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[28 Jun 2008|11:16am] |
There's only one reason to watch tennis. I tried playing it for twelve minutes last year and quickly found out that my pace in the game was rather like a slug on an elastic band, stuck in a tray of syrup. So I gave up that day and went back to drinking Guiness.
But I found a reason to watch it! The world number one seed Ana Ivanovic, with her cute little face and athleticism. She can play with my fucking balls any time. By balls I mean my testicles. She can play with my testicles and cock until I ejaculate. Or my "racket" as I call it. My dirty, filthy spunk filled fucking racket.
What's that you say? She's out of Wimbledon? Well for fuck's sake. Back to porn it is.
Right, Saturday then. Guess what? Twenty one people are descending from the hotel. Hooray! Call out the buckets, fuck the sink! Aaargh!
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[28 Jun 2008|04:02pm] |
"Dear Ana Ivanovic.
I hate tennis, and i'm rubbish at it, but I think I should be your boyfriend, because i'm really good with my flesh balls, and you give me an erection. You can even slide your racket all over my bell end, and i'll spunk up a winner. Cheers, Phyllis.
"
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[28 Jun 2008|04:17pm] |
Charlie's back on Big Brother again, then. Choice quote:
"This being the ninth series, there's surely not much more society can learn from gawping at a bunch of yelping, incarcerated berks for the duration of the summer, which is why this year, to liven things up, they've covered the walls with photographs of splintered, violated eyeballs, then lobbed in a blind bloke to stagger around sightlessly in front of them. Maybe if they'd had a paraplegic contestant, they'd have plastered the walls with images of limbs being shattered with mallets. We'll probably never know.""
Lovely. Follow the fucking link, then.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguide/columnists/story/0,,2287924,00.html
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[28 Jun 2008|04:46pm] |
Pop: Hey, son. Hey....
Son: Hey dad! How's it goin'?
Pop: Good.........hey...
Son: What is it, dad?
Pop: Come downstairs. I've got something...to give you.
Son: Sounds interesting!
Pop: It is, son. It is.
DOWNSTAIRS:
Pop: Check it out, son. I'm giving this to you.
Son: Whoa!
Pop: Yep.
Son: Dad! It's your old tobacco tin! The one you took to Vietnam!
Pop: Yep. Save my life, that tin. Stopped a bullet, right there. See? Priceless to me. Priceless.
Son: I don't know what to say, dad.
Pop: Don't say anything son...your face is thanks enough.
Son: *Tearing up a bit*, thanks, dad!
Dad: No problem, son.
LATER THAT DAY:
Dad: Yeah, so, come on gramps. Come and see the boy. I gave him that tin I got from 'nam. You should have seen his face. I truly think he deserves it. I hope he takes good care.
Gramps: He will son. You know he will. That's one good boy you got there, never done no-one no harm, I reckon!
Dad: Yeah, he's a good lad.
(They walk to front door. Muffled rock music plays. It is Rammstein's "Mein Teil", and it is incredibly loud. They look puzzled. Opening the door makes the music burst out loudly, and they cover their ears, walking in.)
Dad: Jesus! What's this racket? Hello?
Gramps: My god, this is so loud!
Dad: Junior! JUNIOR!
Gramps: He can't hear you, let's go in the living room:
(They walk into the living room, and their faces drop, aghast)
Dad: OH MY GOD!
Gramps: Oh dear Mary no!
Son: Alright, you FUCKING WANKERS?.
Dad: Son...what have you done?
(Son is smashing tin to a flattened piece of metal with a massive hammer)
Son: Well, it's like this. I fucking love this tin, dad! So I decided to wank into it, and then smash it into a flat disc with a hammer. Whaddaya think, FOO?
(Rammstein continues to blare out. The son grins and licks the hammer, smiling at dad and gramps, before turning back to the tin and bringing the hammer down on it, dispensing spunk and small bits of metal everywhere. He laughs loudly into the air).
Son: No....no.
Gramps: *Bites fist and sobs quietly*.
FADE OUT.
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