Thursday, 8 December 2011
My girlfriend tells me I'm obsessed with my arsehole.
Whilst there's been many occasions in the past where I've been called an arsehole by women, or indeed accused by some of them of being "anally retentive" I've never before been accused of being obsessed with my boy pussy.
Again, it's Shiva up to his old tricks, because every time my lady visits at the weekend my bowels decide they need emptying at least three times more than average. Of course, some of that is down to ingesting toxic substances, like green chillis or chilli pickle, and if my arse could speak.......well it can actually, after eating either of the above. You've heard of Rock'n'Roll widows, or darts widows, well my old lady is a toilet widow!
And that's the other thing. I really found it hard to believe that several chaps made a living farting tunes in Victorian times, one such fellow, Le Petomane, even did a show at the Moulin Rouge. I say "found" cos I reckon I could do that! Again, only when my true love is lying in bed, perhaps expectantly, does the great Gas God empower me with enough fart energy to lift off a small space shuttle! My neighbours are starting to get arsey(sorry!)cos they think I've started to play the Tuba, and practise at unreasonable hours!
It's unbelievable, the fart sounds like a lengthy low drone, especially with added porcelain reverb, a bit like a hunting horn. Stags and similar animals gather outside my house excited that there may be some "rut action" to be had. Confused Captains of small ships knock and enquire as to whether I have a rogue foghorn. It's all getting a bit too much....
Green house gases? Don't make me laugh! It's the gas from my bumhole. I bet there's a huge hole in the ozone layer above my house! I'm a walking environmental disaster, and all the time scientists have been blaming cows and termites. Oh shit.......
Posted by Crispian Saint Boulevard at 12:59
Monday, 10 October 2011
Facebook, it has to be said, is fucking sad.
How is it that nice, normal, regular and unassuming people suddenly become mono brained retards in this corner of cyberspace? Intelligent, worldly people abruptly turn Chav, or worse, bigoted. They prattle on endlessly about their favourite "whatever" and expect me to give a fuck, or at least comment. Why should I give a fuck about Elvis, he's fucking dead, poor twat! And as for that wonderful blues rock pub band you love so much, well they're shit, so get over it!
My young relatives constantly embarrass me with their dreadful spelling and pigeon English. Christ anyone would think half the family are fucking "niggas". Again they must be terribly disappointed or surprised when they look in the mirror and realise they're white! Oh and Johnny or Jane, your wonderful partner of a good three and a half weeks has gone and shagged someone else, fuck that's such a shame. Guess you were thinking it was for life this time, huh? Well fucking get over that too, it was a bunk up, ok? not marriage, a mortgage and seven kids. The disposability of your relationship reflects the site on which you met, shallow, vapid and unreal.
People also use FB to witter on about their kids like they are direct descendants of the arch angel Gabriel, and their IQ exceeds 160, and of course they're sooo talented. Well here's the news, they're Skunk smoking ugly little fucks who make Jade Goody look like Einstein. And that's the truth.
Punks reunited? Don't make me fucking puke! Sad old fat fuckers desperately trying to relive their inconsequential youth, ho fucking hum. Charlie Harper is 92 and lives in a care home fer Christ sake!
And of course, it's helped us all to connect with long lost friends that we haven't seen for ages. Yeah right, we connect, we message once or twice then that's it, we disconnect. Who gives a fuck?
I don't want to hear about your chuffing house in bum fuck Egypt, I don't care about your fucking Gerbil dying, I don't care about your ugly fucking baby shitting its self, I don't care about the new game on your fucking Blackberry(shove it up your arse then it'll be black!)and I don't care about your new job as a fucking robot.......just fuck off will ya?!?
Posted by Crispian Saint Boulevard at 14:02
Monday, 3 October 2011
Ok, so I'm 54 tomorrow. I feel fine, my brain still works great, as does my cock. I have a full head of hair with only vague signs of grey, I'm approximately 8 pounds over fighting weight, but what the fuck, the pot belly is the new six pack, right?But I've noticed something about older men, something I keep spotting on the bus. Their ears are fucking huge! They're like Woolly Mammoths for fuck sake, with torrents of hair growing out of them, like trophy hair! What the fuck?! You don't tell me someone doesn't mention the fact they look like some Scally has stuck a Douglas Fir into their ear canal? "Oh yeah shit, that ear hair looks fucking cool, is that a weave or what?" It's just not happening.
Posted by Crispian Saint Boulevard at 12:45
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Doctors, who'd have them, ay?
It's hard enough for us males to gather the wherewithal to visit the bastards. And then as if feeling unwell isn't enough, they question you like they're the Gestapo, and make you feel even more under the weather!!
I went to see a Doctor today, simply to get a prescription for Loperamide, I came out of the surgery battered and exhausted. There's me telling him how good I've been, seriously cutting back on my boozing, and the first thing I want to do when I get out of there is have a fucking drink, a large Jack preferably. And all the time he's tippy tapping on his keyboard and muttering incomprehensibly, occasionally raising his eyebrows. Never a good thing.
I do all the hard work(well, me and Mr Google)I do the diagnosis, all they've got to do is write like a drunkard on their official note paper, and hey presto, drug time.(no chance of a bottle of Merck while you're at it Dr T?)
So I figure after all this interrogation, complete with much huffing and puffing he's got another angle on my problem, so what gives Dr T, what do you think?
"I think you should have an Endoscopy, a camera put up your back passage, and a biopsy, to see if we can find a problem". Fucking great Doll face, no disrespect but having someone shove a camera up my ass isn't at the top of my agenda currently, just give me the Imodium, PLEASE!!!
Again, God was being a wag, I being terminally deaf, and the Quack being Italian and barely capable of speaking the Queen's English. Surely it should be a prerequisite that a Doctor who treats Brits should be able to speak English, and for you guys that train the fuckers, if the medical student still wears a bone through his nose, carries a sheild and spear and calls you "M'bungo" that ain't likely. Go figure......
Posted by Crispian Saint Boulevard at 11:55
Saturday, 12 February 2011
It's a very English obsession, the weather. Hardly suprising, looking out on this cold and wet February day. I pity the poor souls who have to drag their arses out of bed in the darkness, to attend some dull, unstimulating job in a factory, or somesuch. My worst nightmare, but then as Bridie used to say "we're not 9 to 5 people". I don't want 9 to 5 things, like a car or a house or any other delusional material stuff, it's useless to me.
If you look at the weather like it is, and has to be, it can be beautiful any time. But if you judge it for a reason, that it prevents work, or travel or whatever, then it can really get you down. And hence the English reflect their weather, which can be seen as bleak, grey and bland......
I hated the English Winter so much at one time that when I met the Bitch Goddess and she suggested a move to the Sunshine state I simply couldn't wait to get there.
The Flight was long and arduous in those days, some 12 hours in total. With a stop off in a snowy New York, where the shoe shine chairs at the airport had little tv's built into them, so for a dime you could watch a Soap or some news. I stepped outside of JFK to witness a log jam of Yellow cabs, all angry expletives and honking horns.
When the doors of the plane opened in Miami, it felt similar to opening a hot oven door, a veritable woosh of heat. And there were plants growing on the airport roof that would die in the English Summer, let alone the Winter. Exotic, sweet smelling, hot......
We picked up a hire car and drove out of the airport on a road twelve lanes wide. Dusk was starting to fall and the lights of the city blazed. There were billboards and neon. I switched on the radio and trawled through the stations. Little Richard sang "Tutti Frutti", and some nameless Evangelist barked praises to the Lord. We were in Miami, in America, and suddenly all of my childhood dreams about visiting the USA had come true, big style.....
Posted by Crispian Saint Boulevard at 04:43