Dear Dr “finger up my”…

I like to think that I have an open mind. I like to think that I can understand most people and their odd ways. But I am starting to doubt this. Mainly because WordPress can tell me the search terms that people Googled to reach my blog.

I’m starting to get quite scared. First of all there are the perverted ones. Granted, some of my entries have a sexual theme. But really?

Some people know exactly what they want:

no clothes katy perrys bum in a shower

aroused walrus,

penis in the emporer’s new clothes

constipated push hard ejaculate

pirate erection
saggy tit sex

and the evocative

doctor “finger up my”

Christmas is fast approaching. For those people who have everything, here’s some tips:

rastafarian clothes for dogs

or perhaps a “masturbation chair” and some “masturbation mutual books” for the full experience of “mutual mastrubation in our bed room”

and lest us not forget a fresh supply of

ugly slaves

Then there are more personal cries from the heart. This ‘beautiful’ poem brought some freak here:

me & your mom never dreamed you’d be so beautiful…in all of the times we tried to imagine every last detail of who you would be,thru all of the nights we spent quietly thinkingof how we would feelwhen we first looked at you,we patiently waitedand silently wondered.we hoped and we prayedand we tried to imagine…but we never dreamed you’d be beautiful.

Probably the same person who demanded of Mr Internet

“i feel poorly who gonna cheer me up”

and “box don’t lock”

and the touching appeals for:

fat bastard prosthetic

emaciated old man

very fat chav woman

and
down syndrome midget

Celebrities also get a look in:

Bjork eating own cardigan

cher lloyd ugly face

winona ryder and the penis

and old JC:

jesus reborn hitler

chocolate jesus and vienna

So, this goes out to you, freaks of the interweb: yes I’m talking to you guilty as sin security guard with the beer bellies and beards calendar  . Whatever your kink, you can find it in my blog.

Up the chocolate highway with Jesus

"I died for your skins"

My parents have sent us a Green and Blacks Easter Egg. My mum chose it because it is mega-thick and was the only chocolate egg that could survive Royal Mail intact. It got here safely, but as I was reading aloud the packaging’s claims about how difficult it was to crack, Esther grabbed the TV remote and with 3 heavy blows, she smashed a hole in it and was gorging herself on shards of inch thick chocolate.

We made short work of it. This was on Maundy Thursday.

Tesco has been pushing Easter eggs relentlessly since February and I hate this new policy: everyone buys them in while they’re cheap but never has the self-control to leave them alone, and they end up having to buy more.

“Every little helps” does it? Not if we’re talking puppy fat, you bastards. Have you ever noticed that all the offers are on the food with the nutritional value of a sugarmouse.

"Who you calling fat, you cake whore!"

Tesco is also responsible for my regular slavery to Esther (aka my only exercise).

At the bottom of our old hill, Esther used to complain that the only way she could keep up with me is if I carry all her bags. So, torn between a tediously slow journey or looking like a laden donkey, I choose the latter. I just hate waiting. And I like donkeys.
When we moved to our new house, I was downhearted to realise that we lived again at the top of a hill, although a smaller one this time.
Although Esther promised me that this hill wouldn’t be a problem, every time we round the corner she pretends her bags have become unbearable and then strides up with a cat-got-cream expression when I take them off her (every time). If I didn’t think it was so cute, I’d call her a chauvinist pig. Or a smug sugarmouse.

"So long, sucker"

On Easter Sunday, we were down at Lisa’s house (sitting in the same chairs we sit in every day, hollowing out what little padding they have until soon only our precise bottoms will fit into the dusty hollows)…

"Yep, this one's definitely mine..."

We were talking about the gangs of rampant men we had just seen on the dog walk: packs of check shirted, shiny shoed, gel-hardened men roaming the streets in search of cheap and slutty thrills.
Suddenly Lisa mused “It’s like Jesus. Everyone gets drunk and then finally on Sunday they are reborn and go walking the streets”.
Yes Lisa, just like Jesus.