“This is Samantha Fox”
So declared my mate, sweating heavily next to a tree with a knife in his hand, and gesturing proudly at the long low branch he’d just swung off.
He pointed at a large ‘M’ shape carved in the bark. “These are her tits,” he declared proudly. “And this,” he said, pointing at a scratched-out sappy triangle, “is her fanny.”
“Right-ho” I said. “Now what?”
“Now we fuck her.”
He clambered back up onto the branch, and began humping his crotch against the shaking limb. “It’s brilliant!” he announced as he thrusted. “Come up and have a go!”
I went home, took my Samantha Fox poster down from the wall, and threw it in the bin.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 9:58, 9 replies)

I've gone off watching lesbian BDSM porn
I started finding the production values a bit slapgash
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 12:59, 4 replies)

China
Lived there nearly six years. Loved it for about five. Hated it by the end.

It can be an amazing place to live. It's developing so fast that "Opportunities" by the Pet Shop Boys should be played in every urban centre. The sense of possibility is ripe in the air, both in major cities and smaller towns. (My wife thinks she comes from a village, it only has about 50,000 people and an airport). I met some of the most interesting people ever during my time there, and the work ethic and will to improve on a personal and societal level is remarkable. There is an almost lack of visible crime apart from petty theft in tourist/transport areas. Chinese people are often amazingly hospitable, and it's really easy to make good friends there - so different to the closed-off British mentality.

But SO MANY THINGS SUCK. The correlation of everything developing fast is that everyone is in a rush (to get rich), and they'll push you out the way without a thought. Everybody wants something (usually for nothing) - and so many relationships are transactional: I give you, you give me. Also personal manners are generally terrible - hawking up loogies on the street, pissing in the subway, shitting in elevators, all frequent: a sense of decorum was deemed "bourgeoise" and the older generation in particular is amazingly coarse.

One of the worst aspects is that as a society, nobody trusts anyone. People trust their immediate family, and that's it. The Cultural Revolution was only about forty years ago, with its mass denunciations and terror. Today, nobody trusts anyone if there's a chance that person could benefit from it. All the norms and politenesses you take for granted in a stable society (except, say, Kings Cross, or with smackheads) do not exist. You can't even trust doctors, who will "upsell" lots of pointless medicine.

The most infuriating thing though is the constant opacity. Nothing is transparent. This comes from the top down. The government operates in a cloud, its motivations unknown, its workings hidden. This maximises its room for manoeuvre. And so it goes on all the way down the line - bosses are under no obligation to inform staff of anything, teachers are petty tyrants, parents are godheads to their children. Trying to get information is impossible. Want to know how to register your child for school? Who your supposed "representative" is? What the guidelines are for a visa? What taxes are due for a startup company? What things are forbidden to discuss under censorship? Why was this website blocked, that thing deleted, that company sequestered? Hahaha, good luck!

In the west we've got used to public institutions opening up, and the internet has helped in this process, but this remains anathema to the Chinese. The entire political process/power structure is top-down, not bottom-up. I've never seen people as obsequious before bosses (nor bosses being such utter cunts) as in China. I once was invited to an acquaintance's birthday party; she'd invited her boss, who was some kind of big-shot in mining. When Mr Big arrived she expected us to all make a fuss over him, saying "He's rich, he's a millionaire!" like we should give a fuck. Arse to that.

Lots of political things about China suck, of course - the hukou system practically is apartheid for rural people; you can't own property ("houses" are only a seventy year lease); the healthcare system is an abomination; and people trying to take the constitution seriously, stand for election, hold "officials" to account is a combination farce, tragedy and monstrosity. But the day-to-day quality of life for people is in many ways dreadful. Maybe it will improve, I don't know, but life is too short to spend it furious, so I had to get out.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 10:09, 29 replies)

Watch out
I've gone off the song 'Maneater' by Hall and Oates.

Every week I run miles and miles. Thousands of steps. Steps over rocks and steps over concrete and puddles.

Some while ago, I put rocks into my coat pockets and rocks into my rucksack and I sat alone on a cold beach. There was a sign for no dogshit please and there was a shut down ice cream parlour and there was no one there and in my hand there was a bottle of gin and then the gin was gone. I was obsessed with doing it on holiday. It just sounded so...statemental. A clue to a deeper question, hidden in the banality of my answer. I sat and drank the gin while the sea smirked white smiles, and the wind; the wind howled. I saw traces of sand blown in wisps along the shore and I looked for meaning, and I found a meaning and so I quickly steered my thoughts away. I debated leaving my shoes on the shore. A plastic epitaph by Shoe Express. But I wanted more to vanish entirely. I wanted most for almost every single thing I'd touched to be washed so it would be clean of me. I started to walk into the sea and the waves lapped at my knees then at the black hole in my belly, then at my throat and I could feel the rocks and the waves, and the sand of the shore, and the wind howled. The sea tasted of cheap salt. Of bad tears. While all this was going on; the gin and the wind, the way the big rocks had been turned into meaningless sand, and the way the sea just fucking sat there, the salt, holidays, I had the song 'Maneater' by Hall and Oates in my head. It amazed me that, at a time supposedly as portentious as this, I could have a fucking song in my head. I stumbled as I sang, "watch out boy's she'll cheeew you up". The waves covered my head to the saxophone riff.

I was underwater, hoping for meaning. But all that I could hear was 'the beauty is there but a beast is in the heart" It got so that I knew if I took one more step, I'd be free. One more step. But I couldn't. I couldn't take a single step. Instead, I dropped the rucksack with the rocks, turned round and headed back to the coast.

Then I went home to my family and no one knows. Dried out, stopped over thinking. Mental, really. But,oh, every time I hear that song.

That rucksack and the rocks are probably still there, under the surface.
(sirolimus, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 17:27, 41 replies)

In no particular order
Peanut butter - I could eat it out of the jar with a spoon, now it's just cloying and gritty, even the good stuff.

Simon's Cat - First few stories were good, more recent ones are no longer entertaining.

Birthdays - No different to any other day really.

Wanking - was brilliant, now just satisfies a craving.

B3ta QOTW - I could read page after page of well written, interesting and proper laugh out loud stories. Now it really is a piss-poor collection of old toss, quips that have less wit than fortune cookies from a pound shop and shit puns on the QOTW title. I remember when the puns wouldn't arrive until at least the Monday afternoon, now it's almost straight away. There are diamonds in the rough, but I can't be arsed to trawl through the dross to find them.

Yeah? Well fuck off.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 14:00, 3 replies)

Working with computers.
I've been programming for fun and profit since I was 11. I'm now 42 and realise that I have very little interest in what I do anymore.

Only problem is I've never really done anything else so have no idea what I can do as an alternative that pays so well.

Pisser.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 12:06, 25 replies)

People and Places.
Not mine and not even really recent, but.... it fits the brief.

James is a good mate of mine - he was the manager while I coached our kids Tee-ball team a couple of years ago. We used to go fishing most weekends and frequently knocked the top off more than a few beers whilst doing so and afterwards at the pub.
James was an outgoing and ebullient type of guy. Rarely one to dwell on the negative, even when bad shit did happen James always seemed capable of finding a silver lining to the cloud. He was also a great believer in being in charge of ones destiny. None of the namby-pamby new age shit where you realigned your chakras so you could shit straight but just the simple belief that if you relied upon yourself and your abilities then rarely could you go wrong - for that I truly respect him.

Then something seemed to change in James. He became withdrawn and quiet. A lot of the verve in him had just disappeared. Whenever I rang up looking to tee up a play-date (fishing, pub, golf etc.) he'd always be vaguely too busy. If I turned up with a couple of beers he'd have one and then feign tiredness and want to call it a night. At the time I just figured he was busy and wasn't that fussed with me - we'd been friends for a long time and our friendship had endured many circumstances. In this time I later found out that he'd lost his job due to absence and that his marriage had come very close to ending as well.
It culminated one night when James' missus Antoinette called me in a panic asking me to get over there ASAP. I found him on the front porch curled up in a foetal ball quivering and crying. He couldn't tell us what was wrong and didn't want to move. I suggested an ambo and hospital and he was adamant that he didn't want that. I considered PET but having had some experience with the Psychiatric Emergency Team me and his wife both felt that would only make things worse. We eventually got him inside to bed with a guarantee from him that tomorrow he'd seek help.
We got him to a doctor who referred him to a good psych who told him almost straight away that he was suffering from an anxiety disorder called agoraphobia. He got medicated and has since found ways of coping with what ails him.
It wasn't until months later as we were sharing a jug of soda, lime & bitters at the pub (an outing -YAY! and no drinking on meds) that James said to me - "Ringo, it's like I just got sick of the whole world and everyone on it.", "I'd felt so totally alone and altho I knew what was happening to me was wrong I just really didn't even want to talk to anyone about fixing it - I just wanted to stay at home and be left alone."
"That's ok mate," I said to him as I poured the last of the ice cold mix into my glass while ignoring his empty ,"we'd all gone off you too. Your shout by the way."
He called me a self-serving cunt and laughed.
Good to have him back. Sometimes.
(s0ckpuppet logging out to reply to you if you're not careful, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 3:06, Reply)

SHIT THE BED
I'VE GONE OFF THIS SONG I LIKED THIS SONG BACK IN 68 AND IT STILL ROCKS, BUT IT WAS THE WHOLE PACKAGE, NOT JUST THE GUITAR LICK. BUT IN 2013, FUCK SHITPANTS NUGENT. HE IS ALL TOUGH, BUT WHEN IT WAS HIS TIME T5O HAVE BULLE4TS WIZ BY HIS HEAD, HE SHIT HIMSELF HERE AT HOME. FUCK HIM AND FUCK HIS DENIALS. EVEN IF IT ISN'T TRUE, IF YOU ARE STUPID ENOUGH TO TELL THAT STORY, NOW YOU OWN IT SHITPANTS. NO GETTING AWAY FROM IT.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 22:41, 3 replies)

I've gone off suckpoppet now.
Can't say I'm looking forward to ringo's next incarnation though. He's like a shit Dr Who that get's duller each time he regenerates.
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Mon 19 Aug 2013, 3:08, 7 replies)

Driven to distr.....
Cheers to Airman Gabber for providing the impetus.

Remember the thrill of getting your licence? Borrowing the parents car and hooning around the 'burbs with your mates? Parking up somewhere dark and secluded & "christening" the back seat with that special person in your life at that time?

Then remember getting your own wheels - even tho it had 15 different coloured body panels all held together with gaffa tape and bog it still went like a shower of shit. When you could get it started. Those nights of taking it for a pootle just to celebrate the freedom of having a car?

Then as you got better jobs you could trade in the shitheap for something a bit more refined. Or at least something that started every time you turned the key in the ignition. The car was mainly to get you to-and-from work but it was still nice to take for a spin on a Sunday to get to a nice jazz festival in the countryside with the latest girly.
Occasionally one of your mates would stump for a broom-broom with a nice big V8 donk in it and for a few minutes on weekends you could revert to your yoof whilst doing circle work in a secluded gravel carpark somewhere. Provided the cops weren't too close - nothing smells like cop-bait more than a nice dropped Commodore HSV-SS 8 Pack with Holley's and a couple of nice phat Flowmasters.

Now; driving entails dropping off or picking up children from various activities. Lugging green polyethylene bags full of groceries home from the shops or crawling slowly with hundreds of other people to or from your workplace, twice a day. EDIT: For me it includes having to lug 30 odd kg. of tools into the house each night due to some thieving cunts round here! Don't get me started on the fucking inordinately large sums of money you have to hand over each year just to protect yourself from someone making a small ding on your fender!
You could of course take public transport - the planet will thank you by raining on you while you wait for the bus to arrive. Your pride and smugness in saving some money on fuel and parking will be greatly reinforced as you repeatedly get jostled into someone's armpit on the overcrowded train.

Eventually as a bloke you'll suddenly one day realise that "Fuck owning a family sedan/station wagon. Or even having the work ute!" and you'll blow all of your savings on a vehicle with "Ghia", "GT" or some obscure combination of letters and numbers with a dash in the middle in the model name. This often coincides with a marriage breakdown so having a two-seater car is perfectly practical thank you very much!

Finally in about 30-40 years from now your kids will collude with the government and decide that you're no longer even fit to drive and take away your licence. So the car gets sold (along with all of your other possessions) just so your kids can afford to chuck you into a home.
Mind you, aside from childhood this is the only time in your life when you get chauffeured around. So there is that!
(s0ckpuppet logging out to reply to you if you're not careful, Sat 17 Aug 2013, 0:25, 1 reply)

Jimmy Saville
Not so keen any more.
(hadr0n Craic whore, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 14:29, 2 replies)

the walking dead
first series was good. lots of zombies and running away to save your lives, that kind of thing. then it turned into little house on the prairie with corpses. wtf? i assumed that a show called the walking dead would have a lot more, you know, walking dead.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 16:52, 20 replies)

Emulating Tubgirl
I was expecting fame and fortune but I'm just left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
(monkey monkey, Wed 21 Aug 2013, 9:35, Reply)

gin
after a night on some ropey 90% proof shit from the philippines that saw me vomiting for 4 hours straight and then walking across waterloo bridge in my nightdress and passing out on the strand.

vodka with diet coke (keeping them separate is fine) after a night on some ropey own brand from kwik save that tasted suspiciously of almonds and saw me vomiting for 4 hours straight and passing out face down in a flowerbed whilst my so-called friends took pictures of me and covered me in petals. they only thought that i might have died about 3 hours later.

whisky after a night on some seriously ropey shit that we mixed with fresh orange (we were 14) in the absence of anything better and that saw me vomiting for about 4 hours straight the following morning whilst trying to hide it from my parents.

and so on. there is a bit of a theme here.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 19 Aug 2013, 19:48, 40 replies)

My job in the sewer.
These days I'm just going through the motions.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Sun 18 Aug 2013, 13:22, 4 replies)

my home
7 years ago, i moved out of an almost derelict rat-trap of a high-rise block into a smaller, but very nice, ground-floor flat in what is commonly termed "granny flats". yes it was smaller, but i now had a front yard and a huge communal back garden, which i enjoyed sharing with my neighbours, who were a friendly, welcoming and quiet lot. i even started painting again, something i very rarely do. i was happy.
4 years ago, all that began to change. the elderly husband of my upstairs neighbour finally succumbed to the cancer that had been torturing him for over 2 years. after this, his 3 daughters would come to visit his widow several times a day, bringing their children and vast collection of jack russels. the walls are paper thin, so i can hear every bark, every footstep, every drum solo on the radiators on a sunday morning(odd child, that one). i would never complain to her, she's an old lady and needs her family around her. i mention it only as a starting point.
within 6 months of the old man's death. 2 new neighbours had moved into the block. one has a very large dog, which he lets out at about 6.30 in the morning to do its business in the communal back garden. it shits right outside my window. every time. without fail. he then plants his shitty paws all over my bedroom window and barks like a maniac, trying to get at the dogs upstaits. sleep-ins are a thing of the past.
so, i'm awake now. i go into the living room and open the blinds. if it's a nice sunny day, i'm greeted by the sight of the second new arrival and his friends, sitting at the picnic table 5 feet away, enjoying their morning stella. i don't open the window on these occasions, as their conversations are quite loud and profane. again, it's a communal garden, so i really can't complain.
around the same time, a gang of local boys was coming up to "annoying fuckwit teenager" age. they quickly decided that, as i live in the end flat and there's a handy fence for them to hide behind, i was the perfect target for countless games of knock and run(or ding dong ditch, i believe it's called over the pond). just boys being boys, i thought. ignore them, they'll soon get tired and stop it.
they didn't stop. it soon escalated into spitting at me as i walked past, trying to break my door down and throwing stones at me if i dared to open my door. eventually, i had no choice but to call the police. i was a nervous wreck by this point and felt pretty much at the end of my rope. fortunately, there were large bootprints all over my front door when the police arrived, so they actually took my complaint seriously. since their intervention, the boys' behaviour toned down to just yelling profanities at me. i've been called a lot worse by a lot better.
2 months ago, one of these boys was thrown out by parents who can no longer cope with him. as he's an asbo case and classed as a "vulnerable teen", he's been given his own flat. 3 doors away from me. the garden is full of his mates every night, drinking, taking drugs and playing very loud music. one neighbour made the mistake of asking them to turn it down a bit as it was after 11p.m and he was going to bed. there followed 4 hours of full-blast eminem. garden furniture is routinely thrown about, i've had 2 fighting idiots crashing into my windows, there have been impromptu barbecues fed by ripping apart the bushes and fence planking. police will do nothing to help and we've given up asking. due to the bedroom tax, i'm now very limited as to where i could go. even if i took a smaller flat in a badly rundown area, i'd be waiting about 3 years. my nerves are taking a serious beating.
tl;dr: my neighbours are cunts. i am unhappy.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 17 Aug 2013, 15:57, 68 replies)

MTV
Formerly a potential treasure trove of brilliance, now a perpetual advert for mediocrity.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Sat 17 Aug 2013, 0:44, 4 replies)

Metal
I first got into music in about 84. A school friend taped me Iron Maidens "Number of the Beast" and it blew me away. Previous I'd not been into music; I played the Organ so had a decent knowledge of The Beatles, show tunes etc. But this really resonated with me. I was hooked. First gig was Maiden on their "World Slavery Tour", next was Saxon's "Crusader". Since then I've aquired a large collection of Rock and Metal. I've been to loads of gigs in Brum and Wolverhampton. And about a year ago I thought "this is just boring". I'd much rather listen o the Charts. There's still some stuff I like, but generally I just think its immature and tedious. I dont want to hear you scream. i dont really care how many notes you can play. I REALLY dont care if you burnt a church. your singers a witch? whoop dee fukin' doo. And why can't you even hear the words these days?
(kitescreech still here, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 21:48, 1 reply)

I have gone off bitchy internet trolls.
I used to love them, but now they are tiresome, like toddlers who always want things their own way.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 16 Aug 2013, 8:18, 32 replies)

QOTY




bindun?

bollocks it has hasn't it
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 18:20, Reply)

Trifle
I recall getting really excited by trifle as a kid.
Made one recently and sat there wondering what the fuck I was doing eating layers of cold custard, tinned fruit, cake crumbs soaked in rum, and cream, with hundreds and thousands on top. I mean, cold custard is pretty shit. The whole thing was shit. If I want fruit in booze, I'll drink Pimms.
This is why adults don't eat trifle. It's shit.
(IHateSprouts is baking a huge pie shaped like an enormous pie, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 17:00, 10 replies)

QOTW.
Do I win £5?
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 15 Aug 2013, 12:18, Reply)

I'm actually going right off b3tans attacking other b3tans
on a personal level.
When did it become ok to attack spouses, kids & families?
I'll put my hand up 'cause I've had a swing or two. Mostly after someone's had a dig at my missus or kid.
End of the day, you're a b3tan, you're here you know what to expect but I don't really get how it's ok that your family members get the same treatment.

Meh. Whatever, those of you who can read this - if you don't agree with me then feel free to put me on ignore.
(s0ckpuppet logging out to reply to you if you're not careful, Thu 22 Aug 2013, 8:40, 70 replies)

I'm going to be the 1st to come right out and say
B3ta

you are all a bunch of cock juggling thunder cunts
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Mon 19 Aug 2013, 18:34, 3 replies)

Women
Not sure if it was discovering that the woman I thought was the love of my life, my soulmate was really my pretzel-headed sister, or the fact that I now have a robotic right hand.
( wakeupandsmellthebacon, Mon 19 Aug 2013, 8:57, 8 replies)

I went off both éclairs and coffee, for a few years,
after consuming both on a ferry and then getting seasick. Got over it, though.

The above isn't very interesting but, as it is true and neither a list nor a wall of text, I think I should win.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Sat 17 Aug 2013, 22:34, 14 replies)

A Doctor Who I Have Gone Right Off Of
Lately – well, lately from my perspective, and in geological terms; to you humans, it would seem like aeons ago – I have gone right off that interfering Time Lord twunt who calls himself “The Doctor.”

You lot probably, or almost certainly, know him from the fictional representations of his adventures broadcast on the BBC for the last half-century. These take great liberties with the truth at times, but are more or less accurate. Some of you may even be fans of the programme / him. (One thing I must say: the actor they have cast to represent his twelfth incarnation is spot on).

Back on topic. As you know I am a Time Lord too or at least Gallifreyan, so I have always been aware of “the good Doctor’s” antics. As long as our paths through time space remained separate, I never minded what he got up do, but once he began to interfere with me, he really began to get on my tits.

A long time ago, during my fourth incarnation, I have to admit, I was a bit of a bastard. I’d conquered the planet Mardus and enslaved its population, setting myself up as their King and dwelling in a gigantic black castle the mere sight of which was specifically designed to make the beholder soil themselves. The Mardans were humanoid, slightly elfin creatures, rather primitive – if you’ve seen Avatar, that sort of thing, but without the blue skin. To keep the population in check every now and then I’d send my soldiers into the towns and villages to “harvest” their teenage children. These would be carted back to Kastle Skagra to serve me as I saw fit. There were three broad areas in which I would employ the Mardan teens: one, as simple slaves, cooking, cleaning, gardening, etc; two, as sex slaves, pandering to my every perverted need (I’ll spare you the details, but I was very highly sexed back then); and three, as subjects for torture.

Torture was, I’m slightly ashamed to admit, my Big Thing during that incarnation. I must have tormented to death tens of thousands of Mardan teens, boys and girls alike! I feel no guilt now, as I am literally a different person – and, who knows, my next regeneration might turn me into an even worse bastard. Anyway, over the decade or so I ruled Mardus, I assiduously and enthusiastically tortured all these little humanoids. One of my favourite methods was to lower, inch by inch, a teenage girl into a vat of acid, and pleasure myself to the sound of her shrieks of mortal agony. The boys I used to strap to an operating table and go to work on them slowly and methodically until they screamed for their mothers – and then bring out said mothers, and rape and decapitate them in front of their sobbing sons. And then rape and decapitate the sons. Another good one was to toss one – male or female – into an oubliette and forget about them for a bit, and then after a month or so “rescue” them, and then watch the hope fade from their eyes as I got out the Doginator or the flensing scalpels.

Oh those were brilliant days! And I’m feeling a bit of that bloodlust coming back now, better have a quick wank.

That’s better. Eventually – and you’ve probably guessed what happened – the Doctor heard about my “atrocities” and intervened, kicking me off the planet and freeing Mardus from my reign of terror. Now, everyone thinks the cunt is clever and outwits his enemies, but that’s a big fucking lie, he just zapped me with his sonic screwdriver and when I came to I was hundreds of light years away imprisoned in a glacier on the planet Karthippus. He’s no better than Buck Rogers or Captain Kirk with their ray guns!

Our paths crossed again several times after that, the last time being a real pisser, and it’s the one everyone knows about, despite the BBC strike I engineered (the fictional representation since found its way into other media the most recent being the book by Gareth Roberts). I had this mint scheme to take over the universe by imprinting my mind on every sentient being in the cosmos, and it almost worked, too, were it not for that meddling Doctor. By then I was in one of my favourite incarnations, my eighth, I had this really cool scar and a fantastic white costume with a silver cape and the campest hat you have ever seen! But no, the Doctor had to interfere, the bastard. He was in his fourth incarnation then and he was a really irritating, irreverent git, always arsing about, and that got right on my nerves cos back then I didn’t have much of a sense of humour (and indeed still struggle with that now). He also had this gorgeous Time Lady assistant who I tried to get off with but she was having none of it, the bitch, she was probably already taking the Doctor’s cock from behind as she bent over his TARDIS console.

I digress.

I haven’t run into the time travelling tosspot for centuries now, but next time I do, I’m going to kill him. We Time Lords can regenerate, sure, but there are some things that there’s no coming back from. Inspired by that film Fargo, I’m gonna shove him into a woodchipper, then pipe the contents into a lead-lined casket which I will then fire into a black hole. Let’s see you get out of that one, Doctor!

Oh and his name? That he makes such a big fuss about? His secret real name that he dare not tell anyone? Well, I know it, and I’m going to tell you it now: Betty Swollocks.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 17 Aug 2013, 19:56, 4 replies)