» LOL Bigots

Coloured. A poem about the futility of racism and other stuff which is all highly on topic. Honest. I never said it was good though...
I love all sorts of people
I find it rude to judge
I love coons and even men
Who pack each other’s fudge.

I like gooks and even japs
Lesbians and spacks
Wogs and chogs and nogs and frogs
Pakis, nips and blacks.

I like micks and even spicks
They all are decent fellows
And I don’t have a problem with
The chinky slit eyed yellows.

If people are intolerant
I’ll kick ‘em out of town
Cos I love everybody
Even Asians what are brown.

But the lanky Na’vi wankers
And short-arse twat Smurf runts
Can all fuck off to where they came
The fucking shit blue cunts.
(Sun 24th Feb 2013, 19:29, More)

» Tactless

Deliberate Tactlessnessness
So. Some people have a 'mad' mate. As in "Oooh, you should meet my mate. He's MAD, he is! Totally random!" Ok, yes, well done.
My friend Rob, however, is properly certifiably mental, properly unhinged, as well as being a true eccentric (with all the trimming's, including being a border-line alcoholic.

So, he's out one night - fairly blattered on whatever he's been drinking (cider) and whatever massive drugs he was on that night (acid) and he stumbles across this woman rolling around, off her face, in the gutter.
(She's probably in her late 30s / early 40s. I met her once, she tried chatting me up in a nightclub, but that was years before this happened.)

That aside, this quite large woman is thrashing around in a quagmire of her own debaucherous lack of motor control, clearly not having a very good time of her inebriated predicament.
'Poor little sausage,' Rob thinks, 'best she come home with me where I can look after her', and, after asking if she's OK, helps her (not inconsiderable bulk) up, and along to his flat.

So, after a fair struggle along the road with a fairly hefty dead weight, they eventually get back to his flat, where, once she's sat down, starts getting very animated.

"Bleurgh," says Rob, "well, you seem to have woken up, and I'm knackered after dragging you back - fancy a drink?"
"Oooh yes," says this woman - and gets stuck in to the black absinthe like there's no tomorrow, drinking it like water.
Downing it to such an extent, that Rob has to take the bottle away from her, as she's chugging it down like it's the last day of her life.

After several glugs, all that lovely absinthe takes it's toll, and gets her feeling sleepy. She passes out on the sofa, and Rob, happy in the knowledge that this woman isn't going to pass out in the streets open to the elements and 'late night' humanity, goes to bed after a few more ciders . . .

. . .and wakes up in the morning with an obvious hangover, unlike the woman in question, who is lying dead on his sofa.

As you can probably imagine, Rob is slightly upset by this turn of events.

He's pretty hungover and on a mild acid comedown.
All things considered, not really the best way to start the day, when all he wanted was a croissant on the veranda.

Well, he goes through the standard panic / denial / bargaining / realisation chain of consciousness, and calls the police, who arrest him - and take away his clothes (including his only pair of shoes).
Rob calls me and some other friends up the next day - gets us all round to the pub and tells us all what's happened. As you can guess, we're all slightly amazed and shocked.
As you would be.
But not as shocked and obviously upset as Rob is.
As you would be.
And as I said, Rob's quite unhinged anyway, and he was taking this very badly.
So we did the only think we could to get him out of it and cheer him up.

We took the piss.

Totally and relentlessly.

We ripped the shit out of the situation so much, he had no choice but to see the funny side.

Examples include, but are not limited to:

Rob: "Fancy another pint?"
Me: "Yeah sure. But then again I didn't wake up to a corpse on my sofa"

Me: "You ok mate? You look like you feel a little stiff. But hopefully not a great big fat one, you dirty necrophillic cunt!"

Getting back to his flat later in the afternoon, I made a cocktail using orange juice, and the black absinthe in question.
As it was poured in after the ice had been added, the absinthe stayed on top of the orange, making a black layered 'lid' on the orange body.
Rob: "This drink looks great! It needs to be christened!"
Me: "Lets call it: The Floating Sofa Corpse!"

Going into the living room, round his: "I'm not going to sit in any corpse juice, am I?"

And my personal favourite:
Dave (walking through town with us, shouting at passersby, pointing at Rob): "Whatever happens, don't ever accept an invite back to this guy's house! He'll fucking kill ya!"

Thing is, it worked.

All this piss taking snapped him out of it.

I may not be a psychologist, but I'm damn good at taking the piss and being a sarcastic wanker though. And isn't that what mates are for?
(Fri 4th Nov 2011, 18:06, More)

» Iffy crushes

My mum. Let me explain . . .
I’d love to try to bury my way, face first, back into the cunt she squirted me out of all those years ago, lapping up the last gritty mucal productions of her grey, mottled sagging clunge, with two fingers buried up to the knuckle in her quivering haemorrhoid-ringed arsehole.

Pausing only for another two deep, heavy snorts of amyl nitrate, after gently tracing her hysterectomy scar with my pulsing angry cock, I’d tear back into passionately tounging her knackered fuck-hole, bringing her to a fierce screaming orgasm, before flipping her round and stuffing my throbbing cock deep inside her greasy, pre-fingered anus, pumping her as hard as i could, her deflated tits flapping with each thrust.

Eventually, when her cries of pleasure turn to yelps of pain, i can take my excitement no more, and end up spunking wad after wad of my hot, creamy fucklove into her collapsed fudge tunnel.

In the back of my uncles Honda accord.

With my dad, knocking on the window, delivering a Meat Feast thin and crispy waiting to be savoured in my post orgasmic bliss, while my mum nips back into the house to put the kettle on.

With the grease from the pizza, i draw a heart shape on the window, fart idly, but realise that i am SO relaxed, i follow through, drenching the back seats if a quagmire of my stinking effluent.

Looking round embarrassed, i see my mum returning with the tea, but before she gets back into the car, she notices the revolting diarrhoea soaked back seats, her mouth falling open with shock . .

. . . or is it lust?

She climbs back into the car, and tells me “Don’t worry son. Don’t worry. We all have accidents from time to time.” and leans in to kiss me, to let me know that everything is going to be oK.

Our mouths meet, and open, our tongues exploring each others mouths like love-sick slugs, and she gathers a handful of the liquid shit we are both sitting in, making sure her whole hand is covered. She pulls my head back by the hair, so i can get a proper look at her sliding her fist, lubricated by shit, deep into her glistening, dusty cunt.

It doesn’t take her long to cum this time, she arches her back and lets out along animalistic moan, before pulling her fist out of herself and letting me suck her fingers dry.

“Happy birthday, son,” she says.

"I love you, mum” I'd say.

“I know, son,” she says, stroking my hair, “I know.”




Just . . the answers were getting a bit dull.
First time post, and all.
(Tue 11th Oct 2011, 17:27, More)

» Midlife Crisis

You're perfect, yes it's true!
But without me, you're only you.
(Thu 2nd May 2013, 12:04, More)

» Ask B3ta

My problem is - I've always wanted to cop a feel off of Angelina Jolie. And now, I can't, obviously. So I wrote a poem about it....
I really wanted to get my hands
On Angelina Jolie’s mammary glands
I just want her organs of lactation
She had ‘em chopped off in a tit operation.
They’re really good, I’m not a cynic
I went through the bins at the Hollywood clinic
It’s for the best now, she supposes
I hunt for the puppies with their little pink noses
My search is thorough, i don’t use haste
Trawling through skips of medical waste
I couldn’t find them - fancy that!
Just bags of liposuction fat
That smelled so rank i lost my humours
And just found bin bags full of tumours
But then I ran right out of patience
I couldn’t find A.J.’s amputations
I threw some tantrums and some fits
Just where were Angelina Jolie’s tits?
So ploughing on, ignored my cautions
Unearthed a vat of late term abortions
And tons of cocks - a huge consignment
From loads of gender realignment
I’ll never find them here, i bet
So logged my phone on the internet
I looked online - and was I glad!
I found her tits on a CraigsList ad!
I skipped around like a ballerina
I’ll buy the milk-churns of Angelina!
Just like the quest for the grail, so holy,
So close now to the knockers of Jolie!
Damn horny - my cock started dripping
But they didn’t do international shipping
That’s crap, that’s shit, that’s total cobblers
I’ll never get my hands on A.J.’s wobblers.
(Fri 31st May 2013, 8:47, More)