They Wear Skirts Because ... They're Bitches

Weak pantie-wearing nonce-cases, the Scotchlanders, have shown their true colours (yellow) by sucking up to mad bomber bastard Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi and freeing him on 'compassionate' grounds. The spineless lily-livered bastarding shirt-lifters decided to let him go because he had some arse disease. By doing so, the noofters up North pissed on the remains of the victims, and hence forth deserve to be loathed by all decent people on the face of planet.

Now, whilst Libya laughs in the faces of those who lost relatives in the Lockerbie bombing, the skirt-wearing Jocks have lined up alongside them to deliver an extra kick to the bollocks.

Whilst I would wholeheartedly support military action against the Scotchlanders (and the Welsh and the French for good measure), I do see that such a move is unlikely, especially as our troops are fighting the scum that the Scotchlanders want to set free. I then thought about some sort of boycott of Scotchland goods. Mind you, all they offer the world are men's skirts (no thanks), piss-water juice (fuck right off), shortbread (I've enough gravel, thank you) and ginger hair (you fucking deserve it, you cowards).

No, apart from the lovely Lorraine Kelly, Scotchland has nothing that we want. Mind you, we do have something they don't have - backbones!

Katona Gets Her Arse Out Of Iceland

Ex-Atomic Kitten walrus Kerry Katona, more famed for her transition from sexy siren to fat blob, has been sacked from her role as the advertising 'face' of piss-poor frozen food peddler, Iceland. Apparently, the oversized one had been gobbling up Class A drugs, according to scandle-mongers and all-round shit-stirrers, The News of the World. (Mind you, they do print titty pictures, so God Bless them).

Now, let me tell you this; I've eaten Iceland food, under protest, and it tasted like fucking cardboard wankstain. It was bland and pappy crap that, quite frankly, was probably the most offensive shit I've ever put into my mouth, and I've put some shit in my mouth over the years.

If catastrophic Kerry's drug taking is more offensive than Iceland's fayre, then I'm fucked if I can even start to imagine how depraved she has been. That Iceland can criticise someone for filling their body with bad chemicals is a bit like Jack the Ripper criticising a baber for nicking his neck during shaving.

Prawn circle? Fuck right off, you two-faced cunts.

That said, she is a porker, and no mistake!

Super Sexy Squeaky's Out!

It's funny how sometimes things come out of the past and suddenly spring a whole bunch of memories! Whilst looking at SB's blog today, I saw news that Mansonette Squeaky Fromme has been released. Now, when it comes to mad bitches, Squeaky was a cute one. Yes indeed, flashing off a bit of leg with her holster strapped on, who could fault a boy for going at himself like a dog with ticks!

Back in the day, I dreamed of living in a shed with her, doing the odd serial killing, and generally getting into a lot of stuff that involved her getting naked.

Okay, so we know she's a mad bitch, we know she's been getting her crack licked by some butch pitbull bitch in the pen, and we know she's now older, uglier and probably slightly dull company at an evening soiree, what with her compulsion to slop out, smoke ultra-thin rollies and suck fluff in the showers, but I can't help feeling I'd like to take her home and keep her in a cage.

After all, she's so cute!

Les Paul and Lesbian Porn

I like lesbians. I especially like lesbians when they are doing the sex thing to each other. Who doesn't? I was reminded of lesbians doing the sex thing to each other when I heard the news that Les Paul had died. Now, if you think that the connection is the inevitable "Les" joke, you'd be wrong. Let me explain.

Many many years ago, I helped out a fellow human being, and as a result he owed me a chunk of cash. Then I made a discovery about said person, which changed my attitude about him dramatically (he had abused his sister). I demanded my money, and when he didn't pay, I demanded it again, more strongly. I obviously didn't demand it with menaces, as such a move would be illegal. No, I simply asked for it in a loud voice.

It seemed that he genuinely didn't have any money, but offered me his guitar instead. I took it, although I didn't want it. After all, I figured it would be some piece of shit. I took it because I didn't like him, and I figured anything was better than nothing.

When I got it home, I nearly shat when I opened the case. That was how I became the owner of a fucking gorgeous Sunburst Les Paul. I played it a bit, but it spent most of the time leaning against a chair. Moira, the lesbian upstairs from me, used to pop in, but she couldn't play guitar. One day she asked if she could borrow it, just for a couple of days. It was odd as she didn't play, but I agreed, because I liked Moira.

True to her word, she returned it a couple of days later. She also said that she had a surprise for me, and I'd receive it in a couple of weeks. I forgot all about it until the postman delivered me a pornographic magazine. Inside were many photographs of naked ladies, including a number of photos and a badly written story about a lesbian rock star who seduces an innocent straight groupie into the joys of sapphic love. The model playing the lesbian pop star was Moira, and the guitar she was posing with was my Les Paul. In one shot, she was rubbing her flange on its neck. I liked that.

As I have already said, this was many years ago. When I heard Les Paul had died, my first thought was of Moira's twat. Never mind Les, you didn't die in vain!

Boxing Bitches - Common Sense Prevails

Now, if you are not a sports-minded person, this news story might have passed you by, but the good news is that just today, Womens' boxing has been accepted as an Olympic sport. Whilst many do-gooders campaigned against it, stating that the public did not want to see women standing toe-to-toe and belting seven shades of shit out of each other, the IOC disagreed, and decided what we really need in a time of recession is just that, bitches beating on each other!

In life, we are all so quick to stamp upon the hopes and dreams of others, and are more than willing to put down those that shoulder public responsibility. In this case, let's stand and salute the mighty brains at the IOC, and thank them for their common sense.

Bring on the boxing bitches - that is all I have to say!

Stick Your E-Ticket Up Your Arse!

Traveling! Some think it's great, but I bet the fuckers don't have to do it for their work! Now, many years ago, traveling was simple. You went to a travel agent, you bought a ticket, booked a hotel, and pissed off home. A few days later, Postie pushed an envelope through your letterbox containing a plane ticket (a thin paper booklet around 6 x 3 inches with the tickets on separate pages) and a confirmation of your hotel booking. For that, we paid them a few pounds - money well spent.

Today, it's fucking dreadful. First, you have to go on-line and spend a few hours filtering through numerous fucking web-sites to find the only one that isn't going to tear you a new arsehole. Then you have to book the fucking shit yourself. Okay, it's not hard, but if you're drunk, you are likely to fly out of one airport and return to a different one. Yes, I've done that a few times, and then spent a small fortune trying to get to my fucking car.

However, then - for ecological reasons - we have the fucking e-ticket. Now, I'm all for saving a few trees, but the e-ticket is a con. The airlines and hotels don't print them, the fucking customer does. In most cases, the cunts don't want the actual e-ticket, but on the one occasion you don't print it, you'll be fucked! The cost for this - nothing, but then they want a fucking credit card fee, which costs more than the fucking paper ticket ever did.

So, having just returned from a trip, I spent an hour this morning shredding all my unused e-ticket vouchers. Then I spent another hour printing out a fucking ream of paper for my next trip. It's not work, it's a holiday, but it feels like work. I need 17 separate items of fucking paperwork, and each one is designed to not fit onto a single sheet.

E-tickets? Stick them up your arse!

Phone Sex (Sort Of)

So, I'm sitting letting my dinner digest, sipping on a nice glass of Barolo, and the fucking phone rings. Despite knowing that I shouldn't, I answer it (an unusual act, I usually ignore it) because Mrs SC is away and I figure she's checking I'm not dead yet. It's not Mrs SC, and I'm not dead. It is, however, some salesbod trying to sell me some shit via an unsolicited call. What's more, he doesn't have the best command of the English language. I think to myself, fuck it, there's nothing on the TV.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Who's that?"

"Is that Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Why? Who are you?"

"I can't discuss that with you unless you confirm you are Mister Santa Cruz."

"Why?"

"Data Protection." * This is a piss-poor ruse to get you to identify yourself!

"Well, if I say I am Mister Santa Cruz, what does that prove?"

"It confirms who you are."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"Well, I'm afraid Mister Santa Cruz is dead."

"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"

"Who's the homeowner?"

"Are you?"

"Give me a name and I'll tell you if he's the homeowner."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me the name of the homeowner."

"Why?"

"Data protection!"
"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"
"Which home?"
"This one."

"Which one?"

"I have a special offer if you are the homeowner."

"What is it?"

"Are you the homeowner?"

"Tell me what the offer is, and I'll tell you if I'm the homeowner."

"I can't tell you unless you confirm if you own the property."

"Which property?"
"Your property."

"I do own property, that I can confirm."
"What is the address?"

"It's the address that Mister Santa Cruz used to have."

"Are you Mister Santa Cruz?"

"No, he's still dead."

"So who are you?"

Now, if you're fucking confused, imagine how he felt. I still don't know what he was selling. I managed to keep him at it for 19 minutes before he hung up on me. My all-time record is 59 minutes. That bastard hung up just before I made the hour. I now have taken to recording the calls. It's fantastic what you can do if you put your mind to it. I had one bloke trying to sell me a phone barking like a dog.

Just remember folks; telesales people are for life, not just for Christmas.

Fuck them!