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.
What are you doing reading this article? Haven’t you heard? The world is ending! Instead of perusing this admittedly awesome blog, you should be hugging your loved ones, attempting to fulfill your ultimate desires, and praying to the almighty Lord Xenu for entry into his volcanic afterlife. Dammit, there are so many things on my bucket list I haven’t yet accomplished, and I don’t have much time left! I still haven’t ejaculated onto Selena Gomez’s tits and made Demi Lovato lick it off, re-watched every episode of Boy Meets World so I can enter a Boy Meets World trivia contest and win a date with Topanga, punched David Lynch in the nose for making terrible movies that only pretentious cunts enjoy watching, or locked two down’s syndrome victims daily medication in a safe until they wrestle each other for my entertainment.
The world’s going to end! Half the population will be killed by bird flu! Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster will form a colossal tag-team and embark upon a double team of destruction that will end existence as we know it! We’re all fucked!
…Oh wait a minute, I just remembered I don’t have anything to worry about because I’m not a complete fucking retard that mindlessly believes and frets about inane prophecies spewed by cretins and swindlers. Much like the most recent Armageddon that was supposed to occur on Saturday, according to the predictions of a Christian group from California. Shockingly, and to the relief of rich Jews everywhere, there was no rapture, and no returning magical carpenter to be seen. The only thing resembling Judgment Day over the weekend was when I watched Terminator 2 again. Which is funny, because there’s more chance of the robots taking over than anything in the Bible being true.
But there’s another date on the doomsday horizon according to thousands of doomsayers in books, radio shows and on this world wide web of internetz, who have declared that 2012 will be the real end days. December 21’st, 2012, to be exact. I sure hope I’m not busy that day.
A man named Patrick Geryl insists that 2012 will be a reality. Geryl is an author and amateur astronomer from Belgium, with a face for radio and a voice for people that enjoy irritating accents. When not eating chocolate, reading Tintin comics and jerking off to topless Van Damme pictures, Geryl enjoys pretending to be a scientist, with a number of people believing his uneducated spiel.
Geryl claims that civilization will be destroyed in 2012 and nothing can stop its demise. According to the bespectacled goon, a “gargantuan solar flare” will be thrown to the earth from the sun after a sunspot occurs, with a huge amount of particles falling into the south pole that will push the inner core of the earth upside down. Apparently, this will cause the north and the south poles to swap around (will somebody please think of the compasses!). Then he says multiple devastating natural disasters will occur and a gigantic tidal wave will envelop the world. Worst of all, Geryl states, computers will stop working! Great Caesar’s Ghost, computers not working?! Being unable to watch porn online, millions of internet nerds won’t feel like living anymore anyway.
Geryl’s beliefs are all based on the Mayan calendar. According to them, supposedly, December 21’st is the date when the shit hits the fan. This is a little vague however, because it doesn’t take into account the notion of different time zones. When it’s December 21’st in Japan, it could still be the 20’th in America. The Japanese could be tucking into their whale cereal while the Yanks are watching their evening dose of mind-numbing reality TV. Does the solar flare arrange it’s schedule around this temporal predicament? How thoughtful!
The Mayans are the ancestors of the Mexicans, and you shouldn’t really trust everything a bunch of old Mexicans said. If a Latino gangbanger explained that his whole familia were born north of the border and that his lowrider can “bounce as high as the roof on my crib, holmes”, would you believe him? If Consuela the middle aged Hispanic maid insisted she never stole your favourite towel from your bathroom that she cleans, despite it being missing, would you believe her? So if some crazy Mayan’s claimed the world was going to end, why believe them?
Sure, the Mayans were primordial mathematicians and astronomers. They also used to hack up virgins as sacrifices. Surely if they had any sense they would have fucked them first? What kind of primitive mindset exists where someone would say “I’ll marry the ugly bitch over there that’s engaged in intercourse numerous times and has a pussy the size of the Grand Canyon, but I’ll throw that tight-vagged 16 year old hottie in the pot and carve her tits off”?! Yeah, these dudes were a profoundly civilized people.
But it’s not just the Mayans that prophesized the end times, because there’s been tons, none of course which actually transpired. The aforementioned Saturday rapture, Y2K, author Ronald Weinland’s claim that by 2008 America will have collapsed as a world power, Nostradamus ‘Great King of Terror’ to strike in 1999, and thousands and thousands of religious fanatics throughout history claiming the end would be near. Hey, maybe they all got those one’s wrong, but this 2012 one is definitely correct, right?
Geryl claims humanity should start new civilizations before 2012, and everyone should join his survival group. He says that his survival group need “at least” a billion dollars. Because once the solar flare has destroyed all of the earth’s people, obliterated all structures, institutions and forms of commerce, and rendered currency obsolete, the survivalists are really going to need all that dough. What are these heavily-bearded paranoid weirdo’s going to spend their billion on? Strippers? Will they somehow preserve a strip club and stick 100 dollar bills down a gyrating post-apocalyptic dancer’s thong? Wow, the end of the world sounds sexy!
If a solar flare hits the earth, it isn’t going to wipe out humanity, and will have hardly any effect on us. Our atmosphere is capable of coping with a massive strike, with an invisible barrier like the deflector shields on the starship Enterprise. In 2003 the earth was hit by some “X-class flares” which are one of the most powerful kinds, and the planet has throughout it’s history been hit by everything the sun can throw at it. These are the proven claims of respected solar physicists. But why believe that when you can pretend you’re in a Roland Emmerich disaster movie?
Then there’s others like doomsayer and author Jaysen Q Rand (a pseudonym for a Mr. Paul Bruce Bondora) who shares Geryl’s belief that the world will end on December 21’st, 2012. Coincidentally, Mr. Rand also maintains that he knows this because he was abducted by extra-terrestrials from the planet Epsilon, on a flying saucer where the aliens informed him of this vital information. But again, why listen to actual scientists when you can believe ancient bullshit from the Mayans (even though many Mayan historians claim that the Mayan’s never even believed 2012 would be the end) or the clueless pseudo-science and incorrect physics of fear-mongering mongoloids/charlatans?
The nonsensical prophecies peddled by the likes of Geryl and company are either the genuine delusions of brainless simpletons, or fraudulent claims made solely for profitable purposes, such as the several books he’s written on the subject. It’s just as bad as nutjob Christians that think that one day there’s going to be a “Judgment Day”. The worst thing is, lots of people believe this shit, just like lots of people believe in the bullshit written in the Bible. Just like in organised religion, people are manipulated by their fear, and because humanity is filled with stupid cunts that allow themselves to be metaphorically fucked in the ass time and time again. Their anuses must sting worse than a hornets nest.
If the world were to end in 2012 though, as implausible as it is, the world would miss so many substantial, momentous events that would have followed. Humanity would never get to witness Lindsay Lohan’s first hardcore porno and subsequent overdose and death, the next batch of stimulating reality TV shows like ‘America’s Next Top Hooker’ and ‘Celebrity Paralysis’, the next Nicolas Cage abomination (and similarly abominable wig), or the future trends of vacuous, abhorrent hipsters that are just being “ironic”!
On second thought, maybe the world ending next year isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe I should hope I’m completely wrong and 2012 is the end. And if that’s the case, hell, let’s party like it’s December 20’th, baby!