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[01 May 2008|04:40pm] |
I tell you, i've been living life with so much unhealthy verve recently, I may as walk up to cancer with my trousers down and my arsehole gaping. Drinking, smoking, the lot. I really do have to stop, and stop it now. Before I do myself some real damage.
Last night though, it was difficult to avoid alcohol. Once more, Liverpool took us down a rollercoaster ride, the difference being this time, it was Chelsea, and in particular Frank Lampard's night. It would take someone with a heart of rock to deny him, and it was quite moving watching him point his hands towards the heavens after scoring, dedicating the goal to his later mother. Liverpool rallied, Babel thundered a shot in from thirty yards, but with a Drogba brace it was already too late.
I did get hammered, though. Terribly hammered. Today, Andy I and were busy with OAP Thursday, but astonishingly, it all went extremely well. This is usually a day I dread, but it was okay. And after that, more exercises in the back yard. I did a mile on the bike in two minutes and forty eight seconds. Anyone beat that? I'm sure you can. I'm only just starting. Hey, let's have some healthy competition. If you do gym, let's compare times! Together, we can get each other encouraged, folks!
Two hundered steps on the step machine, and some more fun with the abs thing. And that's it. No drinking tonight, unless thingy shows her beautiful face. By which I mean, Rebecca, and I mean i'll sit at the bar throwing an occasional glance in her direction, whilst self conciously trying to be as "hilariously quirky" as possible. In reality, i'll look like a prick.
Still, she doesn't usually come in on Thursdays any more. I think i'm safe. Bloody women.
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[01 May 2008|06:43pm] |
If I became famous because of these, I could fair thee woo said strumpet Rebecca a lot more confidently I feel. I think, I would have to pay her royalties.
Good Letter:
"Dear lovely Rebecca.
As you sit there like aphrodite, I can only see sunbursts in your eyes, and golden sunsets in your skin. Within me burns a passionate fire, for you, endless, nameless, a permanent desiring."
Bad Letter:
"Alright? Punch my fuck and rake me stupid. I want to bury my pink fork in your tulips, baste my turkey neck, suck in my black hole. Every time I see you I want you to pull my chain, burst my citrus sack. Cut out a piece of my pie and shit all over it. I bet you don't poo, but if you did, it would probably smell like a bag of Refreshers. My hosepipe it doth gush forth milken fountain at the thouught of your fucking pink slit-chute."
Now let's say, for the sake of it that one day I talked to her and we did get on famously. One day, i'd have to show her this. Let's face it, if she were attracted to me at all, it would have to be because of things like them. So I would not have to explain. I fantasise about the day she reads the words "slit-chute" with her cute lips. The fucking sexy bastard.
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[01 May 2008|10:57pm] |
Welcome. Come. Sit down. Allow me to bring you a cup of tea. Are you comfortable? No? Tough. I'm not running a retirement home here. Get your shoes off the coffee table. Suck my cock. Listen, it's a tough world out there. Shape up or shit it out.
Thursday night has been nice and easy, surely a lull into false security, like a maiden beckoning with a soft gaze and a seductive glint, before booting me in the bollocks with the reality of Bank Holiday weekend, a time when the British moan about rain and drive up the motorways bickering in cars. This is England, and this is Bank Holiday. And it's like living in a shit pit with Marty Feldman. For your entire life. Well, during Bank Holiday.
So, it's going to suck. No break until Tuesday. Are you ready for some weekend work ranting? Brace your cunts, and harness your cocks, it's going to be a ride.
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| Wanking obstacles. |
[01 May 2008|11:12pm] |
It's a funny old thing, onanism. Everybody wanks, as R.E.M never sung, at some point. If, like me, you spend a great deal of time with nothing but a penis and a ballbag full of spunk, there's not a great deal else to do. However, there's always a time when the erotically inspiring thoughts are interrupted, out of the blue, by something utterly incongruous to the frenzied tug you're currently undertaking. For instance, you might be sitting there, happily thumping your joystick into milky anarchy, when, suddenly, for no reason, you imagine a tramp sitting in a tin of baked beans.
From that point, your penis flags like a windsock, and the moment is gone, forever. Try pulling yourself off after that one. Go on, I dare you. Say you've been imagining (If you're me) taking someone from behind that you fancy. Great stuff, right? That thought keeps the pink pipe pullin', and all seems well. Milky splashdown in 1...2..3....
and then, right? All of a sudden..your brain decides to throw in a thought of a petri dish full of spiders being kicked around a hospital floor. NO! Gone is the nice doggstyle action in your mental loins, and replaced by this shit. My top ten wanking curtailing thoughts:
1. A door slightly open ajar, with a dog's face poking around it.
2. James Earl Jones impersonating a kettle.
3. A hamster trying to escape from a bin.
4. An unswept warehouse, with two squatters wrapping belts around their arms.
5. Steve Tyler from Aerosmith. Ergh!
6. The view from the inside of a toilet in a retirement home, during a diharreoa epidemic.
7. A dog grooming parlour burning down.
8. Amy Winehouse.
9. A medical letter informing you that you have shingles.
10. Boris Johnson.
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[01 May 2008|11:37pm] |
Right, this is what lads mags should read like. This isn't very good, as my satirical radar is slightly off, due to my mind not being sharp. Booze and work have taken toll.
( Read more... )
I gather her name is Vikki Blows. I'm sure that isn't her real name. It's because she sucks penises, clearly. She sucks men's penises. Probably like lollies. Probably sucks them down, like lollies, and right down to the fucking bone.
Spot the spelling mistakes. I can't be bothered to re-do it. Just deal with it, right? Right.
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