Spurger
If I ever lived in America – and I won’t – and if I decided to live in Texas – and I won’t – then, without even a peripheral glimpse of the hint of a shadow of a doubt, I would choose to live in the town of Spurger. Spurger. Say it loud. Let Spurger roll around your tongue. Think about living in the place and loving it so bad that Spurger simply seems to ooze from every pore. Here are some fun facts about Spurger! Spurger was founded by brothers Joseph and Hebadebazebadiah Jissum in 1881. Due to its proximity to the river known to the native American Indians as Butchiix the town was called Jissum-on-the-Butchiix until 1893 when it was pointed out that the Indians had all moved north and the town signs were unwieldy. Spurger was chosen instead, narrowly beating Bukkakeville, Kumslutze, and Southampton in a local poll. Spurger’s local basketball team are called the Spurger Satins. Once it was spelt Stains but I can’t remember when that was. Spurger has the highest percentage of large hat-wearing men in the continental United States. The hats are large and not the men. Except for the mayor. He’s quite large. The problem with me living in Spurger besides the obvious problem with it being in Texas, the obvious problem with it being in America, and the – and I can’t believe I’ve just thought of this – not that obvious problem with its name somehow conjuring up the image of a bodily function whose usage outside procreation causes angels to lose their wings and burn up during re-entry to Earth is that Spurger have just called off their traditional cross-dressing day at school. As an Englishman that makes me very sad. Reuters tells us … Cross-dressing was out at a rural East Texas school district after a Christian legal group complained a long-standing school tradition of reversing social roles for a day would promote homosexuality. Because, as we all know, gay men all dress like women. And lesbians grow beards and smoke pipes. I don’t know. Call me a sceptic if you will but I somehow doubt there is scientific evidence to back this up and, I’ll go further, I suspect that even the all-powerful law-trumper itself, the Bible, probably makes no mention of it at all. Except maybe in Leviticus. Man, that’s one crazy book. Not as crazy as Paul’s letters to the Moonmen but certainly getting there. You see, when I wear women’s clothing I can honestly say that I never feel the urge to explore my masculine side and someone else’s too. An example of...
They’re Not Sorry
There are a lot of Americans who, as is their right, do not feel sorry for making the world the cesspit it is. The more advanced of us would rather raise everyone’s standards but human rights does dictate that it’s only fair that some people consider dragging everyone down to be a simpler solution. Many of them quite openly state that they don’t care what the rest of the world thinks. How lovely. Living in America, land of the free, home of the banjo, I’m sure that they also appreciate that a lot of people in the rest of the world don’t care about them either any longer. Used to. Tried to help. Now … couldn’t care less. But just who are these people? Well, as luck would have it they’ve posted their pictures on the internet for all to see. It’s here: werenotsorry.com. Daisy suggested I might like to adjust the pictures. You know what? She was right. Original Image Original Image Original Image Original Image Original Image Original Image Original...
Secret Gospel Chapter: Revealed!
Jesus then left that place and went into the hills beyond the Jordan to his miraculous water-into-moonshine still. "Teacher," said James and John in unison, for that was their way and very annoying it was too, "don’t you remember what happened last time?" But Jesus was indignant and drank into the early evening. Jesus and his disciples made their way through the region of Judea and many were the crowds that flocked to them. A very young woman approached Jesus with tears streaming down her face and fell to her knees before him. "Good teacher," she exclaimed, "I have been violated by my father’s brother while I slept – I think the goat’s milk was doped – and now I have become pregnant. The apothecary has refused to sell me any wormroot so that I may induce a miscarriage on moral grounds and my doctor says that my body is too underdeveloped and I will most likely not survive the term of pregnancy and that, even if I did, my child will have six toes and an overbite." "Was it any good?" asked Jesus before Simon Peter could clap his hands over the Son of Man’s mouth. Thomas answered the woman: "I doubt that Jesus meant it quite that way. Clearly, great harm will come from this and it is only right that you have some wormroot. We shall pay a little visit to the apothecary and convince the owner of the error of his ways. If we’re not careful then kebab shops will be employing vegetarians next and nobody will be able to order lamb doners." "We’ll do no such thing!" shouted Jesus. "Life is a gift from God and cannot be discarded. No. Matter. What! Got it?" The young woman started crying again and asked "Then who gave me the gifts of rape and almost-certain death, good teacher? If it wasn’t God then can they be discarded instead?" And Jesus answered "What? Hey, let’s go to Jerusalem!" While Jesus was distracted Thomas handed the young woman a card with the name and address of a coathanger manufacturer written upon it and shrugged his shoulders apologetically. They were on their way to Jerusalem with Jesus in front supported by two of his disciples when Jesus stopped and turned to the twelve. Raising his hands he said "Listen to me, all of you who would call yourself a follower of the way of the Lord!" and his disciples fell silent thinking that Jesus had sobered up. "I’m tired of walking but there is a man named Bartomas across the road who runs an orphanage and who has donkeys, one...
The new James Bond is …
Colin Farrell said ‘No’ and when Colin says ‘No’ he means ‘No’ and I should ‘No’ as I once went drinking with him at a little bar overlooking the slopes of Mount Everest. We had an enjoyable time ordering Vodka Martinis, flicking the olives at a bunch of sherpas in a sherpa training camp for action butlers underneath our balcony seats, spitting out the vile cocktail, and chugging back manly beer instead from dawn until the early evening sunset. At that time I suggested that Colin use his powers of teleportation to travel to the summit of Everest and bring back some ice so that we could fashion an ice sculpture of a swan or a flower or some other girly crud and impress the young ladies of the Melbourne Young Mountaineering Ladies Troupe who had just arrived and seemed in need of bothering. Colin said ‘No.’ I suggested again. Again he said ‘No.’ I pressured him several more times. And he said ‘No’ on each occasion. Finally he grew tired of me, transmuted into flock wallpaper and, while the patrons of the bar were distracted by the sudden appearance of a distraught action butler/future sherpa wanting to know if anyone knew how to remove olives from ears, slunk up the staircase to his room. The important thing here is that when Colin says ‘No’ he means ‘No.’ Colin said he would kill me if I ever recounted this tale or the one with the transvestite lemur but I know he didn’t mean that because he’s fully aware that I’m protected by my Shield of Anti-Colin which I picked up during our trek through Morocco on the Quest For Colin’s Purse. In your face Farrell. Do your worst. So, Colin’s not going to be the next James Bond and Pierce isn’t going to rekindle his role. I think that’s a euphemism for masturbation but I’m not sure. Since the producers of the Bond franchise won’t bring back the best Bond ever – Timothy Dalton and I’ll murderise any one of you who disagrees – the search is on for "someone else." Luckily for you I’ve called in a few of my favours and optioned a few blackmails I’d been saving to see just who’s in the running and why they will or won’t be likely to be chosen. Arthur Bostrom In case you don’t know who Arthur Bostrom is there’s a handy website for Arthur Bostrom at the Arthur Bostromly-titled arthurbostrom.com. Arthur Bostrom. Arthur is most well-known for his role in the critically-acclaimed BBC comedy series ‘Allo ‘Allo. Some of the acclaims from critics included "Oh God, no!" and...
Straights-only, moral news round-up
This update has been rated ‘R’ and is intended for Republicans only. It contains high moral stories and plenty of family values that may offend liberal-minded satanists. Time for some news, especially for you straight-sex loving people of Oregon, Arkansas, Georgia, Kentucky, Michigan, Mississippi, Montana, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Ohio, and Utah. First off, let’s all head to Utah! Hello little kiddies! Two children, ages 8 and 9, reported Wednesday evening that a white male in his 40s, driving a white pickup truck, called to them as they were walking on the sidewalk in the area of 500 E. 1864 South in Orem. The man invited the kids to get in his truck because he had candy for them That sounds positively awful! Oh, but wait, it’s okay because Utah is an upholder of morality that doesn’t want gay people getting married. Smiles all around then. Except for the unfortunate paedophile in this instance who didn’t get any. Utah bores me like no other state! Except the state of boredom. And, after that little joke courtesy of My Dad™ I think we can take a little jaunt over to … wait for it … it’s Ohio! I have relatives in Ohio (in Cleveland since you asked) so let’s check out what’s happening in Toledo, my favouritist Moledo-rhyming city in the whole of the country! A pre-teen sex "scenario", no less! A Port Clinton man has pleaded guilty to two sex-related charges involving a girl under 13 … Mack pleaded guilty as part of a plea deal under which more serious charges of rape and attempted rape were dismissed Suppose it had been a boy instead of a girl. And suppose he had tried to marry the boy. Oh, that’s so horrible. I’m shaking just picturing it. Thank God that the will of the moral majority prevented him doing that and kept him on the straight and moral path of straight paedophilia. Ohio holds my interest no longer. I’d like to take a moment, if I can, to pop down to Mississippi, home of large rivers (the Hudson, if I recall my US geography correctly), steamboats, steamboat willies (some pre-depression nazi porn or so I’ve been led to believe), and incompetent hit-and-run drivers. They need 2 cars to hit a 6-year old girl in Mississippi Police are searching for a second vehicle that possibly was used last week in the hit-and-run of a 6-year-old girl in south Jackson … school officials helped organize a medical fund Wednesday to help the family with hospital costs. What? Medical fund charity?! I’ll tell President Bush on you lot! Sorry, got carried away there. Bloody...
It’s a miracle!
My other half has been suffering rather heavily from a cold just recently. Sniffles interfere with DVDs, sneezes send whichever cat is on my lap into "claws out and into flesh for danger approaches!"-mode, et cetera. Thus far I have not contracted the illness which is odd as my immune system is usually quite good at letting through whatever works as a suitable excuse for a day off work. In the mornings she is actually quite alert; she can breathe normally, the nose drips aren’t donning their best Chinese water torture disguise, and she sounds as pleasant as usual. Come the evening, though, and a day at work (she’s considerate like that; I wouldn’t) followed by the walk home is enough to render her a frail, fragile, and less agile shadow of her healthy self; kitchen roll in hand constantly for blowing, wiping, and absorption duties, mouth wheezing a permanent accompaniment to eating, drinking, talking, and keeping quiet, and a voice that sounds like Davros performing in drag. I still love her though. But if she shrivels up and attaches an eye to the middle of her forehead I may have to have a serious think about things. So, let’s look at the evidence presented so far: my girlfriend has a bad cold which leaves her in a bad state except when she first wakes up. Why is that? Do cold germs sleep too? No, of course not; they’re all doped up on bacterial amphetamines, the little buggers. The answer is, quite simply – and I can’t believe I’ve never mentioned this before -, I have mystical healing powers that aid the recuperation of my beloved when we share the bed in sleepy dreamland. It’s true. The Catholic Church has me listed as a miracle. In my mid teens I was the destination of choice for hundreds of pilgrims each year too ill or predisposed towards laziness to head off to Lourdes or Knock or wherever a rocky outcrop in the shape of Mary’s torso conveniently near a religious souvenirs shop was miraculously crying whenever it rained. Each year I would be touched, groped, and fondled by complete strangers seeking some respite from whatever was debilitating them. A weaker person might have been affected abnormally by all this invasive attention and contact but I can happily state that I am, to this day, the same perfectly well-adjusted, nun’s wimple-sniffing, scatology museum-owning, mole-rubbing-addicted, transvestite police ring-running, school janitor impersonator that I think I always would have been regardless. By my late teens, however, organised religion held less of an appeal and I branched out on my own becoming Miracle Mark...
Recent From Retro
-
The Women Of Kilobaud Computing Sep 26, 2016 -
-
-
-
-
Recent From Entertainment
-
Dance Music Triple Nov 19, 2016 -
-
-
-
-
Recent Comments