Conspiracy theory nutters
I keep getting collared by a bloke who says that the war in Afghanistan is a cover for our Illuminati Freemason Shapeshifting Lizard masters to corner the market in mind-bending drugs. "It's true," he says, "I heard it on TalkSport". Tell us your stories of encounters with tinfoil hatters.
Thanks to Davros' Granddad
( , Thu 27 Aug 2009, 13:52)
I keep getting collared by a bloke who says that the war in Afghanistan is a cover for our Illuminati Freemason Shapeshifting Lizard masters to corner the market in mind-bending drugs. "It's true," he says, "I heard it on TalkSport". Tell us your stories of encounters with tinfoil hatters.
Thanks to Davros' Granddad
( , Thu 27 Aug 2009, 13:52)
« Go Back
PAUL IS DEAD (and Ben will be too if he doesn't shut the fuck up)...
Apart from his love of porn featuring scanky women receiving cumshot facials from horses with such force and brutality it makes a police watercannon seem like a childs waterpistol, my mate Ben is a pretty normal guy. Except for one thing. Paul-fucking-McCartney. Or, should I say, Paul McCartney’s evil doppleganger who’s been knocking about now for thirty-odd years after the real Macca died in a tragic car accident.
The first time Ben told me about this I was nursing a few tins of Stella and trying my best to ignore the cunt. It was Stella time. A precious time where I can sit and drink and merrily get up every few minutes to point my pecker at the porcelain, listening to metal and just generally chilling out. Its my time. My special time. And this cunt, Ben, was filling it with a load of old bollocks about The Beatles and the great cover up. It was my fault, really. I had a break from my usual Black Sabbath-a-thon and put on Sgt. Pepper’s instead. Ben, who was staying at my gaff for the weekend, then launched into his theory:
On the cover of Abbey Road Macca isn’t wearing any shoes, which obviously meant the annoying Scouse hipster with the droany voice was dead. The car in the background (VW I think), has ‘IF 28’ in the number plate, the age Macca would’ve been IF he was alive during the recording of the record. And then Ben went on about the lyrics. “What – I’d like to be under the sea in an octo-fucking-pussies garden in the cunting shade?” I interjected. But it didn’t slow Ben down. He was like a dog with a bone, or a whore with a nice hard pulsing cock: “He didn’t notice that the lights had changed,” Ben enthused. “And in Lady Madonna it goes: Wednesday morning papers didn’t come; they were withholding the news! And in She’s Leaving Home it goes: Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins; that’s when McCartney had his car crash and died! And in Revolution 9 you can hear car sounds in the background!”
I was impressed: “You’ve actually listened to Revolution 9? You must be the only person in the world to do that, mate.” I said. And this went on for fucking hours until I eventually threatened to kill Ben so he could have a word with Paul McCartney firsthand and find out what really happened.
And ever since then, on the odd occasion Ben comes down to London from the Midlands to crash at my place, nick my food and piss on my bathroom floor, if he ever catches wind of Macca’s voice on the radio or playing on a pub jukebox, he’ll go into his amazing Paul Is Dead rant, the annoying little shit that he is. The last time he came down he met up with my best mate Steve (the tattooist) for the first time. Steve proceeded to sit there and spill the beans on my latest fuck ups and embarrassments – gave my mate Ben enough ammo to mean it’ll be a long time til I can show my face in Coventry again. I sat and fumed while Ben and Steve had a good old giggle at my expense, the utter wankers. Later, Steve, being a bit of a gent and having his own motor, offered to drive Ben back up the M1 the following morning. Save a bit of cash on the trains. Fastforward to the following morning, just as Steve's putting his jacket on to leave I pass him something: “There you go, mate – bit of a heavy night last night so here's some easy listening for your drive up,” I said. Steve takes the cd, looks at it, grins: “Cheers, Spanky – reminds me of my dad, this does!” And he fucked off out the door with a copy of Wings Greatest Hits.
Steve was not a very happy chappy when he telephoned me two hours later after he’d finally dropped Ben off. Steve was not very happy at all.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 15:41, 4 replies)
Apart from his love of porn featuring scanky women receiving cumshot facials from horses with such force and brutality it makes a police watercannon seem like a childs waterpistol, my mate Ben is a pretty normal guy. Except for one thing. Paul-fucking-McCartney. Or, should I say, Paul McCartney’s evil doppleganger who’s been knocking about now for thirty-odd years after the real Macca died in a tragic car accident.
The first time Ben told me about this I was nursing a few tins of Stella and trying my best to ignore the cunt. It was Stella time. A precious time where I can sit and drink and merrily get up every few minutes to point my pecker at the porcelain, listening to metal and just generally chilling out. Its my time. My special time. And this cunt, Ben, was filling it with a load of old bollocks about The Beatles and the great cover up. It was my fault, really. I had a break from my usual Black Sabbath-a-thon and put on Sgt. Pepper’s instead. Ben, who was staying at my gaff for the weekend, then launched into his theory:
On the cover of Abbey Road Macca isn’t wearing any shoes, which obviously meant the annoying Scouse hipster with the droany voice was dead. The car in the background (VW I think), has ‘IF 28’ in the number plate, the age Macca would’ve been IF he was alive during the recording of the record. And then Ben went on about the lyrics. “What – I’d like to be under the sea in an octo-fucking-pussies garden in the cunting shade?” I interjected. But it didn’t slow Ben down. He was like a dog with a bone, or a whore with a nice hard pulsing cock: “He didn’t notice that the lights had changed,” Ben enthused. “And in Lady Madonna it goes: Wednesday morning papers didn’t come; they were withholding the news! And in She’s Leaving Home it goes: Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins; that’s when McCartney had his car crash and died! And in Revolution 9 you can hear car sounds in the background!”
I was impressed: “You’ve actually listened to Revolution 9? You must be the only person in the world to do that, mate.” I said. And this went on for fucking hours until I eventually threatened to kill Ben so he could have a word with Paul McCartney firsthand and find out what really happened.
And ever since then, on the odd occasion Ben comes down to London from the Midlands to crash at my place, nick my food and piss on my bathroom floor, if he ever catches wind of Macca’s voice on the radio or playing on a pub jukebox, he’ll go into his amazing Paul Is Dead rant, the annoying little shit that he is. The last time he came down he met up with my best mate Steve (the tattooist) for the first time. Steve proceeded to sit there and spill the beans on my latest fuck ups and embarrassments – gave my mate Ben enough ammo to mean it’ll be a long time til I can show my face in Coventry again. I sat and fumed while Ben and Steve had a good old giggle at my expense, the utter wankers. Later, Steve, being a bit of a gent and having his own motor, offered to drive Ben back up the M1 the following morning. Save a bit of cash on the trains. Fastforward to the following morning, just as Steve's putting his jacket on to leave I pass him something: “There you go, mate – bit of a heavy night last night so here's some easy listening for your drive up,” I said. Steve takes the cd, looks at it, grins: “Cheers, Spanky – reminds me of my dad, this does!” And he fucked off out the door with a copy of Wings Greatest Hits.
Steve was not a very happy chappy when he telephoned me two hours later after he’d finally dropped Ben off. Steve was not very happy at all.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 15:41, 4 replies)
isn't it also
that the guitar in the Sgt Pepper's artwork spells out 'Paul?'
OoooOOoooo
I wish he WAS dead, the Long John Silver-fucking Frog fucking Chorus CUNT.
I'd like to slam his head head repeatedly in the lid of a 'pyahno-keyboard'.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 16:18, closed)
that the guitar in the Sgt Pepper's artwork spells out 'Paul?'
OoooOOoooo
I wish he WAS dead, the Long John Silver-fucking Frog fucking Chorus CUNT.
I'd like to slam his head head repeatedly in the lid of a 'pyahno-keyboard'.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 16:18, closed)
It can't be true
the Beatles die in reverse talent order.
Ringo will live forever.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 16:25, closed)
the Beatles die in reverse talent order.
Ringo will live forever.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 16:25, closed)
ha
i've heard this theory... the things people have come up with to justify it are ridiculous. there's a lot of people out there with fuck all better to do.
says the b3tan. but still.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 19:44, closed)
i've heard this theory... the things people have come up with to justify it are ridiculous. there's a lot of people out there with fuck all better to do.
says the b3tan. but still.
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 19:44, closed)
The whole 12 points of that conspiracy theory......
......are here
www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1205310/Pictured-The-Beatles-album-cover-started-decades-long-conspiracy-theory.html
its the Daily Mail, so it must be true ;)
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 21:56, closed)
......are here
www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1205310/Pictured-The-Beatles-album-cover-started-decades-long-conspiracy-theory.html
its the Daily Mail, so it must be true ;)
( , Fri 28 Aug 2009, 21:56, closed)
« Go Back