magazines. People that overuse the word “like” in sentences when like, they like, speak (especially like, Americans). People that use hashtags as if they’re actual things because of fucking Twitter (#Cunts). Scott Pilgrim fans. Hunters. People that watch David Lynch films. White guys with dreadlocks. People that say “Epic Win” and “Epic Fail”. Nerdy gamers that “boost” online to acquire trophies/achievements instead of getting them naturally by just playing the fucking game. Guys that wear skinny jeans that look like they’ve been painted on their skinny chicken legs. The Hollywood executives that cancelled Eureka and probably Community. These people are all cunts.
You see, the world is full of cunts. You might even say the planet earth is just one giant planetary cunt. And yet, the preceding paragraph didn’t even scratch the surface on the amount of cunts that inhabit this floating sphere, which is why it’s necessary to award those most magnificently cunty of cunts for their very cuntyness in what I’ve titled the ‘2011 Cunt of the Year awards’, or the Cunties for short. In this article I will award the cuntiest people and things the year had to offer. Each winner, be it a cunty person or a cunty thing, receives the following prestigious accolade acknowledging their incredible contribution to the overall cuntyness of 2011:
If you haven’t already read the precursor to this article where I look back at the year 2011, then read that HERE. Go on, I’ll wait.
Done? Good. Then without further adieu, here are the award winning cunts of 2011!
Cunty TV show of the year: Deal or No Deal (UK)
Facing stiff competition from the ever-cunty Two and a Half Men and Jersey Shore, the UK edition of Deal or No Deal fully deserves the opening award for being the most insufferable puddle of rhinoceros piss to ever contaminate television screens. Firstly, there’s the concept: someone chooses a box to open from a selection of boxes……and that’s it. Each box has randomly assigned amounts of money inside, of which the contestant loses the chance to win when opened. It’s completely random. And viewers lap this shit up like it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. People watch other people opening boxes, glued to the fucking screen. Every. Fucking. Day. CUNTS!
Secondly there’s the host Noel Edmonds. If ever I wanted to invent time travel for the solitary reason that I could covertly infiltrate a Nazi concentration camp and trick a soldier into letting me throw someone in the oven, Noel would be the reason. His cheesy voice and bland personality; his ridiculous lion’s mane haircut that looked lame back in the 1970’s, let alone now; his unfunny little asides to the “banker” as if he’s a comedy genius; his forced melodrama during the show. Every time I see him I hope that after the show he gets sodomised by Mr. Blobby in the dressing room. CUNT!
I even heard Edmonds on this Godforsaken show describe it as tactical. How the FUCK does this game involve anything remotely resembling tactics? You open a fucking box. Then you repeat that action until all boxes have been opened. It’s FUCKING RANDOM. Then they play the dramatic music over the studio speakers to further enhance the overall cuntyness. Oooh, such tension! And all the other contestants wish each other luck and are all emotionally invested in each other’s success. Why do they give a fuck? If it was me opening a box for them I’d say I hope it’s £250,000 inside and that they go home with a fucking fiver and then get mugged on the way home so they actually have less money with them than when they left the house to begin with. Plus the other contestants apologize or accept praise if their assigned box has a high or a small amount in it, despite the fact that they have no control over the amount inside their box! CUNTS!
I’d like to pop out one of the boxes one episode and kick Edmonds in the nuts. It’s the ultimate show that’s made by cunts, starring cunts, for cunts, and thusly, deserves the award more than any ever show.
Cunty movie of the year: Twilight: Breaking Dawn
Remember when the vampire genre used to be a staple of horror? Remember when vampires were portrayed as vicious, malevolent, treacherous and evil figures that seduced their prey before violently sinking razor sharp fangs into their necks and feeding on their life essence? Remember when vampires were legitimately frightening? Remember when they weren’t metrosexual emo pussies?
Yeah, those days are long fucking gone, thanks partially to the general emasculation of the male gender, and mostly because of these unendurably heinous displays of cinematic feces known as the Twilight movies. The latest installment in these foul abominations continues to feminize the vampire and the genre irreparably. No longer do vampires prowl the moonlit shadows striking fear into all and sundry, noooo. Now they want to have intimate hugs, discuss their feelings and cry during sunsets. Plus, if Edward Cullen is anything to go by, they all look like they’ve had their faces smashed in with a fucking tire iron. And is this Kristen Stewart bitch supposed to be considered attractive? I’d rather fuck a toaster.
The opposite of this award goes to Drive, one of the coolest movies I’ve ever seen and definitely the best film of the year. Breaking Dawn on the other hand is a film that appeals only to ugly overweight bitches, moronic tween girls and raving queers. And they’re all cunts. If you like this movie, you’re a cunt too.
Cunty musician of the year: Diddy/Puff Daddy/Whatever the fuck this douche bag calls himself now
P.Daddy, Poofy, Diddy Kong, whatever the hell he’s called now, fucking sucks. There are some terrible rappers out there, but none on the outstandingly cunty level of Mr. Sean Combs. Kanye West is equally as cunty, but not as bad a rapper. Not only is Diddy the worst rapper to ever rhyme over a beat on a professional level, but is a multi-millionaire for doing so. The conceited, egocentric and self-proclaimed “Bad Boy” not only produces awful music, but is involved in equally abominable clothing lines, a “man’s perfume” range and reality shows that cunts all over America, especially the “ghetto is cool” entertainment media and dumbass, easily-influenced suburban white kids lap up like the sheep they are. A king cunt, beloved by cunts. Only Lady Gaga and Rhianna come close in this category, the latter for the primary reason that her entire appeal is based around blatant, unrestrained sex. She might as well have a minge for a face, then oblivious parents might actually realize just exactly what their kids are listening to and why their 12 year old daughter has more sexual experience than they do.
What ever happened to good hip hop, you know, like that classic album Mr T released Mr. T’s Commandments?
That was actually better than Last Train to Paris. And it’s true, the Bible does indeed make it clear that you have Mr. T to fear. It’s in there, trust me.
Cunty sportsman of the year: John Terry
On the football field, the Chelsea and England football captain is a perpetual warrior with unwavering dedication, a proud leader of men and a tremendous defender. Off the field, he’s a monumental cunt. With the dead eyes of a seasoned insomniac, no one else in the sports world deserves this award more than everyone’s favorite football pikey, JT.
When not shagging other player’s wives behind their back or fueling a massive gambling addiction, Terry likes nothing more than racially abusing black players on the pitch, as he allegedly did recently with Anton Ferdinand. In Terry’s defense (see what I did there), technically what he said was true. He called Ferdinand a “black cunt”. Well, Anton is black. And despite not winning an award here, he’s also quite clearly a cunt. Hence, “black cunt”. And Terry’s a straight talking guy. He’s always called a spade a spade.
Some might say Terry’s simply had enough of defending crosses and now just wants to burn them. Though he didn’t do himself any favours in a recent training session when he misunderstood some instructions and dribbled the ball around Drogba, Ramires and Ashley Cole, which led to manager Villas-Boas shouting “No, John! I said dribble around the CONES!”
Racist or nay, Terry comes from a family of crass mongoloids, with his crack-dealing dad, kleptomaniac mother and brother Paul Terry that shares John’s knack for extramarital shenanigans. And with a family like that, it’s no wonder that someone like JT wins sports cunt of the year.
Public cunts of the year: Clipboard charity workers
This award goes out to every cunt that’s tried to accost me when I’m walking along the street with their fucking clipboard in hand, prepared to ask me redundant questions about whether I want to donate money to their useless fucking charities. No, I’m not interested in donating money to anorexic Ethiopians. They should just eat all the flies on their heads. BBQ ‘em, bit of salt, done. Plus the pound coin in my pocket’s getting me a delicious Smarties McFlurry. No, I have no desire to give money to your charity for midgets with ironically oversized heads that keep falling over when they walk due to their hilarious disproportion. Fuck off!
These people are like zombies in Dawn of the Dead. They keep spreading. When I see one of these fucks in the street I refuse to even acknowledge their existence, and I avoid them as if they’re Freddy Mercury with his AIDS-ridden cock in his hand. I should just carry a sign with me that reads “NOT INTERESTED YOU CUNT” and hold it up every time one of these fiends tries to make eye contact with me. Well done guys, you deserve this award.
Unfunniest cunt of the year: Kevin James in Zookeeper
Kevin James is about as funny as testicular cancer, yet this wasn’t always the case. He was reasonably humorous in his old sitcom King of Queens but then something happened, some kind of grotesque transformation from funny fat man to unfunny fat cunt. He also exudes an air of corpulent smugness, as if to say “I know this shit I’m making is terrible, and I’m being paid millions to do it so I can fill my bulging belly with donuts, you stupid gullible suckers”. Paul Blart Mall Cop, Chuck and Larry, and now this filmic torment.
I could watch a 12 hour marathon of hidden camera footage from the basement of Josef Fritzl as he abuses his children and still raise more smiles than sitting through Zookeeper. Runner up for this award is Margaret Cho, whose fanbase can only logically include heavily stoned lesbians and special needs children that’ll laugh at anything. She also looks like she died and was brought back to life three times. Good-looking Oriental chicks are the most attractive in the world, which makes this ugly bitch even worse.
Cunty moment of the year: The Royal Wedding
There was no cuntier moment all year long than the public wedding of William and Kate, and the mass hysteria that surrounded it. TV stations across the globe cancelled their originally scheduled programming to air this overblown, ostentatious puddle of wank, while in England, the country stopped in its tracks to embrace the equine prince and his bride to be as if it were actually an important event. CUNTS!
Cunty lifetime achievement award: Steven Seagal
Readers of my humble little blog will already know how I feel about Fat Stevie (https://theflyingguillotine.wordpress.com/2011/08/17/the-ridiculousness-of-steven-seagal-part-1/) and the bloated bigamist could easily win ‘Cunt of the year’ for 2011 on his recent foray into the world of MMA training and typically absurd post-UFC interviews (and those yellow shades), but this award is far more substantial than that. This is a lifetime achievement award, given to the rotund whale for a lifetime of being the worlds most hilarious and ricockulous cunt. Try thinking of one, just one human on this planet or even a human that has ever lived that’s more of a cunt than Seagal. You just can’t. Because it doesn’t exist.
A lifetime of grotesque narcissism, disregard for weight or personal appearance, misogyny, absurd “hair”, pathological lies, attempts at transforming into different ethnicities, atrocious acting and lack of effort in everything, awful music, incredible delusions, insecurity, bullying, cowardice and pseudo-mysticism all mean that no one deserves this award more than you, Sensei, you glorious, glorious cunt. Just try not to eat or rape your sex slaves with it.
Cunt of the year:
This is the big one, folks! An award for someone more annoying than the angry sun level in Super Mario Bros. 3, more insufferable than a room full of Jewish criminal defense lawyers, more cunty than a Madonna house party. The nominees are Donald Trump, Floyd Mayweather, Rupert Murdoch, Barack Obama, Lindsay Lohan, Kim Kardashian, The Pope, Danny Dyer, George Lucas, Sean Penn, Sarah Palin, Justin Beiber, James Corden, the entire cast of the Jersey Shore and Lady Gaga. And the winner is…DANNY DYER!
Despite perhaps being somewhat of an underdog in that list of remarkable cunts, there is no one more deserving of this distinguished award than England’s biggest, most notorious chav Neanderthal himself, Daniel John Dyer. The East London simpleton is human excrement, with all the sophistication and social grace of an anal wart, and all the intellectual capacity of a mentally-challenged cockroach. Renowned throughout the UK for being the thickest celebrity around and for making the most asinine and unintentionally hilarious movies in the world next to Steven Seagal, Dyer solidifies himself as cunt of the year by frequently attending D-level celebrity events and engaging in as much hooliganism as his schedule will allow. He’s always clad in the finest chav-du-jour Burberry and Ben Sherman and consistently exuding the lack of class and lowlife attitude that a propa ‘ard geeza should, walking as if he’s wading through jelly and talking like he’s just been the victim of a swift lobotomy.
Even though I’d literally rather have Susan Boyle sit on my face and suffocate me than watch a Danny Dyer “film”, there are some gems out there that you may wish to put yourself through if you’re a fan of bad cinema. The Football Factory and Dead Man Running rank as his most hilariously dreadful.
Not content with being the World’s Worst Actor tm, Dyer continues to embarrass himself with numerous gormless TV shows, such as Danny Dyer’s Real Football Factories, Danny Dyer’s Deadliest Men and probably the funniest of the lot, Danny Dyer: I believe in UFO’s where he eloquently refers to potential extraterrestrial life as “that mob up there”. Look them up on YouTube, folks!
Dyer is a right cockernee geeza, awight, and if ya disagree he’ll come round yer manor and open up yer fackin’ canista, ya MUG! Congratulations Danny, you’re the biggest cunt of 2011. And 2010. And 2009, actually. Hell, the whole decade.
So there you have it, a celebration of the finest cunts 2011 had to offer. As for next year, who knows? However I do predict this time next year we’ll all be marveling at the comeback of Mel Gibson and hopefully, finally the death of Lindsay Lohan. There’s no way that coke-addled whore is making it another 12 months. No fucking way. Maybe 2012 will bring us ever closer to the hoverboards and flying cars reality of Back to the Future Part 2 (only a few years to go, buttheads!). And without a shadow of a doubt, Steven Seagal will make a complete fool of himself, as always.
Oh, and the world will end too. I almost forgot about that.