Just for you... these are my final words.
I'm leaving. On a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.
Except I do know. I wont be back. But do not worry... I have RE-LOCATED!!!
'That Random Spot' has been given a NEW LOOK. It's now sexier than me!!! So follow me over there by clicking >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> HERE
Cheers for reading my shizzle on blogspot guys. I may shout and swear a lot and generally be angry, but it means a lot that you read it.
Peace out and all that!
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Logical Thinking
A conversation on the old Book of Faces with the author of 'Old Newwby', it makes alot of sense....
His general query was why my blog is superior to his blog in almost every way, apart from the fact his looks infinitely better cos he's a giant nerd. My response consisted of me generating a superb excuse for why I don't blog very often. Not because I'm lazy (which is the truth), but because if you write 17,000 blog posts a day... your gonna lose the funny....
As he is but a lowly heterosexual male, (arguably), I put this explanation into the best possible metaphor I could. I talked to him about sex.
"You know how sex is good.... and too much sex seems good..... but isn't because suddenly your cock is rubbed raw and stings like a beast. that is a prime example of 'too much of a good thing'. As a result... your sexual capabilities become less, because you have a sore cock. this is the side effect of 'too much of a good thing'. Too much funny writing tires your funnyness out, and then you just end up being shit in bed."
This is a perfectly understandable metaphor. Even for an arguably straight man. However his response made me think otherwise:
"I understood as far as 'sex is good', read as far as 'too much sex seems good' then decided to skip to the end, got the punchline and realised you were writing about having poor sexual stamina.
I can't sympathise."
This confirmed my theory that he is but a lowly and questionably heterosexual male. But disproved my 'too much of a good thing' theory.
Turns out his blogs just not funny because he's not funny.
His general query was why my blog is superior to his blog in almost every way, apart from the fact his looks infinitely better cos he's a giant nerd. My response consisted of me generating a superb excuse for why I don't blog very often. Not because I'm lazy (which is the truth), but because if you write 17,000 blog posts a day... your gonna lose the funny....
As he is but a lowly heterosexual male, (arguably), I put this explanation into the best possible metaphor I could. I talked to him about sex.
"You know how sex is good.... and too much sex seems good..... but isn't because suddenly your cock is rubbed raw and stings like a beast. that is a prime example of 'too much of a good thing'. As a result... your sexual capabilities become less, because you have a sore cock. this is the side effect of 'too much of a good thing'. Too much funny writing tires your funnyness out, and then you just end up being shit in bed."
This is a perfectly understandable metaphor. Even for an arguably straight man. However his response made me think otherwise:
"I understood as far as 'sex is good', read as far as 'too much sex seems good' then decided to skip to the end, got the punchline and realised you were writing about having poor sexual stamina.
I can't sympathise."
This confirmed my theory that he is but a lowly and questionably heterosexual male. But disproved my 'too much of a good thing' theory.
Turns out his blogs just not funny because he's not funny.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Chlamydia pants
I'm wearing new pants. Pants which I believe to be both morally, and sociologically WRONG.
As a student, I am very aware of the current health risks involving sexual intercourse. One quick thrust without a johnny, and WHAM, you've got pus and other miscellaneous discharge shooting out of every orifice, and then have to do the walk of shame in the morning to the STI clinic where everyone has the same symptoms and its a massive great food fight in the waiting room... except instead of custard pies, its infected jets of yellow grossness that looks like.... well.... custard.
Well at least that's how it happened for me...
I am pleased to say that my treatment went well, and I shall never ever dip my lolly in a hobo's bargain bucket unprotected EVER AGAIN... (unless my student loans run out and I'm desperate.)
I learnt Saturday night however, that there is a rare strain of chlamydia known as 'Spectral Chlamydia' that can lie dormant in your ball-sack and chow down on all your spermies. Meaning you can not make little growing fetus's with your woman friend. We all know why this is bad of course. It would be the END of the stem cell research program, and that would be pretty damn awful.
To combat this outbreak of 'Phantom Chlamyda', the local weirdo's who like collecting other peoples piss came to our club and were doing tests to locate the ghouls in our bollocks. Now I may just be a prude, but I am not pissing on demand for ANYBODY, and I feel my testes on a regular basis for abnormalities, and I had never felt any paranormal activity down there, so I was pretty sure I was safe. The only thing that bothered me is that they were giving away free pants...
The pants are red. The waistband is black, with white writing, sporting the slogan 'I've Been Tested'. People were pissing in a pot, and exchanging their urine for pants to tell the world they had been tested. TESTED FOR WHAT?! WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!?!? HOW DOES THIS MAKE YOU ANYMORE TRUSTWORTHY THAN A PERSON THAT HASN'T BEEN TESTED FOR A MISCELLANEOUS REASON?!?!?!?
Fucking retards.
PLUS. Even if they said 'I've been tested for paranormal chlamydia' that still gives you no additional information about the person wearing them. It doesn't say FUCK ALL about the results of the test! I was tested for allergies to peanuts. The results came back saying I was allergic. If I go round wearing boxers that say 'I've been tested' and people assume it means 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy' They'd be correct. But if they make the double assumption that 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy and it came back clear' then they fed me a peanut, I would be break-dancing on the floor in a very 'I-just-drunk-a-lot-of-bubble-bath' kinda way...
People who do the test for 'Ghostly Chlamydia' must also have some sort of insecurity that they may have it, meaning they probably do. So half the people walking round the club in these pants probably had a poltergeist in their fleshy walnut.
Needless to say, I wanted a pair. My social craving to be normal was rapidly growing, but it was having a little fight with my personal standards on pissing in a pot (and getting it all over your hands, because there is no way you can piss in such a thin tube without getting it all over your hands.) It was like the angel on my shoulder fighting the devil... except less gay... and with guns.
Then, a miracle happened. On top of the fruit machine were a pair of pants. Lying there... disowned. Like a puppy in a cardboard box left out in the rain next to a trash can. Except it was not a sad moment. It was like a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can when all you wanted was to find a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can. And let me tell you, it feels good.
I rushed over to the pants... sneakily looked around, there was no-one immediately close by. I swipe the pants and thrust them into my pocket. No-one punches me. I jump for joy as I realise no-one is going to dismember me for robbing their pants, and I then inspect the goods. There are no rips, no holes, nothing wrong with these pants at all. Apart from the bit where your meat sack would sit. That area was a bit wet... and gross. Images of Incorporeal Chlamydia Ectoplasm leaking out of the previous owners testicles filled my mind. I vomit. I get distracted by the lights of the fruit machine flashing. Cram the pants in my pocket, and tell myself I must wash the pants before I wear them. Then I go and get some tequila shots to celebrate.
I wake up in the morning. I have a headache. I am in bed, covered in my own vomit, wearing nothing but the gross ectoplasm pants. Ironically, I believe I caught chlamydia from pants promoting chlamydia eradication.
Fail. Just Fail.
As a student, I am very aware of the current health risks involving sexual intercourse. One quick thrust without a johnny, and WHAM, you've got pus and other miscellaneous discharge shooting out of every orifice, and then have to do the walk of shame in the morning to the STI clinic where everyone has the same symptoms and its a massive great food fight in the waiting room... except instead of custard pies, its infected jets of yellow grossness that looks like.... well.... custard.
Well at least that's how it happened for me...
I am pleased to say that my treatment went well, and I shall never ever dip my lolly in a hobo's bargain bucket unprotected EVER AGAIN... (unless my student loans run out and I'm desperate.)
I learnt Saturday night however, that there is a rare strain of chlamydia known as 'Spectral Chlamydia' that can lie dormant in your ball-sack and chow down on all your spermies. Meaning you can not make little growing fetus's with your woman friend. We all know why this is bad of course. It would be the END of the stem cell research program, and that would be pretty damn awful.
To combat this outbreak of 'Phantom Chlamyda', the local weirdo's who like collecting other peoples piss came to our club and were doing tests to locate the ghouls in our bollocks. Now I may just be a prude, but I am not pissing on demand for ANYBODY, and I feel my testes on a regular basis for abnormalities, and I had never felt any paranormal activity down there, so I was pretty sure I was safe. The only thing that bothered me is that they were giving away free pants...
The pants are red. The waistband is black, with white writing, sporting the slogan 'I've Been Tested'. People were pissing in a pot, and exchanging their urine for pants to tell the world they had been tested. TESTED FOR WHAT?! WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!?!? HOW DOES THIS MAKE YOU ANYMORE TRUSTWORTHY THAN A PERSON THAT HASN'T BEEN TESTED FOR A MISCELLANEOUS REASON?!?!?!?
Fucking retards.
PLUS. Even if they said 'I've been tested for paranormal chlamydia' that still gives you no additional information about the person wearing them. It doesn't say FUCK ALL about the results of the test! I was tested for allergies to peanuts. The results came back saying I was allergic. If I go round wearing boxers that say 'I've been tested' and people assume it means 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy' They'd be correct. But if they make the double assumption that 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy and it came back clear' then they fed me a peanut, I would be break-dancing on the floor in a very 'I-just-drunk-a-lot-of-bubble-bath' kinda way...
People who do the test for 'Ghostly Chlamydia' must also have some sort of insecurity that they may have it, meaning they probably do. So half the people walking round the club in these pants probably had a poltergeist in their fleshy walnut.
Needless to say, I wanted a pair. My social craving to be normal was rapidly growing, but it was having a little fight with my personal standards on pissing in a pot (and getting it all over your hands, because there is no way you can piss in such a thin tube without getting it all over your hands.) It was like the angel on my shoulder fighting the devil... except less gay... and with guns.
Then, a miracle happened. On top of the fruit machine were a pair of pants. Lying there... disowned. Like a puppy in a cardboard box left out in the rain next to a trash can. Except it was not a sad moment. It was like a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can when all you wanted was to find a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can. And let me tell you, it feels good.
I rushed over to the pants... sneakily looked around, there was no-one immediately close by. I swipe the pants and thrust them into my pocket. No-one punches me. I jump for joy as I realise no-one is going to dismember me for robbing their pants, and I then inspect the goods. There are no rips, no holes, nothing wrong with these pants at all. Apart from the bit where your meat sack would sit. That area was a bit wet... and gross. Images of Incorporeal Chlamydia Ectoplasm leaking out of the previous owners testicles filled my mind. I vomit. I get distracted by the lights of the fruit machine flashing. Cram the pants in my pocket, and tell myself I must wash the pants before I wear them. Then I go and get some tequila shots to celebrate.
I wake up in the morning. I have a headache. I am in bed, covered in my own vomit, wearing nothing but the gross ectoplasm pants. Ironically, I believe I caught chlamydia from pants promoting chlamydia eradication.
Fail. Just Fail.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Bedtime FURY
You know how stereotypically everyone HATES their landlord? But theres no need to worry, because thats only in shit TV soaps like Hollyoaks, so you happily go to uni expecting your landlord to be nice and agreeable.
*SURPRISE* Hollyoaks is right folks. Landlords are cunts. Complete cunts. Supermassive black hole of fucking calcunta.
2 months ago. My bed broke.
This morning at 9 friggin AM, I get a telephone call from the lovely people at my letting agency saying 'He's bringing you a bed round in half an hour.' I then have half an hour to sort my room out so that this guy can fit a new bed into my room. The reason my room is a state is because I've already got my OLD, BROKEN, bed scattered around my room in parts, and am sleeping with a mattress on the floor. Now is the point in my story where i have to highlight how fucking stupid my bedroom is. You know in sims, and how hardly anyone bothers with a second level of a house due to a) you not owning the super subspace computer sims needs to run with no lag and everytime you change level you have to wait a day and a half before you can play again, and b) Staircases take up so much friggin room!!! My room is a loft conversion, and hence has a friggin staircase in the middle, making my room just the wrong shape for any item of furniture. The bed is slightly too big to fit. the draws are slightly too small, the desk is too short, the wardrobe is shit, there's only one window and the fire alarm sometimes decides to randomly beep. However, for the last 2 months, I have had to fit not 1, but 2 king sized bed shape objects into my room whilst i wait for the landlord to come and fix it and take the old one away... 2 FUCKING MONTHS.
So this morning the man comes, and says 'I've got you a new bed base, you have a mattress already don't you?' I respond with '....yes' suddenly realising I spent all my time sorting my bedroom out for the new bed i hadn't got dressed and was currently standing in my front doorway wearing just my boxers looking pretty damn pathetic cos it was cold and everything had shrivelled inside... including my nose, which is embarrassing let me tell you.
We get the bed base in, and now my bedroom looks like a furniture jumble sale. We put the mattress on top to realise that I've got a double bed base and a kingsize mattress.... so my mattress is flopping off all the edges of the base. The guy that brought the bed round is not my landlord, but just a mere lacky working for the letting agents. I can only imagine this is because the landlord is scared of me due to angry letter i sent to him clearly stating thus "If you do not fix my bed I will kill your kids and rape your wife in the ear. Also I will not pay the rental charge for the house or either of the above. Yours Lovingly, Lee Samuels. P.s. After I kill your kids I will rape them too. So please fix my bed." So when I told the stupid lacky it didn't fit he grunted and started to leave. I then asked him what I should do with my old bed, to which he said 'Put it in the garden?' I responded with 'Won't i get charged for leaving shit in the garden?' and he said 'Probably' and left. Leaving me standing in a bedroom with draws that are slightly too small, a desk that is too short, the wardrobe that is shit, my one window, the fire alarm that sometimes decides to randomly beep, a kingsized bed frame, a double bed base, a mattress; once again on the floor, and not enough room to swing a playful kitten that wants nothing more in life than too be swung.
My landlord is a cunt.
*SURPRISE* Hollyoaks is right folks. Landlords are cunts. Complete cunts. Supermassive black hole of fucking calcunta.
2 months ago. My bed broke.
This morning at 9 friggin AM, I get a telephone call from the lovely people at my letting agency saying 'He's bringing you a bed round in half an hour.' I then have half an hour to sort my room out so that this guy can fit a new bed into my room. The reason my room is a state is because I've already got my OLD, BROKEN, bed scattered around my room in parts, and am sleeping with a mattress on the floor. Now is the point in my story where i have to highlight how fucking stupid my bedroom is. You know in sims, and how hardly anyone bothers with a second level of a house due to a) you not owning the super subspace computer sims needs to run with no lag and everytime you change level you have to wait a day and a half before you can play again, and b) Staircases take up so much friggin room!!! My room is a loft conversion, and hence has a friggin staircase in the middle, making my room just the wrong shape for any item of furniture. The bed is slightly too big to fit. the draws are slightly too small, the desk is too short, the wardrobe is shit, there's only one window and the fire alarm sometimes decides to randomly beep. However, for the last 2 months, I have had to fit not 1, but 2 king sized bed shape objects into my room whilst i wait for the landlord to come and fix it and take the old one away... 2 FUCKING MONTHS.
So this morning the man comes, and says 'I've got you a new bed base, you have a mattress already don't you?' I respond with '....yes' suddenly realising I spent all my time sorting my bedroom out for the new bed i hadn't got dressed and was currently standing in my front doorway wearing just my boxers looking pretty damn pathetic cos it was cold and everything had shrivelled inside... including my nose, which is embarrassing let me tell you.
We get the bed base in, and now my bedroom looks like a furniture jumble sale. We put the mattress on top to realise that I've got a double bed base and a kingsize mattress.... so my mattress is flopping off all the edges of the base. The guy that brought the bed round is not my landlord, but just a mere lacky working for the letting agents. I can only imagine this is because the landlord is scared of me due to angry letter i sent to him clearly stating thus "If you do not fix my bed I will kill your kids and rape your wife in the ear. Also I will not pay the rental charge for the house or either of the above. Yours Lovingly, Lee Samuels. P.s. After I kill your kids I will rape them too. So please fix my bed." So when I told the stupid lacky it didn't fit he grunted and started to leave. I then asked him what I should do with my old bed, to which he said 'Put it in the garden?' I responded with 'Won't i get charged for leaving shit in the garden?' and he said 'Probably' and left. Leaving me standing in a bedroom with draws that are slightly too small, a desk that is too short, the wardrobe that is shit, my one window, the fire alarm that sometimes decides to randomly beep, a kingsized bed frame, a double bed base, a mattress; once again on the floor, and not enough room to swing a playful kitten that wants nothing more in life than too be swung.
My landlord is a cunt.
Friday, December 10, 2010
I went to the sex shop.
Played 'I went to the supermarket and I bought' with my friends today... but with a sex shop, and this is what we got...
I went to the sex shop and I bought: Anal lube, butt plugs, a cock ring, a dildo, ear muffs, fanny flaps, gash implants, high heels, interesting pornos, jizz cream, kangeroo porn, lee's first porno, marshmellow flavour condoms, a necrophilia starter kit, orgasm juice, a penis enlarger, Queerology (the karma sutra for gays), a rhino shaped dildo, sexarama2 on DVD, a tranny, an ugly sex doll, vaginal exorcism (by kristian slater in 2005) , a wanker, an x-ray of someones penis, a yoyo shaped like boobs, and a zoology starter kit (a how to guide on how monkeys have sex in the wild in winter.)
Aren't we creative?
I went to the sex shop and I bought: Anal lube, butt plugs, a cock ring, a dildo, ear muffs, fanny flaps, gash implants, high heels, interesting pornos, jizz cream, kangeroo porn, lee's first porno, marshmellow flavour condoms, a necrophilia starter kit, orgasm juice, a penis enlarger, Queerology (the karma sutra for gays), a rhino shaped dildo, sexarama2 on DVD, a tranny, an ugly sex doll, vaginal exorcism (by kristian slater in 2005) , a wanker, an x-ray of someones penis, a yoyo shaped like boobs, and a zoology starter kit (a how to guide on how monkeys have sex in the wild in winter.)
Aren't we creative?
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
As much as I love him....
So I had a little drinky poo and a catch-up with a mate today. I know it's hard to believe I have mates... but sometimes people surprise you. Plus I paid him to be my friend.
ANYWAY. Enough about my social failure. We were talking and I realised he kept saying one phrase that was making me more and more angry...
"Well.... yes and no"
NO. THAT IS NOT A PHRASE. THAT IS A PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. I refuse to take that as an answer to any question I put to you, mainly because my questions are SUPER FRIGGIN' HARDCORE and need direct responses so I can fire more questions at you. Conversation work much better that way. If I ask you a question that has one of two answers and you give me both answers... I'm likely to not really understand WHAT THE FUCK YOUR ON ABOUT and get very very ANNOYED.
If, when he bought me a drink, which he did, because I kept beating him until he agreed to it, he had asked me 'What do you want to drink?', which again, he did, imagine his reaction if I had responded with:
"Well....coke and lemonade and blackcurrent and orange and lime and beer and wine and vodka and sherry and whiskey and rum and sambuca and absynth and water and J2O and brandy and port and a WKD and a VK and an alcohol free becks."
Clearly that's a FUCKING STUPID response.... NO-ONE drinks alcohol free becks.
ANYWAY. Enough about my social failure. We were talking and I realised he kept saying one phrase that was making me more and more angry...
"Well.... yes and no"
NO. THAT IS NOT A PHRASE. THAT IS A PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. I refuse to take that as an answer to any question I put to you, mainly because my questions are SUPER FRIGGIN' HARDCORE and need direct responses so I can fire more questions at you. Conversation work much better that way. If I ask you a question that has one of two answers and you give me both answers... I'm likely to not really understand WHAT THE FUCK YOUR ON ABOUT and get very very ANNOYED.
If, when he bought me a drink, which he did, because I kept beating him until he agreed to it, he had asked me 'What do you want to drink?', which again, he did, imagine his reaction if I had responded with:
"Well....coke and lemonade and blackcurrent and orange and lime and beer and wine and vodka and sherry and whiskey and rum and sambuca and absynth and water and J2O and brandy and port and a WKD and a VK and an alcohol free becks."
Clearly that's a FUCKING STUPID response.... NO-ONE drinks alcohol free becks.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Shower Dimples
With all due respect mister shower designers.... you are ridiculous.
Yesterday morning I was having my annual shower and there was a particularly unpleasant sensation in my foot. Kind of like a stabbing pain. But blunt. And with no penetration. Like stepping on a stone. But I wasn't stepping on a stone. Because I was in the shower. And showers don't have stones in you fucking idiot.
No, I was stepping on a shower dimple. This is not the correct term for what I was standing on. But I really can't be fucked to write 'one of those lumpy bits that shower designers put on shower floors to stop you from slipping over'.
So I was experiencing an unpleasant sensation in my foot due to a health and safety measure. Kind of like having to wear a seat belt when your younger but your parents can't afford a booster seat because they already had purchase the crowbar to steal the car you're in, so you won't have any funds for the next year or so. And the seat belt is digging into your neck, like a machete slowly carving into your jugular. Except this was like stepping on a stone. The two experiences are frighteningly similar. AND, whilst slightly off topic. I fucking hate seat-belts. they are bullshit. Sure they'll save your life... but they're uncomfortable and break your ribs. And if your fucking stupid enough to drive your car that forcefully into something that you'd catapult yourself through the windscreen then its probably saving more lives by you being dead and off the road to be honest.
So I'm standing on this shower dimple that is preventing me from slipping, and I decide that actually, its so uncomfortable that I'm going to have to move my foot off of it, because it is ruining my shower. So I slide my foot off of the dimple. A combination of shower gel and smooth shower floor leads to me slipping against the shower wall... which also happens to be the door, so it falls away leaving me falling out of the shower onto the radiator behind me. To which blood and lather and shampoo and pubes go everywhere, and I'm not due to have another shower untill 2011.
Needless to say, showers are a death-trap. And I can't help but feel they would be a safer place if they replaced shower dimples with seat-belts. Fucking morons.
Yesterday morning I was having my annual shower and there was a particularly unpleasant sensation in my foot. Kind of like a stabbing pain. But blunt. And with no penetration. Like stepping on a stone. But I wasn't stepping on a stone. Because I was in the shower. And showers don't have stones in you fucking idiot.
No, I was stepping on a shower dimple. This is not the correct term for what I was standing on. But I really can't be fucked to write 'one of those lumpy bits that shower designers put on shower floors to stop you from slipping over'.
So I was experiencing an unpleasant sensation in my foot due to a health and safety measure. Kind of like having to wear a seat belt when your younger but your parents can't afford a booster seat because they already had purchase the crowbar to steal the car you're in, so you won't have any funds for the next year or so. And the seat belt is digging into your neck, like a machete slowly carving into your jugular. Except this was like stepping on a stone. The two experiences are frighteningly similar. AND, whilst slightly off topic. I fucking hate seat-belts. they are bullshit. Sure they'll save your life... but they're uncomfortable and break your ribs. And if your fucking stupid enough to drive your car that forcefully into something that you'd catapult yourself through the windscreen then its probably saving more lives by you being dead and off the road to be honest.
So I'm standing on this shower dimple that is preventing me from slipping, and I decide that actually, its so uncomfortable that I'm going to have to move my foot off of it, because it is ruining my shower. So I slide my foot off of the dimple. A combination of shower gel and smooth shower floor leads to me slipping against the shower wall... which also happens to be the door, so it falls away leaving me falling out of the shower onto the radiator behind me. To which blood and lather and shampoo and pubes go everywhere, and I'm not due to have another shower untill 2011.
Needless to say, showers are a death-trap. And I can't help but feel they would be a safer place if they replaced shower dimples with seat-belts. Fucking morons.
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