Anders Breivik.
I'm not sure why. I think it's the hipster beard and the multiple murder.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 13:28, Reply)

Mystic twattery
Because I am bored this afternoon, I'm going to have a stab at answering the next QOTW before it's been asked. Given the knife-edge timing of this one I won't have time for a long story; just enough to be hailed as either a psychic visionary or an unpsychic nobber.

So, my most memorable travelling companion was the gentleman who sat next to me on the London Underground one evening, wearing a dress, a lampshade on his head and cherry red lipstick, and regaling me with his cheap cider fumes and theories about television aerials.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 13:24, Reply)

I love Rory
There, I've said it.
He's the beast of all the animals.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 12:42, Reply)

I'm not a violent guy; I don't look for trouble, but sometimes my temper gets the better of me.
I'd had a hard day at work - I work for a charity and I'd had to cope with a blood-sucking son-in-law trying to rinse his newly-deceased aunt's estate for all they had, and I'd had to put him straight and have him sent down. It's always an ugly business getting involved in family affairs, but justice needs to be done, and - sometimes more importantly - needs to be SEEN to be being done.

So wearily I got onto the train home, after having walked through the drizzle of a grey London evening, to go to the taikwondo class that I teach (triple-dan black belt for those interested). Sitting on the train was a young girl - about 10 or 12, singing along quietly to her iPod. I was only going a couple of stops so didn't need to sit down

Some fuck-haired twat with a media degree gets on after me, and sits opposite the little girl.

"Excuse me" he says to the girl aggressively, "Could you turn off your fucking singing?".

That was his first mistake.

As I said, I'm not a violent guy - but sometimes my temper gets the better of me.

I strode over to him, put my face right up in his, and said quietly "What did you say to her?"

"I asked her to turn her music down" he said, whimpering. I also noticed a growing wet patch where he was starting to wet himself.

I couldn't have that. I couldn't have some prissy little media whore tell an innocent little girl to stop singing. Little girls singing is one of life's free moments of beauty, and I was damned if I'd let this twat take such away from the world, and then whimper to me like a little bitch.

I fly-kicked him in the face, smashing his nose, then did a cobra-strike to his throat, making him choke. I grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his stupid face repeatedly into his own knees, over, and over, and over, and over, and over. At first he was trying to scream through his broken teeth, but by the time I'd finished with him his face was just a bloody mess, and he flopped forwards, unmoving, and (I think), not breathing.

What a twat.

I got off at the next stop, went and taught my class, and went home.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 11:40, 12 replies)

Electric Blue Peter…

I’ll crimp this one out quickly…

A fair few years ago, Jenny, my sister in law was partaking in a girl’s weekend which consisted of a swarm of tarted up women heavy drinking, shopping, going to a show, and staying at a big 'la-de-da' hotel in London.

Having fun was the order of the day. Giggling too much, talking about clothes, slagging men off , whilst quaffing copious amounts of overpriced cocktails. Standard fayre for this kind of thing as I understand it. They were enjoying themselves immensely

At the time of the incident in question, they hadn’t even gone out for the evening yet, and were meeting in the hotel bar for beverages prior to going out on the main lash.

As the gaggle of girls began to group, Jenny remembered that she had left something in her room, and wisely decided to nip up and get it.

She stepped into the lift and pressed her floor button. As she waited for the doors to close, who should jump into the lift but housewives’ favourite rapist, shag-tape connoisseur, and Matthew Wright’s biggest fan…John Leslie! (This was quite a bit before all the scandal broke out about him by the way).

Anyhoo, Jenny recognised him, gave him a quick friendly smile, and then turned away to look at the screen above the lift door as the numbers started to go up.

As soon as the lift started moving, Mr Leslie tapped Jenny on the shoulder. She turned her neck to see what he wanted. With a smarmy smirk and his eyebrows waggling he just blurted out: “Would you like to come up to my room?”

No Introduction, no nicities, not even a ‘Hi’…just straight in, with the invitation for her to get her laughing gear round his lumpy haggis.

Jenny was quite taken aback, and decided that she wasn’t having any of this, but despite her moderate squiffyness, she decided to act with a bit of decorum.

“Erm, no thank you...” She replied firmly.

Old Johnny boy was obviously a bit miffed, but to be fair, he didn’t push it any further. However, he did step quite awkwardly close to her and follow up with a patronising: “Harrumphfff!, well I suppoooose you’ll be wanting an autograph though eh?”

With this, something inside Jenny snapped. In fact, it snapped with such vigour that any witnesses might have thought that one of the cables in the lift had gone.

With a face like thunder, Jenny turned, pointed her freshly manicured finger at him and snarled. “I’ll tell you what I want, I want you to FUCK. *prods him in the chest* RIGHT *prods harder* OFF!” .

Leslie backed away into the corner of the small lift and Jenny grolwed once more at him for luck before turning her back on him again. A few moments pass and the lift rolls on. This is now quite awkward. She once again checks the display screen, ‘Bollocks’, she thinks, as she realises she’s got about 10 floors to go, and she’s going to potentially be stuck in the lift with this world champion twat for quite a while.

Eventually, she gets to her floor and gratefully steps out of the lift. However, with painful predictability, Mr Leslie does too…This is now becoming somewhat creepy…she walks down the corridor, he continues to follow silently. She turns a corner, he’s still just a few feet away – it’s unbearable, and poor Jenny can’t take it anymore.

She spins round on her heels, glares at him and bellows: “WILL YOU JUST FUCK OFF? What’s your prob…..oh” as she watches him sheepishly pop his card into the door and enter what is obviously his room...about 3 doors down from hers.

Still...lucky escape for her I reckon.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Thu 19 Apr 2012, 11:32, 1 reply)

The bleeding obvious twat
Dear woman, now dead, but nothing to do with me, always FUCKING ALWAYS pointed out the things in front of us. Example - driving along a lovely bit of dirt road when a huge wedge tailed eagle swooped in front of us and thermaled up and over the windscreen creating the Wedge Eclipse. Dear woman in passenger seat, excitedly and breathlessly asks me, "did you see that wedgie cruise our windscreen?". I did a little grunt fuck of frustration and teeth clenched "yes, I am bloody driving, aren't I?". Ruined every fucking bleeding obvious moment, did that dear dead woman.
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 10:59, 3 replies)

Train twat. Again.
Usual train drudgery.

I helped an old lady with her two suitcases onto a fairly busy train. I picked up my own bag and hopped onto the train just as the doors were going. I got caught. Normally I understand the lack of sympathy for this situation but I'd been the good Samaritan here and now I was paying for it, in front of alot of people including one fat twunt standing closest to me who thought this was the *funniest thing he's ever seen*. Big mistake

With red mist mode engaged I push open the doors and get onto the train. I'm now opposite my fat little laughing friend and having a good stare. He stops. Something snaps inside. This pony tailed, snide shit was openly laughing at my predicament behind glass but now it's gone. Time to engage(I should note that despite my height I have never engaged anyone like this since leaving school). Before I know it I've grabbed his collar and pulled him forward. 'Why aren't you laughing?'. He can't answer. I bang him against the partition. 'Why aren't you laughing anymore?' He makes a noise and looks down. 'Because your a piece of shit that's why' I say looking into his eyes and shove him back to where he was.

Fuck. What have I done? Why did I do that? I now realise there is nowhere to sit and I've got to stand opposite this twat until London bridge, 15 minutes away. Arse.

So I'm a twat for a loosing my rag. He's a twat for laughing at someone who tried to help a struggling person. And for having a pony tail.
(skgorsky, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 10:58, 9 replies)

Revenge is sweet (and non fattening)
My first ever blowjob was interrupted - and never subsequently resumed - because my twat of a housemate deliberately interrupted proceedings. He knew I was "occupied", so it was sheer cock-blocking twuntery.

Several years later, he turned up at a rather attractive young lady's flat, obviously attempting to make a play for her. His face when I wandered out of her bedroom clad only in my boxers was an image I shall treasure for ever.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 10:15, 5 replies)

Slow Drivers
They need to be taken outside and shot! There's nothing i hate more than someone pottering along at 10mph under the speed limit on an empty road. Then stopping at the next junction and letting loads of other cars out, then hesitating and not pulling out themselves as there's another car approaching 100 metres away!
I literally would love to see them be subject to a Halal style killing. Right across the throat!
(boosh, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 9:11, 3 replies)

Utah drivers
I've also got another to tell about Texas drivers, but that's another story.

So after I was hired by IBM, I move to the location from California. For those of you who know the US highway system, I'm taking I-15 north up from San Diego to the I-80 east and going from there. I-15 goes through Nevada, around Las Vegas, then down to Arizona and back up to Utah. I spend the first night in Mesquite, Nevada as I had a late start and was finishing packing. I get an early start the next day (roughly 0500 local) and get on the road, while it's still dark thanks to it being late spring.

I drive through the mountains into Utah, and I'm about 15-30km out from St. George, the first major town in Utah you'll run into along that route. This part of I-15 is still fairly mountainous, and like most interstates, used heavily by truckers. This part of I-15 is also two lanes. I'm in the left-hand lane as truckers are going slow through here thanks to the terrain. I'm also going the speed limit as I don't know the local customs of pushing the speed limit and don't want to get any tickets.

As I'm passing some 18-wheelers on the left, a Utah driver gets behind me. He is obviously desperate to pass, knowing the customs, and starts tailgating me. Very, very close, to the point where I can't even see his bumper anymore (note: I'm in a Toyota sedan, he's in some kind of SUV or pickup, I forget the exact car). But I can see his lights, which he makes sure of by flashing his high beams at me repeatedly.

So, to recap: driving in mountain terrain (with a good 20m drop on my left past the guardrail), next to some 18-wheelers, with some asshole Utah driver driving so close to my rear bumper that he's about to force me off the road with physical force alone, and he's also flashing his highbeams, which are practically blinding me since the sun is barely peeking over the horizon.

Thanks a lot, you thundercunt.
(Magus Zeal reloading since, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 6:41, 5 replies)

Layabouts.
This sort of shit gets my blood boiling. Lazy layabouts at work.

Back when I worked for IBM, on our team we had two people that were notorious skivers. One of which, named Philip (for that is his name and I don't mind calling the lying cunt out on it) was very, very good at getting out of work. Due to being system administrators on customer accounts, we had to get access to the various customer boxes. Surprisingly, he had to fight on getting access to those boxes -- the same boxes I had access to, and he was hired before I was.

Yeah, right.

Plans were drawn up with management, or at least that's what I gathered, judging by conversations I overheard and notes I saw on his desk. But what did he do all day? Since I sat next to him, I could easily see what he did -- browsed the web, texted friends with Google Voice, and talked on his own phone. The rest of us were pulling 50-60 hour weeks at least to stay afloat due to a new account that was hammering us with work.

His ass was likely given a choice of get fired or quit, because he was gone one day and that was it.

Another skiver was Bill. He wasn't just a skiver, no. He had the hygiene skills of a corpse fire, wearing stained clothing that was never tucked right or too small for his frame. He was unkempt, and had the personality of a rabid doberman that had been kicked in the balls by Michael Vick. He was brash and abrasive with everyone he worked with, and would never step up to take work. He even had the audacity to sleep at his desk, and when he was on the night shift, he would sit at his desk and watch YouTube, Hulu and other similar sites.

I've worked with other skivers, but not ones as bad as those two.
(Magus Zeal reloading since, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 6:25, 5 replies)

Yer jokin' ...
Way back when the last millennium was waning, mobile phones were a small housebrick with an antennae attached and looked for all the world like a remote controlled detonator.

I was working in a coffee shop at the time. One day, a jumped up, peach fuzzed sharp suit walked into the shop loudly talking about his portfolio on his brand new, social status enhancing item.

He swaggered about a bit whilst ordering a cappuccino with leery exaggerated sign language.

His phone rang.

He burst into flames, paid for his coffee and fled.
(Que?, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 5:27, 5 replies)

Blame Dr. Preference.
I used to be a member of the Transport Workers Association.
*drumroll*- tish!
A mate I had at the time was worse off - he was a member of the Transport Workers Union of Northern Territory.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Wed 18 Apr 2012, 23:13, 1 reply)

It took me an hour longer than normal to get home tonight
because a train hit a dog and there were severe delays.

Someone somewhere is being a twat but I'm not entirely sure who. Unless it was one of the Queen's corgis and she'd pulled rank to shut down an entire train line for 40 minutes then I don't see what the problem is. Were they trying to identify the animal so two police constables could go round and inform the family? or did one dog somehow manage to write off a fucking train?

Again fuck knows. All I know is that I was late home and it was bloody pissing it down as well.

Reading this all back I am fully prepared for some kind of CAC/DAC backlash/discussion (If anyone still reads QOTW answers on a Wednesday night that is)
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 21:54, 9 replies)

Right, this one is a stretch, but I used to work with some tribes by the Luvua River in the Congo.
When some of them died in an incident of some sort, the tribal elders asked me to commemorate their dead by making a sculpture out of their teeth.
So, obviously I used their dental remains to build a diorama of the meadows and marshes in the Humber River flood plain.
That was my twa teeth ings.


Oh yes.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 21:39, 3 replies)

Love lost
Once, I liked a certain blonde haired, blue eyed girl. This was during high school, when my self esteem matched my ability and she was the purtiest thing in the high school. I admired her from afar, fumbled through a "hello" once or twice in the hall, but mainly resigned myself to her never knowing my name.

A friend had an old VW cabrio that I liked to ride in since it made me look cool. Along with us came a guy who I'd known for a long time, but who always seemed to have to compete with me: why, I don't know. We were stopped at a red light and right up next to us drives another convertible with "HER" driving. She said "hi". I said, "hi". She asked where I was going, I said "we were just hanging out." She asked if I wanted to come to her place as she and a few friends were having a party. I said "YES!"

It was at this point that the Mr. Competitive steps in and asks, "are you turning right here?" She, confused, says, "I guess". He then throws his cup full of Sprite all over her and her friend and tells the driver to gun it.

The next time she saw me she hit me. It was a love never to be.
( BrokenCoccyx doesn't mind if you grope on, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 18:01, 1 reply)

People
who use the suffix 'Gate' when there is anything slightly political with the tiniest homeopathic wiff of scandal.


It made fucking sense with 'Watergate' because it was THE NAME OF THE FUCKING OFFICES YOU DULLARD CUNTS.
( Larry Death Anger Pain Fear Aggression, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 17:54, 22 replies)

More motorway madness
I once found myself behind a guy doing about 75mph in a Jaguar of some kind. He was using the journey to do a little filing: picking sheets of paper from a pile on the passenger seat, reading them on the steering wheel, then turning right around and sorting them into piles on the back seat. Yes, not only letting go of the wheel, but not even facing the direction of travel, for several seconds each time.

I don't usually break the limit, naturally, officer, but I made damn sure I didn't stay behind that pillock for one millisecond longer than I had to!
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 17:13, 4 replies)

Motorway Madness
The other night I was driving back home on the M4 after visiting a purveyor of medicinal herbs. Doing 90mph quite comfortably in the fast lane when I happened to just glance in my rearview mirror. SHIT ON TOAST! There's a fucking Beamer right up my arse, WITH NO FUCKING LIGHTS ON!
Now, the part of the motorway I was on isn't lit at night so I can only assume it was fucking Riddick in the driver seat. Anyway, I pulled over to the middle lane only to witness that trademark of BMW drivers everywhere, the 'I'm-going-exceedingly-faster-than-yew' woosh as the prick zoomed off into the night.

Twat.
(Erasmusmicroman is inside your T.V., Wed 18 Apr 2012, 16:24, 9 replies)

TWAT!
So, right, this flatmate of mine at uni. What an utter arse he was. I can get on with most people, I'm pretty great really, unless you annoy me, and then I just go BANG! But, you know, I never get annoyed with anyone who doesn't deserve it. Anyhoo, this bloke was just beyond the pale. The most unreasonable man I ever have had the misfortune to deal with. I tried being nice, I left notes, I texted him about it, I told all my friends, but it didn't change anything, he just went on and on PUTTING THE FUCKING FORKS IN THE DRAWER FACING CURVED SIDE DOWNWARDS.

WHAT A TWAT!
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 14:45, 2 replies)

if a cattery is a place where people keep cats....
...are the Houses of Parliament a twattery?
(localboy purveyor of pisspoor puns, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 14:40, 7 replies)

this child has a serious birth defect.
For every like this gets £1 will be donated to go towards her medical care.
(shezam slouching towards nirvana., Wed 18 Apr 2012, 14:30, 5 replies)

On the Tube last week
I watched as a bloke ran on to the train on the northern line. The doors were already closing, but not wanting to wait another 3 mins for the next train, managed to fit an arm through the door before they closed, then forced them open. He then squidged himself on. Much to the dismay of the cramped passengers on the other side of the door.

The doors then slammed shut behind him.

I then noticed his beige rain mac hadnt made it through the door as well as he had, and was sticking a clear 1-2 foot out into the air. I giggle, we all giggle. Twat man has had his day.

He then sees us all giggling and with a smirk on his face begins to pull his coat through the doors... until it jams... Why had it stopped? because there was a great big brown button jamming it on the outside - preventing it from being pulled through.

Then I heard the whine of the motors start up and away he went...

His coat was still 1 foot clear of the train sticking out. As it ran down the platform it would waft past and slap people knocking peoples newspapers.

God knows what state it was in by the time he got to the next station.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 14:04, 8 replies)

another car salesman tale
Salesman number one couldn't be more helpful ..yes you can have the car in grey on that date for a reasonable price and while you're here I'll value your old car and offer you a fair price.
Being sensible I thought I should compare with other dealers just to make sure the deal was actually good and I wasn't just being overwhelmed with shininess in the showroom.
I spoke to a nice chap at another dealership who said come on over and we'll have a chat.

When I arrived the same chap greeted me but was rudely interrupted by a fairly elderly chap who took charge (first bloke looked quite annoyed about this). He seemed to be offended from the off that I possibly wanted to buy a car from him and seemed to be of the viewpoint that surely my husband should be handling this (this was suggested during his attempts at pleasantries)and he continued to talk to me as if to a small child.
Anyway I explain what I'm after he appeared to listen.

No you can only have the car in red at the full list price and you can't have it for at least another 5 weeks as the French are on holiday. I had to point out that the car is made in Eastern Europe so no idea why French holidays had any bearing on it. He ignored this comment and went off to check on the valuation that had been going on while this stunning non sales pitch was happening and he came back with an offer £500 less than the other dealer and a look that suggested I'd darkened his door even driving onto his forecourt with it!

I politely (yes really) bade him farewell and I went back to the first dealer (via a Toyota dealer who tried to tell me that Aygos are made on the special Toyota production line which was at least funny rather than offensive)
(cmouse is pondering about life in other jobs, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 13:52, 1 reply)

Recieved work with a word circled and the instruction
"Use a different font."

A different font was used.

Self-important lad comes up; "What's this?!"

"You said use a different font."

"YES! BUT IT'S NOT THE RIGHT FONT, IS IT?!"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 12:37, 7 replies)

Staff Sergeant Twat
In a well known Signals Regt in Germany (Oh, all right, it was the 7th) my Staff Sergeant was not a well liked person, he was universally disliked and avoided by one and all (He had a genuinely lovely wife though).
Even his fellow NCOs would walk the other way and slowly shake their heads when exposed to his vindictive twatery.
A few examples
1) On Fridays all troops would knock-off at lunch time, but not us. No, we had to clean out the sheds every week even though by lunch time they were tidier and cleaner than a newly built Hospital that had been firehosed with bleach. This won him no friends.
2) Block inspections twice a day for 2 months, in a working Regt this is considered not nice. This won him no friends.
3) Being deployed on Ops can be unpleasant at times so it's up to everyone to make sure everyone's chin is firmly up. There's no need for bed inspections twice a day, or unnecessary night time guard duties and other general twatery. This won him no friends. In fact he got himself beaten over the head with a heavy duty plastic Jerrycan one night and was advised to change his attitude. It didn't work.

But the twattery became quite personal when I decided to leave and Staff Sergeant Twat decided to make my last day a little bit special.
It was a Friday and I was going to be catching a lift with a mate that evening taking all my kit with me, so would this be a relaxing day with my work colleagues and a chance to sort out any last minute admin? I think you can guess.
Staff Sergeant Twat had persuaded his superior that a morning CFT (Combat Fitness Test) for the whole squadron would be just the ticket, the idiot was also happy to inform anyone that would listen that he had arranged the whole thing for my benefit. Nice...
So we kit up and set off out the Barracks gate and head towards German countryside. At a 100 yards down the road, for some unknown reason, my leg started playing up. Who would have thought?
I went "Oooo! Aaagh! My leg! Sorry chaps, I just can't continue!"
A very nice Cpl says "Ah, Spango, sorry to hear that. Best get yourself in the Jack-Wagon"
So I climbed into the Jack-Wagon (Landrover) that kept pace with the squadron to cheers and clapping from my mates in the Troop. Staff Sergeant Twat was not smiling though, but perhaps he was concentrating on tabbing with his bergen, helmet, webbing and rifle, bless him.

I thought that was it, but no. Silly me.

After everyone in the Troop had got themselves cleaned up, Staff Sergeant Twat announced (all the while looking and grinning at me) that it was time we all had a spot of NBC training in the Gas chamber. The afternoon of my final day found me in a CS gas filled Chamber carrying out all the usual drills that they require, including how to shit and piss, have a drink, change filter etc. All stuff that is going to get CS gas residue well and truly stuck to you. It burns you know, especially when exposed to warm damp areas. Showers are a no-no for a good few hours.
Unfortunately I didn't get time to really say goodbye to my mates as we had to catch the ferry. We stank of CS as we drove home, and this is probably why the French customs took an interest in us and decided to have a good look in my kit and the car. Luckily no plastic gloves were needed.

Length? Should have been 6 miles but I jacked it after 100 yards.
(SpangoTheWonderBadger is brewing beer, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 11:44, 19 replies)

I don't know that this really counts as being a twat...
...after all, they did make cakes for everyone (although they also said 'Hey guys' so it balances out). But I just received this email:


"Hey guys, home made cakes on my desk, help yourself. Suitable for vegetarians. No Eggs! (they do contain gelatine)"


...um...
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 9:31, 22 replies)

Plonker on TV last night
32 years old, still lives with his mum; Mum is a famous actress and has decided to buy her son a flat so he'll finally leave the nest. She spends £250,000 on lodgings for the sprog, who stands there with his unkempt hair, Hoxton jacket and expression of a vacantly grinning halibut, thrilled that he will finally have his own basement studio in which to mix his phat choonz. Nathan Barley is alive and well.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 9:01, 8 replies)

Teenage boys.
OK, it's an easy target. Everyone knows that teenage boys are twats for at least most of the time. Those of us who have been teenage boys know this more acutely than we'd like to admit.

But there's one thing in particular about teenage boys that's remarkably twattish, and seems to be comparatively recent.

Hands in the trousers.

There are times when you find yourself with nothing to carry, and your arms hanging listlessly by your side like... oh, like asparagus on the reduced-to-clear rack; and this is one of the reasons why pockets are great things. They give you somewhere to put your hands when you've nothing in them.

So why in the name of Jesus Radioactive Christ and all his glow-in-the-dark disciples does it strike a significant portion of the acned youth of this isle that the best thing to do with their hands would be to thrust them down the front of their trousers? It's bad enough that the jeans-wearing demographic thinks it acceptable to have a waistline sagging somewhere south of their buttocks; but the trackies-wearing demographic has decided that there's just too much dignity in that. So it's down the front of the trousers the hands go.

In public.

In shops.

They presumably do things like shake hands, and inspect goods for sale (even if it's only so they know what they're about to steal) - which means that they do so with hands that have recently been far too close to comfort to their doubtless repulsive genitalia. And, let's face it: the trackies demographic is not the demographic most likely to bother the shower gel.

If it's true that there's only six degrees of separation between any two people anywhere on the planet, this suggests that there can be only one or two degrees of separation between anything that anyone does, and the ballsack of one of nature's spottier specimens.

Just think about it. Look at the things in your fruitbowl, or the change in your pocket. Would you want to fill your house with items recovered from the vicinity of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant? Unlikely. And yet we cannot help but to fill our dwellings with items that may well be much more heavily contaminated, even if only indirectly, with grot from the groin of a sunken-eyed 17-year-old. (Although, come to think of it, fruit might be one of the few things that doesn't really get their attention.)

Think about it, and try not to shudder.

They are, I fear, irredeemable in their twattishness.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 17 Apr 2012, 21:16, 28 replies)

Repost anyone?
One night, as I do EVERY NIGHT, I got OFF MY HEAD on MASSIVE OSTRICHES(they're like Doves, only for REAL men). I dind't do anything that due to me spending all night beating up ninja robot squaddies and then inserting my bacon hypodermic into them to giving infusions of organic mayonnaise to their DRIPPING supermodel girlfriends.

However.

Next morning.

I felt horrid.

So I jumped in the Accord and drove down the shop, donutting the car all the way and flicking V's at traffic coppers. They let me do this as chainsawed a pimp to death for them.

At the supermarket, in the booze-and-pot-noodle aisle(they have one at my supermarket because I'm THAT important in my town) some woman was there with a child, despite the fact that under-18's are banned by law from shops selling booze. So what was to happen next was ALL HER OWN FAULT.

They were singing 'Old MacDonald'.

I gave them a menacing glower. That normally makes SAS men shit themselves, but they clearly didn't see it.

So, I waited until her back was turned and BROKE THE CHILDS ARM OVER MY KNEE. He totally deserved it. He was singing 'with a moo-moo here' too loud and a bit flat.

But the SELFISH QUEEN OF THE HARPIES had noticed and said that I wasn't allowed to do that. Needless to say, I had the last laugh though.

I injected her with a syringe full of MASSIVE DRUGS an waited for her to pass out.
THEN I KICKED HER IN THE RIBS and left.

On my way out, I took a parking sticker from a soft-top so I didn't get a ticket. I'm such a twat for doing that, it was only 50p for 2 hours.

Cheers.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Tue 17 Apr 2012, 21:07, 7 replies)