On The Size Of Scottish Cocks May 16, 2008

It is a widely known fact that the size of Scottish penises (or “Jock-cocks”, “thistle-wranglers”, “sheep-stabbers”, “anti-English-hard-ons”) are of such an enormous size, it made the wearing of pants (or “trousers”) difficult for most of the population until the mid 1700’s, and hence made the invention and subsequent wearing of the kilt a necessity. Many years of roaming the hillsides looking for some English to trap and eat, coupled with the free-flowing aspects of basic kiltery led to a clause being inserted into the Act of Union in 1707 banning the wearing of the kilt unless in a designated area whilst playing the bagpipes and gouging gullible tourists about fake monsters in slightly creepy lakes. Following the assimilation into the United Kingdom, kilt-wearing nearly died out, and was replaced by the Scottish male almost exclusively wearing shortie-shorts, around which he hung his drying haggis and skulls “he had innocently found” of the English. This was seen as a blatant attempt in goading the English, coupled with the fact that Robert Burns had just spread a rumour about every Englishman only having half a testicle due to the overproduction of a nascent imperial arrogance on their part.

Scottish penises would never be as large again. The “Golden Era Of Scottish Cockage” (as Sir Walter Scott termed it in his lament “Och, Ma Boaby’s Wee Now”) seems to have died out in the late 19th Century. Generations of Scotsmen have had their penis growth restricted by the pant-wearing fashion of modern times, and now Scot’s penises rank just under the leaders Belgium in the latest European Union Cock Index (2006).

Scottish Nationalist party leader, and current First Minister of Scotland Alex Salmond has vowed to increase the size of Scottish cocks in his party’s latest manifesto “Bigger Cocks As Soon As We Split From The Tiny-Dicked English”. Approval of this motion will be put to a referednum vote in 2010, and it is hoped by all that the pro-big voting block will get the bill passed by Parliament, so that we all may see the rise of big Scottish cocks again.

(as goaded from me by commenter “Unfun”)

On Rumours About Barack Obama May 13, 2008

I heard that the name “Barack” is Spanish for “octopus” and that Obama’s mother named him that because he has suckers all over his body that allows him to crawl up buildings so that he can look through the windows and hiss at pot-plants. It’s also widely-known that he was born during a full moon and has a birthmark shaped like an owl on his stomach because his father ate too much fruit the night before conception thinking that over-consumption of naturally sourced vitamins would ensure his child would grow up vertically, as opposed to his daughter who lives at an acute angle even in high winds.

If you count the number of fingers on Octopus Obama’s right hand and multiply it by the number of moons around Jupiter your phone rings ten minutes later.

On Real Men May 13, 2008

Real men don’t watch movies or stay in hotels – they sit naked at the sides of rivers, smoking tree branches, slamming their balls between rocks while eating raw fish caught by their own ball-slamming hands as their women-folk are out getting girdles or having their toenails waxed by Brazilian accountants. They then journey home atop a grizzly bear, longing for German sausage and some hand-picked potatoes, with their hair still damp from the river and balls still swollen from a day’s hard slamming.

On Bill O’Reilly’s Special Alone Time May 12, 2008

Every night, a naked Bill O’Reilly sits hunched over in a dark and airless closet surrounded by untold numbers of boxes of women’s shoes. He opens up a pair of sling-backs, and sniffs them until he almost passes out. When his face is red enough he carefully boxes them away, childlike in his movements, already missing the feel of the leather against his face. Quickly, he then takes a rapidly softening whole cucumber and forces it down his throat, fighting the gag reflex while wanting even more. With tears streaming from his eyes, and his body shaking from the exertion, he mumbles a mantra of self-hatred inaudibly into the darkness and onto the cucumber. After 30 minutes of Bill’s Special Alone Time he slowly pulls it out, enjoying the sensation of it moving from his throat, past his tongue and into the dank air of the closet, the smell of the vegetable and his fevered saliva reminding him of the time he fell out the sycamore tree when he was 6 and bumped his head on a rock – the exact moment in his life when everything began to make sense to him.

His voice is reborn.

He stands slowly, awkwardly, his body stiff from holding the same position for too long, though to him – always not long enough. He reaches out to the shoe boxes to help him steady himself. Salty beads of sweat run down his chest, trickles from the pools in his armpits and under his breasts, cooling as rapidly as his innate anger is warming. His penis – an object of disgust to him for so long now – is as hard as it’s going to get without chemical help. His toes clench and unclench with a staccato rhythm of their own. He opens the closet door, and looks at the poster of John Wayne hanging on the inside – the man he always wanted to be, but never could be, no matter how much he screams into footwear or chokes himself on cucumbers. Wayne looks back with his dead eyes – a two-dimensional construct of a dream that never was.

Bill’s chest hitches, and he starts sobbing. Snot runs down his nose, his mouth opens wide and green stains frame this most silent of screams. He cries for all men, for all America. But mostly, almost exclusively, for himself.

Spent, empty, Bill steps into the shower. Runs it as warm as possible. Until it burns. His tears mix with the water.

His fear, his hatred, his shame – his anger. They all fall down the drain.

On Landline Phones Being Easy To Tap May 5, 2008

That’s why I still use smoke signals to conduct my business.

The velocity of Scottish winds ensures an almost unbreakable level of encryption.

On My Lack Of Drugs And Sex May 5, 2008

I need drugs. And sex. And sexy drugs. And drug-fuelled sex. The kind of sex that makes the neighbour’s car alarms go off in a cacophony of plastic and metallic fear. The kind of drugs that make you grow little hooves on your thumbs for a week, and you have to explain to the checkout girl in the store why she needs to help you taking cash out of your wallet – because you got so fucked up last night, you grew thumb-hooves. I want the kind of sex that makes me ashamed to look in the mirror, so that until the memory fades, I have to style my hair using the reflective qualities of various cutlery. I want the kind of drugs that make me want to knit hoodies for cats. The kind of cats that want to wear hoodies, and the kind of hoodies that suit cats. I want drugs that make my ears progressive while my nose espouses free-market dogma. I want the sex you normally only dream about on the train back home after burying some underwear at the side of a road in the hope it’ll grow into a bra-tree and distract motorists long enough for them to question their entire reason for living. I want a nipple in my right eye. A vagina warming my knee. I want the drugs they sent into deep space because they were too good, even for the aliens who brought them in the first place. I want the kind of sex that hurts my credit rating because I had to buy so many towels on short notice on my credit card to clean up afterwards. I want the sex that makes my partner and I discuss changing our names to various characters from John Updike novels. I want the drugs they give to people who see goblins after taking too many drugs, just to see if the goblins actually disappear. I want sex so good it becomes conceptual art and has to be exhibited in Berlin next summer.

That aside – I’d settle for a good cup of tea, and holding hands with someone nice.

On Hope May 5, 2008

Hope is like underwear – never give it up without a fight.

On Parodying The Conspiracy Theories Of The Rapper “Prodigy” May 5, 2008

(sorry for the caps – but sometimes madness needs to be shouty)

THE ENORMOUS DEVIL PARAKEET “DUANE” STOLE MY BOXERS FROM MY DRYER WHICH WAS POWERED BY SECRET LINES OF ELECTRICITY RUNNING THROUGH MY HOUSE WHICH TERMINATE IN “MAGIC HOLES” BURROWED INTO THE VERY WALLS I TALK TO DAILY. “DUANE” HAS BEEN SEEN FLYING ABOVE SCHOOL YARDS WEARING MY UNDERWEAR AND OBTAINING STORE CREDIT UNDER MY NAME WITH WHICH HE BUYS TOASTER OVENS FROM AN UNDERGROUND DISCOUNT ELECTRICAL GOODS SUPPLY RUN BY LOU DOBBS AND OTHER MEMBERS OF “THE BELGIUM OCTAGON SECT” WHICH HAS TIES BACK TO THE NAZI PARTY AND SERIES TWO OF AMERICAN IDOL. PEOPLE I AM SORRY TO SAY THAT 87% OF MISSING SOCKS AND UNDERWEAR ARE BEING KEPT HIDDEN IN MONTANA AND ARE BEING SEXUALLY ABUSED BY MASSIVE CAGED-BIRDS WHO HAVE BEEN BRAINWASHED BY GEORGE MICHAEL OF KENT AND OTHER ROYAL DIGNITARIES. THERE IS A PARKING LOT IN ST. PETERSBURG WHERE ALL THE MONGOOSES IN SOUTH EAST ASIA CONGREGATE EVERY SPRING TO BRING ABOUT A NEGATIVE ENERGY TO COUNTERACT THE POSITIVE ENERGY FROM APPLE TREES IN THE NORTHERN HEMISPHERE.

(“Aunt Peniston” and “Jill7” goad me by actually replying)

YOU WILL NEVER RECOVER UNTIL EVERY SOFA IS CHECKED FOR LISTENING DEVICES CONNECTED TO MR. BILL GATES’ ALASKAN PRISON-PALACE WHERE HE KEEPS THE REAL COPY OF VISTA THAT ACTUALLY WORKS AND HAS DRIVERS FOR MY 5 YEAR OLD EPSON PRINTER UNDER LOCK AND KEY SO I CANNOT PRINT OFF THE TRUTH AND HAND IT TO PEOPLE AT THE TRAIN STATION WHILE THEY WAIT FOR TRANSPORT THAT RARELY ARRIVES UNLESS AUTHORISED BY DICK CHENEY OR JIMMY BUFFETT.

YOUR POWERS AND NINE-DIMENSIONAL CATS ARE A TOPIC FOR ANOTHER DAY. THE FOIL IS USELESS!!!

(“mitchell_stevens” thinks he knows who Duane is)

THIS DUANE YOU SPEAK OF IS A PLASTIC INTERLOPER DEVELOPED BY THE NSA AND MATTEL TO SPREAD DISINFORMATION ABOUT CITRUS FRUIT TO UNDERPRIVILEGED HORSES SO THAT SWITZERLAND CAN RISE UP IN THE YEAR 2015 TO TAKE ITS UNHOLY MIGHT AND USE IT AGAINST THE SO-CALLED SPORT OF FIGURE-SKATING. THE NEXT TIME YOU SEE FAKE-DUANE HOLD YOUR LIGHTER AGAINST HIM – HE WILL NEVER RECOIL, ONLY MELT AND SCREAM IN DUTCH.

(“dummyfakeroller” complains about madness in caps-form)

CAPS LOCK IS THE ONLY WAY TO GET THE REAL TRUTH ABOUT LIES ACROSS TO YOU – BY SHOUTING IT STRAIGHT INTO YOUR EYES AND PAST A FRONTAL-LOBE THAT HAS BEEN SHRUNKEN BY LOWER-CASE HIPSTERS AND TEXT MESSAGING FOR FAR TOO LONG.

(“shiverymcpickles” worries about my medication, but agrees that Duane is Dutch)

THEY HAD ME ON SO-CALLED MEDICATION FOR A NUMBER OF YEARS UNTIL I WALKED ACROSS A LEY-LINE IN A FOREST OUTSIDE DUSSELDORF BACK IN 2005. THE POWER SURGED THROUGH ME AND MY TESTICLES SWELLED UP TO THE SIZE OF BIG MACS AND FOR ONCE I FINALLY SAW THE TRUTH AND LEAVES AROUND ME. THERE WERE ALSO TWIGS AND SOME BADGERS IN THE UNDERGROWTH WHICH I PUT DOWN TO THE NATURAL SCHEME OF THINGS REALLY. I WAS FINALLY AWAKENED LATER BY A DOG-WALKER WITH A CONCERNED LOOK UPON HIS FACE. HIS DOG SNIFFED ME CAREFULLY FOR BOMBS AND SPOKE FLUENT ENGLISH WITH ONLY THE SLIGHTEST OF ACCENTS.

(“SarahMcL” wants me to focus on other problems)

YOUR PROBLEMS ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO THOSE WHO TOIL DAILY AND NIGHTLY AND THEN SOMETIMES IN THE AFTERNOON IF THE GUARDS AREN’T PAYING CLOSE ATTENTION TO GET THE TRUTH AS WE SHOULD SEE IT OUT THERE TO THE THREE PEOPLE WHO TOOK MY PAMPHLETS LAST WEDNESDAY. THE PRESIDENT OF VENEZUELA, RICARDO MONTALBAN, SAID THE EXACT SAME THING AS YOU LAST WEEK ON ONE OF MY FAVOURITE SOAP OPERAS ON FOX NEWS. SHE EXPRESSED HER DISTASTE FOR THE TRUTH AS SHE HAS BEEN CAUGHT EATING RODENTS FROM TRASH COMPACTORS AND THEN READING THE ENTRAILS IN ORDER TO SEE HOW THE EURO WILL COMPARE TO THE DOLLAR IN 2009 SO SHE CAN WIN A BET SHE HAS WITH CLAY AIKEN, THE FAMOUS MASS-MURDERER FROM HAWAII.

(“BullfightsOnAcid” agrees, and is undergoing an awakening without punctuation)

YOU HAVE FALLEN INTO THEIR TRAP. YOUR LACK OF SHOUTEYNESS IN PIXEL FORM AND LACK OF PUNCTUATION IS EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANT FROM THE SHEEPLE OF THIS WORLD. YOU ARE CORRECT ABOUT THE SQUIRRELS, MY FRIEND – THE GRAND ORDER OF BARRY, A SQUIRREL FRONT FOR GUN-RUNNING AND BASKET-SNATCHING – HAD AN ENORMOUS HOARD OF NUTS HIDDEN AT THE BASE OF THE NORTH TOWER. TWO WEEKS BEFORE 9/11, SEVERAL MEN WERE SEEN COMING FROM THE TOWER WITH THEIR CHEEKS STUFFED TO THE BRIM WITH NUTS. MANY HAVE SAID THEY WERE JEWISH, BUT THEY ARE WRONG AS MOST JEWS HAVE A SERIOUS NUT ALLERGY AND WOULD NOT RISK BEING DETECTED IN THIS MANNER. IT IS MORE LIKELY THEY WERE METS FANS, ANGRY AT THE WORLD, AND THEREFORE OPEN TO ALL MANNER OF DASTARDLYNESS.

(“SarahMcL” wants me back on Thorazine again)

THORAZINE CAN BE COUNTER-ACTED AGAINST BY DRINKING THREE GALLONS OF DIET-COKE DAILY. IT CONTAINS ASPARTAME WHICH IS DONALD RUMSFELD’S WAY OF KEEPING EVERYBODY INSANE AND WANTING CHIPS. I CAN COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND EXPLAIN THIS TO YOU FOR SIX HOURS AS I’VE GOT A COPY OF POWERPOINT AND A PROJECTOR I SOURCED FROM A FRIEND IN NEW JERSEY AND LOTS OF FREE TIME ON MY HANDS.

(thanks to all the commenters who threw fuel into the fire)

On Bill O’Reilly May 5, 2008

I know cement that’s “smarter, funnier, better read and eminently more talented” than Bill O’Reilly.

On Dealing With The Stupidity Of “Real People” May 5, 2008

Sometimes when I deal with real people they stand there and seem to stare at the air moving between us like a leopard stalking a Toyota with the windows rolled down. On occasion, I gently push them over and they fall onto their backs and their stupid arms reach up for imaginary handrails or something and their legs kick at the ground with impatience. They can lie there for hours like that – usually they begin to panic when it rains and their ridiculous mouths begin to fill with water and they begin to literally drown in their own stupidity. Some of the smarter ones have learned how to roll onto their fronts and begin to pick themselves up over a period of weeks. It’s like watching a baby with the mind of an antelope trying to explain nano-technology to a brick.