We really shook the pillars of Heaven, Wang
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.