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.

There’s Something Wrong with Esther…


"Damn right"

‘Esther’ thinks I have named her after the freaky murdering child-woman in The Orphan. I haven’t but when we watch it together, the similarities mount up:

  1. Born in 1976
  2. Practically a midget
  3. Old beyond her years
  4. Generally freaky and menacing
  5. Ageing under her makeup (her comment not mine…)

So it seems I have my own little dwarf psycho girlfriend. Luckily, I am too scared of her to ever stand up to her, so hopefully she won’t kill me off while she can still use me to get her things (makeup and takeaways).

When I was watching the film, I really wanted to have a sister like Esther. Unhinged, sadistic, Russian, Goth, a girl- all the things I wish I was. I’d love to go round just being intense and freaky, without having to pretend that I didn’t just desperately want everyone to love me. I wish I was a psychopath, but no, my parents did too good a job damn them. Instead I’m just a mild-mannered, empathetic soft-touch of a boy-man. I’m a meek little cleaner fish, servicing the jaws of a narky sharky and buffing up those teeth in the hope that I don’t make its jaws chomp down in anger. Pass me the scissors and I’ll cut off my balls- I’ve got no use for them.

"Why don't you understand preppy-chic?"

“I wish I was going to be castrated” says Lisa, “It must be lovely, getting packed off in a box without having to talk to anyone, going to have my balls chopped off”.
“Would you have a lobotomy if it would guarantee you the brain of an averagely mentally healthy person?” asks Esther.
“Above normal confidence?” qualifies Lisa, seriously considering it.
“No, normal”
“No” she decides. The a few seconds later “Oh, go on then”. Lisa goes silent as she she runs through the next few months of her lobotomised life. “But we would be different, we wouldn’t fancy our boyfriends or love our parents. We’d become mentally ill pretty fast. No, you might as well be dead”.

“What if the lobotomy made you look averagely attractive for your age?” asks Esther

“God no!” replies Lisa, “I’d only do it if it made me look 15!” She has definite ageing issues at the moment.

Esther thinks this through; “But you’d wonder why a 30 year old man was in the bed next to you!”

Paedophilic overtones aside, I still happen to believe that I am 15 inside, and I’ve spent 15 years trying to get out of this shitty body. It’s not that I’m young at heart, it’s more that I was crap at being a teenager and I want to go again. In fact, I refuse to grow up until I’ve acted like a brat and done all the things I think I should have done. The me inside is stuck with a torch and a toothpick, and when it flicks the light on, every inch of inner flesh has the words “IT’S NOT FAIR” scratched into it, in angry jagged little cuts. Get me the fuck out of this lumbering carcasse, and i will live out the impossible lives every Hollywood teen I’ve ever seen!

"The Me Inside Me"

On a lighter note, I was seduced last night. Esther was trying to get me to stop drinking and come home so she said:

“If you come home, I might have sex with you”

When my eyes glazed over again, she changed it to,

“Actually, I PLAN to have sex with you, so let’s go”

Truth be told, I am too far gone to those type of shenanigans, and I can only sit there like a deaf mute, watching people who can still walk and talk. But I don’t want to upset Esther, so I rouse myself and we cab it home.

As I go for a pre-sex wee on our ensuite loo, Esther attempts a strip tease next to the toilet. She lifts one leg up and slowly unzips her 90s block heel, before falling back against the wall. She’s not used to using her body for anything but snoozing and lifting teacups you see.

She tries again with her left foot, and the same thing happens, so instead she crawls off to bed where she can get by just lying there. So much for having things done to me- I have to do all the acrobatics (we’re talking acrobatics for people without any co-ordination or balance), and my body has only just forgiven me for going to the gym on Monday (yes, I know that’s nearly a week ago). Still at least my libido came gallumphing back and I got some.

One day, I will have the power of seduction. And I will sing this song:

"Like the shotgun need an outcome
I'm your prostitute, you gon get some"

TURN OFF, TUNE OUT, DROP YOUR PANTS


"Wet n Wild"

Lisa “I’m trying to think of a porn film that would turn men off. Maybe a really emaciated old woman who is naked, and runs into a circle of men and wraps herself around one of their legs. But they’d probably just fuck her. Any woman can be sexualised. Even your grandmother would turn some men on.” I think about their Gromy for a moment, and shudder.
As long as there are holes in her body, men will put their willies in.
“The inside out woman?” says Esther?
“The downs syndrome transsexual” I postulate. It’s worse to go from a man to a woman than it is the other way round. Just think of the taxi driver in League of Gentlemen…

“Ah but disabled people are vulnerable, so that would be sexy. But what about those women to men transexuals who have their holes sealed up, and have their vaginal walls pulled into penis shape and grow beards and beer bellies?”

We need a test. I’ve heard about men being attached to a ‘strain-o-meter’ while forced to watch porn- suddenly they would be confronted by gay sex and their willy wouldn’t lie if they were turned on. I remember those Newtonmeters from school physics- some sort of pulley system?

"Gnnng"

Would I rather have sex with a genetic male who looks like a female, or a genetic female who looks like a male?

I’d just rather have sex, if that’s al the same to you Esther.

I think of the least sexual sexual thing. “The (human) egg with a face?” I suggest.
Esther snorts.

"Dip your soldier into my yoke"

Today’s argument is about David Hasslehoff. Lisa tells a story about how his first wife was obsessed with Michael Knight, his Knightrider character. When the series was terminated, she left him for a man actually called Michael Knight, and took the real KIT car with her. Gutted.

"The Hoff sex droid"

Then he got into sex and drugs and perms, before becoming some sort of icon of masculinity. A latter-day saint of rugged respect. But I refuse to believe that ‘The Hoff’ is an attractive man. He was chubby and gimlet eyed and stupid when he was young. Age has only emphasised those features. He isn’t effeminate and long-necked and goofy and swish like me- surely the measures of all real men?
“He’s manly and rugged” she states. “It’s about attractiveness not beauty” she adds when she sees my confused face.

Oh, are they different?

I get that feeling like the world has just expanded beyond all comprehension. A bit like zooming out from Google Earth. All my values and core beliefs-those bits that make me ‘me’- are suddenly simultaneously publicly embarrassed by their mothers.
“You’d prefer a real manly man, wouldn’t you” I ask Esther in jealousy.
She closes her eyes and goes motionless. What have I done?
“What are you doing?” I ask in trepidation.
Slowly she opens her eyes, a look of calm on her face.

“Destroying thoughts” she says.

Now I realise that I have seen this expression many times before and not realised what it meant. I have inadvertently witnessed intellectual genoside many times over.

Just Say Probably Not


"Oh my fucking God, it's real money!"

Today I accidentally donated £2 to the Socialist Worker Party.

As I was walking into work, I saw a Ban the Cuts stall with 3 sad looking people on it. They were watching all the Trustafarians and Ugg ungulates pass by.

I felt sorry for them, so I went over. They were trying to get rich, spoonfed students who notice them, but without offering naff double entendres (Shag/Pounded etc) and an RnB soundtrack, they were invisible.

"No more compliments, please!"

Not that I am any different. I still believe Tony Blair is the best PM we’ve ever had, with his lovely hair and smile.  Tony, you’re welcome to pop round for tea, as long as you bring the pudding.

Anyway, I went over to the socialists and they instantly came alive like robots on tandby. There was a jolly middle-aged woman, an over-excited long haired boy, and someone who was so unnoticeable I just didn’t notice him.

I signed their petition, but halfway through my name, I realised that there was a box for Donation at the end of the line, and everyone so far had entered an amount. Shit.

I don’t do donations.

“If you give us 75p, you get a sticker” the woman chuckled.

I had 2 £2 coins in my pocket, and I wanted to get my lunch and a coffee with them. I pulled one out, and as the gold disc gleamed in the afternoon sunshine, a gold glimmer lit up their socialist faces.

Just before I was about to ask “Do you have change for this?”

T he young man piped up with “Oh, that would be wonderful, thankyou”

“Oh, yes, there you go” I said, watching my hand lower it into the lip of the money pot and drop it in.

Like the fairground fortune teller in Big, as the coin dropped, the longhair came to life, gushing about how he was running for council and he was talking at a big talk somewhere and he was growing his hair until the socialist party got into Westminster.

I wanted a bloody coffee, and now I couldn’t because these cunts had used my politeness against me like a weapon of mass niceness. Yet again I had gotten myself in a fix because I could’t say no.

"Red is SO my colour"

God how many hours of my life have I wasted trudging along on some stupid, pointless or scary journey because I couldn’t work out how to avoid it? (Answer- a lot)

I nearly got abducted by the Moonies because when an overfamiliar man asked if I wanted to go and see a video about how to be happy. I thought “He can tell I look miserable, so he will never believe me if I say I don’t need to watch his video”. So I went to some cult HQ where people attacked me with smiles, and watched a video about Sun and Yi Moon, the Fred and Mary West of Eastern religion.

"Smile you godless heathens"

“I don’t think I am ready to commit” I said after it finished, and was escorted out by a man who made the joker look sad. I found out later that the party trick of this cult is nighttime abductions. I should have put Harvey’s address down.

"Sorry"

Oh. I just killed a midge. I wouldnt mind, but I wanted to save it from Esther, who would have crushed it if she’d seen it first.

I saw it and grabbed it before she did, and threw it out of the window to freedom. Then I noticed it was half crushed on my palm. Balls. I can’t do right for doing wrong.

What’s the point of morals if they just make you feel crap because you can’t live up to them? I want to go around punching pregnant women in the stomach and trapping old lady fingers in doors and shouting at disabled people who can’t talk properly.

I want to do everything I am scared of doing by accident because I am crap at not doing them. Life is a constant series of near social disasters, where the thin membrane of convention and decency is ruptured and ripped by my semi-erection of clumsiness and apathy?

"Down with morals, up with erections"