Jeff Lynne:“Read my electric light horoscopes only in the Blogicle!!!”
Oscar Wilde:“Lay down thou pretty eyes upon my most salicious and lugubrious ramblings, only in the Blogicle!”
I am Blogger Steve. This is my blog. This is you reading it.
WELCOME TO MY LIFE YOU FOOLS.
So this is a blog, eh? And not just anyone’s blog – but MY blog – bloody hell I simply cannot think of a more vile charade – and I include Graham Norton’s entire career in my terms of reference.
Blog! Even the rubbish Open Office software I’m using to type this insists on branding the word ‘blog’ with a big red squiggly error alert.
BLOG! Four little letters that strike more fear into me than other well known word-shockers like ‘Nazi’ and ‘cunt’ and anyone who does ‘blog’ must surely have the previous two of those words attached to his name each and every time it’s seen in print.
The word ‘blog’ makes me want to cough up bits of pancreas and tongue-feed it into my hard-drive like a mothering crow. What the luminous fuck does ‘Blog’ mean anyway?
A: Well, actually Steve, the word ‘blog’ is actually a contraction of the term “Web log” and…..OH SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU THUNDER-TWAT!
The proper dictionary term for ‘Blog’ should be: ‘a festering, Guinness-coloured canoe-sized shit’ – and nobody will ever persuade me otherwise.
But then again, I’ve got nothing much else to do, so keep reading if you want. However lets be clear, apes; I despise each and every atom of any so-called human who’d disgrace his mercifully short existence by wasting even one micro-second of it by reading someone else’s BLOG. If your eyes are still gliding across these pixellated word-shapes than I heartily vomit on your soul and regard your eventual death with even less levity than when my shoe laces became undone during my morning wank.
KEMP
I fucking love Ross Kemp. And I love it when he’s putting his bald head on the line for the entertainment of mostly Sky One viewers – who are, on the whole, a lice-strewn gang of barely human sex-pests with the kind of hands that are permanently encased in a fine silky film of their own cock-snot.
KEMP has been inside gangs, inside Afghanistan, inside Pirates, inside Afghanistan (again!!!) and he’s even been in a fucking fruit and fibre ad. It’s clear he’s doing all this to try and escape the legacy of being a fake tough guy in EastEnders – but fuck me he really shouldn’t care so much about what the brain-dead masses think. How much longer must he suffer this insane penance? What’s next for this brave, yet exceptionally stupid ex-thespian? Are we gonna see ‘KEMP DOES THE STATIONS OF THE CROSS’? Perhaps this show would first run on Sky Two – to test the blood lust of the audience – with Kemp having his skin flayed off by ex-Heart Beat actors in centurion outfits before being hammered to a mahogany cross by show presenters, Justin Lee Collins and Davina McCall. Maybe we could really ramp up the sacrificial ethos of the show by allowing Kemp to finish himself off with the spear to the abdomen bit what us Catholic kids so enjoyed. I know the grisly details of the stations by rote. Mostly because I was taught them by rote. What better way to foster the eager minds of the young then for their elders to allow their soft, porous brains to be swamped with vivid, photo-realistic images of Roman era torture? Fucking brilliant!
TOILET
I had a wonderful shit this morning. It was rich, colourful, textured and it curled out with the elegance of Fred Astaire’s prancing ghost.
What? Too much information? Well, sorry but…
THIS
IS
HOW
I
ROLL.
DEAL
WITH
IT!
AND
HAVING
THE
WORDS
APPEAR
VERTICALLY
MAKES
IT
EVEN
MORE
FUCKING
AMAZING.
BECKHAM
I have a recurring dream that male model David Beckham (hobbies include football and touching his anus with a stick) is actually the one sitting in the back seat of the Limo beside Jackie Kennedy that fateful day in Dallas. In fact, now that I think more, the dream also seems to suggest that Beckham’s wife is also in the back seat – not in place of Jackie – but rather just sitting in the middle, kind of like a spare prick that wants its presence acknowledged but is actually more relevant than a fart in deep space.
Strangely, the dream always ends before the much anticipated head-shot and I wake to find my finger frantically pulling an invisible trigger.
I’ve consulted the mystic that I keep tied up in my basement; and he informs me that the Beckham/JFK dream is a common theme among the sleep-fantasies of the clinically depressed; and probably suggests that I also suffer from a pathological sense of career envy and sexual jealousy.
- DOES THE JOB!
Clever lot those mystics – I quite ENVY their gifts in fact – and with my PATHOLOGICAL JEALOUSY I’ve just embedded a Super-Ser gas heater into his eye socket. He cried for several hours before I drowned him with jars of Marmite (cost me a bloody fortune!).
Until next time….
PISS OFF!
Leave a Reply
Photo Gallery
LISBON REFERENDUM LATEST! Declan Ganley’s Face Appears On Tree Stump!
Tommy Tiernan Controversy Continues! What He Said Next…!!!
Kanye West gate-crashes NAMA negotiations! FULL XLUSIVE STORY!!!
CLINTON FREES PHIL SPECTOR BY SMASHING THROUGH PRISON WALL (OF SOUND — LOL!!).’
JESUS CHRIST: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN, Smacks Box Office Like A Bitch!!!
