Tuesday, 19 December 2017

My Mate Bob Looks Like a Vagina

I swear to God it’s true; my mate Bob really does look like a vagina. There’s something about the odd, distorted shape of his mouth, the thin, labial quality of his lips, the wispy sprouts of beard and the small, pink, nubbin-like projection of his nose. It all adds up to a resemblance of the female front bottom that is quite remarkable.

He’s gained a certain notoriety in these parts. Cunt Features, they call him. Old Minge Mush. He’s the closest thing this town has to a celebrity, and folks travel from far and wide to come gawp at his pussy chops. Bob is no fool; he knows an opportunity when he sees it. He’s got his own website, has hooked up an endorsement deal. He’s raking in the cash, exploiting his twattish appearance.

And in all honesty, I’ve used his fame to my own ends, too. How could I not? I’m the best friend of a minor star, why shouldn’t I cling on to his coattails and go along for the ride. Oh yes, I tell the ladies. Me and Bob, we’re like that, we are. And I curl one finger around the other to demonstrate our closeness. You want to meet him, you say? Well, I’m sure something could be arranged . . .

Last week I got talking to this girl, a blonde bombshell type in a short skirt, with insatiable eyes and a dirty laugh. I wasted no time slipping into the conversation that I’m best friends with the vagina lookalike.

She almost chokes on her alcopop.  “He’s just an urban myth.”

“Nope. Straight up, one hundred percent, Scout’s honour.”

“No way.”

I sense an opportunity. “I could introduce you to him, if you’d like.”

“Really?” There’s a seriously mischievous grin on her face.

So, we grab our coats and head across town. Bob always drinks in the Red on a Thursday, I know his routine like the back of my hand. Sure enough, there he is, Muff Mouth himself, surrounded by a crown of onlookers. I elbow my way through, dragging my blonde accomplice by the hand. “How’s it hanging, Bob?”

“Not too bad, mate,” he replies, his pink labia lips ever so slightly moist.

“Oh my God,” the blonde whispers in my ear. “He really does look like a vagina.”

I take her back to my place. She’s raring to go and no mistake, and wastes no time getting naked. “Come taste the honey,” she coos, and spreads her legs real wide.

And would you fucking believe it? Her vagina looks just like my mate Bob.

The erotic tension instantly dissipates. I turn away, stare out the window, do anything to keep from looking at the hideous visage of Bob, grinning vindictively up at me from between this gorgeous girl’s thighs.

“What’s the matter?” She asks. “Is it me?”

“No, it’s not you,” I dolefully hiss. “It’s Bob. It’s fucking Bob.”

Thursday, 14 December 2017

By the Numbers

I’m loitering on the corner of Glan Morfa and Brenig Lane, just kind of minding my own business, when a gruff voice addresses me from behind.

Smith. The very man I’ve been looking for.”

I turn and find Dirty Barry’s fat, gross face leering at me. Shit. This is all I need. “What seems to be the trouble, officer?”

He pulls open his lapel an inch, flashing the butt of a forty-four nestled in a shoulder holster. “Let’s you and me take a walk.”

Someone once asked why they call him Dirty Barry, and he only laughed. In truth, it must have been a rhetorical question – either that or the dude who posed it had no nose. Dirty Barry’s ripe odour is enough to make you gag when he gets up close and personal. The son of a bitch hates his wife, so he works every minute of overtime he can get his grubby little paws on to avoid going home and being around her. Thus never gets chance to take a shower.

As well as dirty in the foul-smelling sense, he’s also dirty in the corruption stakes. He takes pay-offs, hands out beatings. Rumour is he once even killed a guy, acting on orders handed down by Cheesy John, owner of the biggest dairy farm this side of Aberaeron. Judging by the fact he’s carrying a piece, I’m starting to worry I could be next on his list.

Who the fuck did I upset this time? I wrack my brain trying to think who I might have pissed off so much they’d want me dead. There was the pants incident, but that’s all blown over now. I sold out, abandoned my principles and took the money; blew it all on a wild weekend in Colwyn Bay.

Or maybe it’s the esteemed Doctor Roberts, General Practitioner and local bigwig; he’s made it all too clear he’s not happy with me ever since I wrote that article exposing his liking for Nazi fetishism. He’s certainly got the motive, plus the cash to stump up for a contract killing. But I made it more than obvious to Roberts that if anything happens to me, the beaver pics I have of his wife will get splashed all over the internet from here to Merthyr Tydfil. Call it an insurance policy.

Surely Roberts wouldn’t be this stupid? I guess I’m about to find out. Dirty Barry is jabbing me in the back with the muzzle of his gun and frogmarching me toward a dark alley, where I assume he’s planning to do the deed.

But there’s one thing Dirty Barry hasn’t counted on. See, this game is all about the numbers; if you don’t add up the numbers, then your number might just be up. Dirty Barry may have a forty-four, but I’m packing a thirty-eight, and three plus eight beats four plus four, any day of the week.

I perform a spin kick I learned from watching Monkey Magic, knocking Barry’s weapon from his hand. I draw down on him. I’m now holding all the aces. “On your knees, pig. Start talking. Who paid you to whack me?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Barry sneers.

I kick him in the ghoulies, a medium-weight hoof to the pods, and he crumples like an empty pack of cheese and onion.

“It was Mrs Roberts,” he gasps between distressed intakes of breath.

Mrs Roberts? Now there’s a turn up for the books. Not the evil doctor, but his nympho wife, who once spread her legs for my camera, one rainy afternoon in May. She knows I still have the pictures, and she knows damn well they’ll turn up in highly public places if the Roberts’ make a move against me. What the hell is she playing at?

The plot thickens. Guess I better go see Mrs Roberts and find out why the tempestuous bitch is trying to kill me.

Sunday, 3 December 2017

Does God Poo?

While engaged in an online theological debate recently, I was suddenly struck by the notion that the question of whether or not the Holy Father poops is one that is fundamental to the entire Christian belief structure.

In accordance, I have developed a theory, a new challenge for atheists to lay at the feet of the faithful. Does God poo, and if not, where did all the poo come from?

In the beginning, you had God and the angels. Now, the bible is not clear on whether or not these folk had toiletry requirements, although it does, I believe, implicitly state the angelic hoard were bereft of sexual organs. So, if no winkles or wee-wees, one would have to assume bumholes were a no no too.

Now, God decides to create a world, and upon that world he makes man and woman, his best work yet, whom he favours above all else. He models them in his own image.

God is looking at his new creations, and he thinks to himself, “They’re pretty good. But you know what would improve it? What if they squirted out foul smelling poison every day? Like, Eve’s ass is shapely and aesthetically pleasing and all, but wouldn’t it be better if I stuck a little hole in there and had shit come out of it?”

For no reason whatsoever, God now blesses his new children with bowels and anuses, and presumably, Adam and Eve go cordon off an area of the garden of Eden where they can take a shit. As the garden of Eden was largely an orchard, and all there was to eat was fruit, you have to think diarrhoea would be an issue. The place certainly wouldn’t have been paradise for long.

Yes folks, God invented poop. I mean, he also invented cancer and famine and haemorrhoids, but surely poop was one thing we could have done without. You can’t even blame poop on the devil; old Satan tempted Eve to eat an apple, but it was God’s doing that she had to poo it out again.

So why the switch from angelic, poop-free creatures, to dirty, shitting people? What changed in God’s design preferences that meant he decided to foul up his beautiful new world with poop and sewers and sceptic tanks? Does God poo? If he does, then how can he claim to be all seeing and all knowing when he has to spend half an hour locked in the little boy’s room every day? If not, then why did he see fit to curse humanity with poop, even after claiming he’d modelled us on himself.

Answer me this, Christians: Where did all the poo come from?

I don’t mean to insult anyone’s religion. Hang on, who am I kidding? Yes I do; I absolutely want to insult your religion. You know why? Because every time I’ve gone to a wedding or funeral, and all the way through school, I’ve had my intelligence insulted by your constant need to cram that shit down my throat. I don’t come knocking on your door to tell you I think you are a fucking idiot because you believe a giant pixie in the sky controls everything, so why don’t you do me the same curtesy?

Last year, I had a couple of hardcore Christian fundamentalists stay at my house, and of course, they couldn’t help but try to convert me every chance they got. One time they were in the kitchen, watching a Youtube broadcast of some crazy preacher, yelling about how all these sodomites had incurred God’s wrath, and would be punished. I glanced over their shoulder to see what the fuck he was talking about, and it turns out it was the staff at CERN, who were using the large hadron collider to search for the ‘God Particle’. This fruitcake took exception to that; God created everything – there’s no need to ask further questions.

I did point out to these morons that it was a chap at CERN who invented the world wide web, the very same technology they were using to watch their bigoted, Nazi bullshit, but they didn’t see the irony. Christians never do. I only wish I’d had my poop argument to use on them back then.

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

Halloween Blog

I’m spending this October thirty-first in the traditional British manner; hiding in the back room with the lights off and the curtains drawn, hoping no fucker knocks on the door. All this Halloween ‘holiday’ nonsense is alien to me. It drifted over from America sometime in the early nineties. First I knew of it, I was round about eighteen, and kids were suddenly banging on the door from the middle of October onwards, demanding money or else they would brick the windows. It was like some new excuse for armed robbery.

Fortunately, here at Castell Spinbreath I have a very long, very steep drive, which puts off all but the most determined of do-gooders, bible bashers and scroungers. By the time they get up here they’re so out of breath they can barely get their spiel out. Not that I answer the door, of course.

I should be using this time of quietude to write, to get stuck into one of the umpteen unfinished novels I’m working on, but alas, my concentration span is utterly fucked after a stressful few weeks and it just ain’t happening.

On top of all the other catastrophes I’ve recently endured, last week a Chinaman abused my hospitality, outstayed his welcome and busted up loads of my shit. The day after I threw the little bastard out, he went running to the CAB, told a pack of lies and now those fuckers are on my back as well. I received an angry phonecall from a Scouse woman, who seemed to fancy herself as Jeremy Kyle, and thought if she shouted at me long enough I’d wilt and beg forgiveness.

So yes, I hereby apologise. I’m sorry I had the temerity to try and make some money from my business. Had I known I was actually running a charity to provide luxury accommodation for spoilt brats who earn three times as much as I do, then obviously I would have bent over further and applied a more expensive brand of lubricant.

Sunday, 29 October 2017

Who Whacked Jack?

So, most of the JFK papers have now been released, as promised, although a few are still being held back at the insistence of the CIA. The common opinion is that nothing particularly new or radical has been unearthed. There’s a rather wild story about a guy at a Cambridge newspaper receiving an anonymous call along the lines of “telephone the American embassy for the big news”, half an hour before the assassination. It’s the sort of thing that will have the conspiracy theorists chomping at the bit, but isn’t anything that interests me.

No, the release that caught my attention was a memo written by everyone’s favourite cross-dressing megalomaniac, J Edgar Hoover.

“The thing I am concerned about, and so is Mr Katzenbach, is having something issued so that we can convince the public that Oswald is the real assassin,”

Had Hoover written this three months, or even three weeks into the investigation, it might not sound so fishy. The truth is he wrote it three days into the investigation. He actually wrote it before a man with known mobster ties, walked unchallenged into the police station where Oswald was being held, and shot him dead, live on TV.

Three days after a president gets shot, would you not think the head of the Federal Bureau of INVESTIGATION would be interested in discovering the facts, rather than dictating his own opinion to the public?

At best, you can say this is evidence of shoddy police work. At worst you could say it points to Hoover being determined the truth should never out. He refused to consider, from day one, that Oswald may be part of a conspiracy. Even when Oswald said he was a patsy, right before a mafia gunman killed him, Hoover stuck to his own version of events.

Is there any reason the head of the FBI, a man who helped bring to justice such notorious criminals as Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde, would want to cover up the murder of the president? Well, that depends. Hoover was notorious for hating Catholics and Liberals. JFK was a liberal catholic. JFK insisted Hoover should investigate the mafia. Hoover had ignored the mafia’s existence for twenty years. Hoover was widely regarded to be homosexual, a fact he strove to hide his entire life, therefore was entirely open to blackmail should anyone happen to possess a photograph of him getting up to kinky mischief with a man, which the mafia frequently claimed they did.

Hoover directed more time and resources into investigating the Black Panthers than he did the KKK. He had his agents collect dirt on politicians and celebrities so he could stash it for personal leverage. He was the whisperer behind the McCarthy Witch Trials. He ran the FBI as a personal army. He was a racist, homophobic voyeur.

I think the real question should be, is there any reason we should believe a single word that came out of Hoover’s mouth? Given what has come to light since his death, that he was a ‘corrupt, human sewer’, should we believe the snap judgement he pedalled in November of 1963, before Kennedy’s body was even cold, that Oswald acted alone?

Hoover held power over the USA for half a century. His influence over everyone, from the police to the president, should not be underestimated. Anyone who knows him merely as a figure of fun, as a harmless old tranny, really needs to do a bit of research.

I advance no theories. I only ask you consider whether there is scope for doubting the official explanation, given the character of the man who made it. 

Monday, 23 October 2017

JFK: Is There Any Reason To Believe It Wasn’t A Cover Up?

This Thursday the legendary ‘Secret JFK Papers’ are due to be released, and as the subject fascinates me so much, I thought I’d write a quick blog about it. I have no conspiracy theories to advance, I simply want to question the reliability of the conclusion Oswald acted alone, given it was reached by one of the shadiest characters in American history.

Who conducted the investigation and blamed the killing solely on Oswald?
The FBI, under the leadership of J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was in charge of the agency for some fifty years; people were terrified of him due to the vast number of secret ‘dirt’ files he held on every public figure in America. No president was able to get rid of him, in fact he died still in office aged seventy-seven.

Who had recently come under pressure from the Kennedys to investigate the mafia, after steadfastly ignoring their activities for two decades?
J Edgar Hoover. He long turned a blind eye to organised crime, preferring to hunt down sexual deviants and commies.

Which leading persecutor of homosexuals did the mafia claim to have photographed in a compromising position with a man?
J Edgar Hoover. There is no evidence to suspect he was gay, other than his constantly being seen kissing and holding hands with his lifelong male lover.

Who was in charge of collating FBI evidence to hand over to the Warren Commission, which would ultimately back the agency’s findings?
J Edgar Hoover.

Which agency was found to have been in contact with Oswald in the months before the assassination, but destroyed documentary evidence in a bid to hide the fact from the Warren Commission?
The FBI, under the leadership of J Edgar Hoover.

Who was discovered to have illegally conducted secret ‘COINTELPRO’ operations, aimed at discrediting left wing figures, including Martin Luther King Jr?
J Edgar Hoover. He even had one of his goons write a letter to MLK urging him to commit suicide, on the day he won his Nobel Peace Prize.

Who, in the decades since his death, has been described variously as ‘The worst public servant in history’, ‘Corrupt’, ‘Virtually a Nazi’ and ‘Possibly suffering a personality disorder’?
Richard Nixon. No – just kidding – it was J Edgar Hoover.

So, there you have it. Do we really have any reason to doubt the integrity of a corrupt, self-loathing Nazi? Should we simply dismiss as lies the words of a man, purely on the basis he lied about every other single fucking thing in existence?

I don’t know. You be the judge.

And see how I never even mentioned the fact he liked to wear a dress?

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

There's a Hole in My Pants

It has now been sixteen months since the ex decided to make her move to La-la land permanent, went skipping off to dedicate herself to the pursuit of whimsy and abdicated all responsibility, financial and otherwise. Times have been tough, but at long last I’m reaching the point where most of the debt I had dumped on me is paid off.

When poverty sets in, the first thing to suffer is the pants. With no further need to inspire hot lust in a female companion, and no spare cash to make such an outlandish luxury purchase as replacement undies, the existing stockpile falls into neglect and eventually withers and dies. The contents of my bottom drawer have been in terminal decline this past year, and as we approach the winter I find myself down to my final pair of functioning underpants.

Imagine my horror, then, as this morning whilst getting dressed I saw they have a hole in them.

Pant deterioration normally follows a predictable path; first the elastic goes, then the hems fray and eventually gaps begin to appear in the gusset. But the hole I noticed this morning was something entirely different. This aperture is located slap, bang in the centre of the lower, rear coverage. A suspicious mind may draw the conclusion it was deliberately put there to allow easy access to the back passage.

I wish it to be known, just in case I should get run over by a bus and wake up in hospital, that the hole in my pants is definitely not any kind of kinky sexual device. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. Perhaps a curious moth decided to take a nibble, or a stray bullet passed through the material while they were hung out on the line.

Whatever the cause, these punctured pants will soon find themselves consigned to history, as I turn an important corner in my life. Next month I will have money to spend, and I thoroughly intend to invest in a job lot of cheap, foreign pants, which should last me the coming decade at the very least.

I have been down, but I am not out. Onwards and upwards. New pants beckon, and maybe even one day a new lady to share them with.

SJ Smith is back, motherfuckers.