Tuesday, 6 March 2018

Proud to be a Snowflake

The world is pretty fucked up at the best of times, but right now things seem to be becoming unhinged at an increasing rate. A quick skim through social media and it becomes apparent America is busy tearing itself in half; those still blinded by patriotism are furiously clinging on to the notion that Trump is a competent leader, while everyone else screams he should be in prison. In Britain, the entirely unnecessary Brexit referendum has given a voice to those we’d hoped had gone the way of the dinosaurs and proved that stupidity is still the dominant factor.

I think it’s fair to say the right wing has had a grip over the western world for at least the past forty years. Ever since Thatcher and Reagan cuddled up and introduced a new extreme brand of conservatism, there has been little trickling down to the masses as the top one percent insist on keeping it all. The working class, as a political entity, has been smashed, stripped of unions and rights, and doesn’t really exist anymore. In it’s place lies a breed of consumers, who live their lives drip fed by advertisements and encouraged throughout their education and beyond toward apathy.

But in 2018 there has been something of an awakening. A group of schoolchildren, survivors of the latest American mass murder, have had the audacity to open their mouths and challenge the status quo. And you’d better believe, the status quo don’t like it one little bit.

It’s easy to tell the right wing are rattled, because the propaganda has gone into overdrive. The usual drool has progressed to outright lies as they desperately try to pull back the tiny slippage of complete domination they have suffered. Some of the crap coming out right now would be hilarious, if it weren’t for the fact there are plenty of people willing to believe it.

For instance, did you know that if only the NRA had been around in nineteen thirties Germany, the Jews could have armed themselves and fought off the Nazis? Or that in the sixties, the NRA armed black folk to help them battle the KKK, a ‘Democrat sponsored terrorist organisation’? I don’t know about you, but when I think of the Third Reich and the Ku Klux Klan, I tend to associate them with being on the right. But apparently not; the GOP and its fanatics are rewriting history to suit their own particular brand of bullshit.

So, from hence forth, a democrat is the same thing as a liberal, which is the same thing as a socialist, which is the same thing as a communist. You hate America and you want to steal freedom. Go back to Russia. Yes, Russia; the same country that Trump is alleged to be in the pocket of, but don’t let the facts get in the way of your stupidity.

And if you think people deserve healthcare, or if you think we shouldn’t destroy the planet we live on, then you’re a ‘Snowflake’. I have no idea where this word suddenly came from, but it’s apparently a generic insult to be thrown at anyone who disagrees with Hitler.

I think we should take the word back. Come on, my snowflakes, let’s stand up and be counted. Let’s stop swallowing the bullshit of brain dead, redneck, Nazi warmongers everywhere, who insist on blindly doing the work of the handful of aging, white billionaires who actually cause all the damage. Jesus was a socialist. If it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.

Monday, 26 February 2018

Jewish Socialist Accused of Stealing Freedom

Prominent members of the National Gun Association have today launched a withering attack on a prominent Jewish Liberal.

In his best-selling book ‘The Bible’, Jesus Christ, 32 of Nazareth, made the controversial claim ‘it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven’.

“This is typical of the liberalists’ agenda, trying to undermine the fabric of our society,” said NGA spokesman Marvin Madbastard. “They are trying to steal our freedom to make millions in untaxed dollars and use it to buy the favours of politicians. The constitution defends the right of every American to unduly influence democracy while feathering their own bank account.”

Madbastard, who earlier this year stated that any American who does not own a bazooka is a Commie faggot, went on to label Jesus Christ a Freedom Hating Snowflake, adding “If he doesn’t love our country, then he should damn well go back to Russia.”

Sunday, 25 February 2018

The Winter Olympics is Bollocks

So, Britain has a record haul of medals from the Winter Olympics in South Korea, and I can honestly say, with hand on heart, I give not one jot. I mean, the WO is great if you’re Canadian, Scandinavian or happen to live in the Alps, but what possible interest could a nation like ours, which gets reduced to a swarm of quivering morons by half an inch of snow, have in such an event?

Let’s be honest. A true representation of a Brit at the Winter Olympics would be a bloke from Birmingham, gazing forlornly down the toboggan run, moaning that the council hadn’t been out to grit it.

My only personal experience of Alpine Sports is tumbling arse over tit down the dry slope at Llandudno, with a pair of skis briefly attached to my feet, and I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve ever met who would choose Switzerland over Spain as a holiday resort. So, the question I have to ask is, where do all these British Winter Olympians come from?

If you’ve seen the biopic movie of the British ski jumper Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards, you’ll know exactly where they come from. Edwards was a man whose greatest challenge lay not in summoning the courage to launch himself down a ninety-metre ramp and out into oblivion toward possible death, but rather in getting the British Olympic committee to allow him into their hallowed fold. See, Edwards made the huge mistake of not hailing from a rich family, and the stuffy, stuck up, old boys’ club that ran things didn’t like the cut of his jib one little bit.

British Winter Olympic athletes are the kind of people who can afford to spend half their life on holiday in the Alps from a very early age. Winter sports are extremely elitist if you happen to hail from a country where it only snows once every five years. The protagonists are not required to be any good, only wealthy enough to compete. And once they’ve had their jolly and come last in the giant slalom, they’re made for life as a member of the BBC’s small army of ‘experts’ who get to travel half way around the world to make dumb comments about a minority sport no one is interested in, being broadcast at three o’clock in the morning.

The Winter Olympics is bollocks for any British person who isn’t a TV presenter or a middle-class yahoo. Come the revolution, professional snowboarders from Middlesex should be first against the wall.

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.