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.