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.