Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Tag Archives: satire
27/09/2013Posted by on
People often say that Posh Spice, AKA Victoria Beckham, is nothing more than a clothes horse, which I think is unfair. If anything, she’s more like a giraffe.
Frank R, France.
Fool your neighbour into thinking he left the oven on by setting fire to his house when he’s out. The look on his face when he learns the truth will be priceless.
Geoff B, Worcs.
Is anyone else jealous of homeless people? It’s socially acceptable for them to get drunk during the day, and most of them seem to have a personal guide dog to help them across the busy roads.
Susan S, Surrey.
“The cat sat on the mat,” sang my five year old niece as she skipped around the garden. Yet I don’t even own a cat. It says a lot about modern society if children are being encouraged to tell such outrageous lies from a young age.
R Flops, Belgium.
Is anyone else worried about the ever-increasing encroachment of CCTV cameras on our lives? Last month I went to Disney Land Florida for the first time, yet when I arrived there was a map with a big arrow saying “You are here.” It’s the way they’re so blatant about it that scares me most.
S Patel, London.
Fool others into thinking you’re blind by randomly bumping into people and saying “Sorry, I’m blind” whilst wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses.
Terry W, Hull.
Banging two halves of an empty pistachio shell together is the perfect way to make people think that a herd of miniature horses are galloping up behind them.
Frank T, Bolton.
06/04/2013Posted by on
Has anyone else noticed how hippos are like old people? They’re constantly smiling, don’t seem to have many teeth, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were prone to pissing themselves after getting lost in the supermarket.
Frazzle R, Bolton
I once put my microwave on for three hours, the highest setting I can put the timer to, just to see what would happen. Five minutes before the end there was a power cut along my road, so I never found out.
John W, Lancs
A candle is the ideal ornament for fooling guests into thinking that you’ve got a pet rabbit, provided that it is brown, shaped like a rabbit, and surrounded by half-eaten carrot ends.
Bob L, Woolton
Alcoholics: Remember that you go to the bar for a drink, and the urinal when you need a piss, rather than the other way round.
Jack D, US
Last week whilst cutting my toenails, I suddenly thought of the song It’s the End of the World as We Know It by REM. Five minutes later, next door’s cat was hit by a car. Has anyone else suffered a near-miss premonition of Armageddon like that?
I recently learnt that DVD stands for Digital Versatile Disc. That’s all well and good, but if you snap one in half you are left with sharp pieces of plastic lying around. There’s a fine line between versatile and dangerous, and these guys crossed that line years ago.
Talking of near-misses, a bee flew right into my face whilst I was relaxing in the garden the other day. Thank heavens I wasn’t a pilot trying to land a passenger-laden Boeing 767 airliner at the time.
03/01/2013Posted by on
Christmas was quite stressful for me this year, as I wasn’t sure if Santa knew how much of a good boy I’ve been. Back in the summer, I accidentally fell on a snail whilst practicing the Moonwalk in the garden. I was so upset that I crieded three times afterwards, and helped mummy with the shopping all week afterwards. I even had a go at making my own sandwiches at lunch, but I cut my finger and got blood all over the kitchen floor. I only did one cry that time, and mummy even let me have one of my favourite dinosaur plasters to help make it all better.
On Christmas Eve I brushed my teeth twice, and then sung Kumbayah to my teddies before going sleep sleeps. Santa usually puts my stocking at the bottom of the bed, so when I woke up and it wasn’t there I did another cry until mummy came in and showed me that it had fallen on the floor during the night. We then went downstairs to open the big presents, and I was so excited that I put my dressing gown on inside out! As the presents were handed out, mummy let me have one of the chocolate decorations after I promised that I wouldn’t be sick like I was the year before when I tried to eat the mistletoe.
I think Father Christmas might need to get some new helpers, as one of my presents was a strange blue candle that made a buzzing noise as if there was a giant bee trapped inside it. I asked mummy why it was called a Rampant Rabbit, and her face went bright red like happens when she gets cross if I don’t tidy my room and she said that it must have been given to me by mistake.
My other presents were much nicer, and I got Bugs Bunny slippers, some crayons that smell like chewing gum, and a Harry Potter wand that breaks if you bend it too far.
29/11/2012Posted by on
I don’t care what the advertising blurb says; a Starbucks gift voucher would make a really crap Christmas present.
John G, Manchester
Shoppers: fed up with tax-dodging supermarkets getting free advertising at your expense? Simply turn your ‘complimentary’ plastic carrier bags inside out next time you pack your groceries up. That’ll teach the robbing bastards.
Sarah F, Bolton
I don’t know about anyone else, but I find the misspelling of the word ‘Sods’ highly distracting. Not only that, it sets a bad example to young, impressionable children and future generations will look back on this as time of decadence and illiteracy.
Dave, English teacher at Highbury secondary school
To the driver of the number 60 bus who decided to drive off, just as I got to the bus stop after sprinting 50 yards to get there on time: you’re a wanker.
Adam R, Rochester
A well peeled baby carrot serves as an ideal prop to fool people into thinking you are eating a human finger from a distance.
To the English teacher complaining about the misspelling of the title, I think you’ll find it was used as a way of keeping the alliteration consistent.
Michael C, England
If you’re bursting for a shit mid-way through a long shift, simply rush back to the depot as quickly as you can.
Driver, number 60 bus
01/10/2012Posted by on
Hi, my name is Mandingo Manning and I’m an egg enthusiast. Eggs are actually kind of weird if you think about it, ‘cos they’re just globes of goo that have fallen out of a hen’s arse. It’s not like you’ll ever see a farmer’s wife squatting down over her cobblestone path, selling whatever just so happens to drop from her hindquarters. Just imagine the mess she’d make if she ever forgot to take off her tights.
If there’s one thing that gets my goat, it’s the use of battery hen farms. Every, single hen should be given land. Shitloads of land, in fact. If cows can have entire fields to themselves, then so can hens. The only thing a cow ever lays, is a sloppy, splatty poo-pat. When I get home from work, I like to sit down in my chair and relax. I’ll take me trousers off, spread my legs and just let my bits dangle off the edge of the seat. Of course, I have to make sure that things don’t caught up in the cushion zip. I’ve still got the scars from last time.
Hens should be afforded these exact, same freedoms. They need room to do their clucking, pecking, flapping and whatever else it is that hens like to do, when they’re not expelling those wonderful little bulbs out of their feathery behinds.
One question that everyone always asks me is, how do I like my eggs in the morning? Well, the answer to that is quite complicated, as each type has their own pros and cons. Fried eggs are like cheese & onion flavour crisps – quick, tasty, and you can be sure that everyone at the party will like them. Your fingers will get greasy and smelly if you manhandle them, so keep a serviette handy.
Hard-boiled eggs are the purest type, and I tend to compare them to a nudist in a nudist camp. Everything is more or less the same shape as before, but there’s no outer shell covering up all that yummy, scrummy flesh. And believe me, once that shell comes off, there’s no holding me back. Sometimes, I’m like a wild beast and will finish my business within a minute or so. It takes a lot out of me, and it’ll be a good half-hour before I’m ready for another go.
If you held a gun to my head and made me choose, I would say that I like my eggs like I like my women: smeared all over my face.
26/08/2012Posted by on
Yeeees! I’ve finally done it, what everyone has been wanting me to do for so long now! A vasectomy! Er, I mean, erm, I finally published all my funniest articles as a book.
Here, check out the blurby bit:
Justin Bieber’s diary. Vladimir Putin reviews a glass of Coke. Steve Jobs speaks from heaven. Vegetarians are the real hunters.
Satirical news items, opinion pieces, and other nonsense.
Phew, I’m exhausted. If you’re already a blog subscriber, then feel free to make use of the Smashwords code below to download a free copy. Likewise, if you’re a book reviewer of some sort, then feel free to use the code as well. Any streakers that are planning on running naked in front of the cameras at the Olympics, feel free to use the code in exchange for writing the book title across your bum cheeks.
The Smashwords code for a free version is - WB24B
09/07/2012Posted by on
Oy oy, saveloy. Steve Dog here, and I have to say, I’ve been proper busy lately. A man’s world is never finished, and I’m living proof of that fact. If I’m not working on a business venture of one kind or another, then I’m out making sure people ain’t taking the piss. It was only last week, that I heard some aggro going on outside my gaff, and I had to go and put a stop to some teenage mischief.
Not too long ago, I was relaxing in my front room, when some woman came on the telly. Normally, I don’t take much notice of what women have to say, ‘cos it’s usually about shoes, or wasps, or something. Anyway, this chubby bird, she was called E.L. James, and was talking about some book she had wrote, called 50 Shades of Grey. From what I could make out, it seems that it’s like a porno mag, but with words instead of pictures. Sounds a bit rubbish, but somehow she has made a bloody fortune, ‘cos womens are loving it.
Now, I’ve written a few books meself, and you may have heard of ‘em. My most famous was Uniforms for Bouncers: How to wear a suit and tie, without looking like a ponce, though my personal favourite is Time Management and Prudence: Buy new cutlery instead of spending money on a dishwasher. I’ve decided to have a crack at this word porn thing, and here’s a chunk of what I’ve done so far. It’s aimed at blokes, rather than womens, ‘cos that’s my main area of expertise, like.
Dave came home from work, feeling a bit tired, but not too tired to have a quick look at some porno websites. The lads had been talking about some new, Swedish site that was now up and running, and he wanted to check it out. For dinner, he was planning on having a variety of bacon sandwiches, (one with brown sauce, one with red sauce, and one with both) and then maybe a sausage roll for dessert. He had been down the racetrack all day, using a drill, a hammer, and other industrial power tools, so his day had been 100% manly. Anyway, he closed his front door, and immediately noticed something different: the place didn’t smell of farts like it usually did, but of perfume, and he could see why. Right there in front of him, was some Swedish woman, completely naked, doing all kinds of sexy faces at him. She blatantly wanted it that was for sure, and Dave got stuck in right away, no messing about. She didn’t even ask him to light any candles or anything either. She had a massive pair of tits, and they did all three positions, and she even let him spurt all over her face. Dave was the sensitive type, so he taught her how to say ‘blowjob’ in English, to save her the indignation of having to do hand signals all the time.
Did I mention her tits? They were massive.
Good stuff so far, yeah? It’s proper erotic, and destined for some top awards. Probably a few top shelves as well, actually.
02/07/2012Posted by on
Hello, dear readers! A warm welcome to you all, with an extra warm welcome to those who are permanently bed-ridden, with no chance of recovery; I trust your bedpans have been emptied, and your sheets aren’t too soiled? I often get people asking me how I manage to look so fit, and healthy all the time. Well, the secret is simple: cleanliness! All over my house, there are alcohol-free, anti-bacterial soap dispensers that I use every time I move from one room to another. It means there are no bedroom germs in my bathroom, and certainly no garden shed germs in the kitchen. I always make sure to have a quick rinse, and a shower, after I have a bath; there is nothing worse than ruining a nice soak by standing up, and covering yourself in your own muck again.
Dear Dr. Lemon
Last week, I sprained my ankle when I was doing the gardening in my high heels. This isn’t something that I normally do, but I had locked myself out of the house, and the secateurs where in my handbag anyway. However, no matter what medication I take, the pain and the stiffness won’t go away. What do you advise?
Ouch! Sprained ankles are indeed a nuisance, not least because it can be awkward trying to balancing yourself properly to brush your teeth, or when waving away a persistent wasp. I would recommend regular warm, soapy rinses for this troublesome joint of yours. The body thrives in a clean environment, so if you happen to have a small oxygen-free tent that you can rest your foot in, I suggest you make use of it. Be sure to have a bath, and a shower, before leaving the house as well.
Dear Dr. Lemon
Recently, I have been suffering from awful toothache, despite the fact that I rarely eat anything that is sugary or sweet. I have been to the dentist but he can’t see what is wrong. What do you advise?
Deary me, that sounds terrible! A sore mouth makes it hard to order a coffee in the morning, especially when trying to explain to the server that you want them to use the specially sterilised cup that you brought with you. First things first, make sure your wife isn’t using cheap, discounted lipstick. Some of the chemicals that go into budget cosmetics are frightfully dirty. I would also recommend you make frequent use of steamed flannels, like you get in some Indian restaurants. This opens your pores up, allowing your body to cleanse itself. Lastly, make sure you keep your mouth closed whenever you have a hot shower; the steam will be chock full of grime and muck, and you don’t want any of that nonsense swirling around those unbrushed molars of yours.
25/06/2012Posted by on
Dear Mr Simpson, Conservative MP for London South West
The other morning, I was woken up by the heavy footsteps of the postman as he trudged his way to my front door. He must have been very excited, as he shoved something through my letterbox really hard. Well, it was either that, or he tripped up on the cat that usually lies across my driveway. Actually, I think that is the more likely scenario, because I heard him swear at something, and I haven’t seen the cat for two days now.
When I first picked the leaflet up, I was struck with just how fresh it felt, especially when some of the red ink rubbed off on my hand. To me, this is a good sign, because if I go into the bakers to buy a knotted roll, I want those yummy glazed sesame seeds to flake off as I pick it up. The loose ink on your leaflet is an endearing quality, as it gives me the impression that you like bread, just as I do. This is reassuring and educational, as I have always wondered what politicians feed themselves during their time at Westminster; up until now, I had always thought it was a combination of coffee and bullshit.
When I opened the leaflet, I was drawn to the faux-professionalism of its contents. Dearest constituent it said, reminding me of just how serious politics is. It also reminded me of that time when the bank sent me a birthday card, addressed To the account holder. Although it was only four words, I felt as if my bank manager had personally popped round to say, “We’ve got your personal details and your money, so don’t get any ideas above your station.” Likewise, your leaflet referring to me as a constituent is a firm reminder that, if I’m unhappy with what you’re doing, no matter how much you may have licked my arse to get me to vote for you in the first place, you won’t put up with any kind of rebellious nonsense from me. I confess that I like my overlords to be firm, powerful and jealously paranoid, and you seem to fit the bill perfectly.
I especially liked the photo of you that was shown on page two of the leaflet, standing there in someone’s front garden. The lawn was long enough to avoid alienating any crop-growing farmers, yet also short enough to show off the tasteful tartan slippers, that the old woman who was standing next to you was wearing. I obviously don’t know whether she was a constituent or your mother, but she looked suitably terrified of your limp and clammy hand, and also of that sycophantic grin that was plastered across your chubby face. I must say, I was impressed with how lush and healthy the grass looked. If I was a dog, I definitely wouldn’t want to ruin it by squatting down, and taking a shit on it. Instead, I would do my business in the middle of the pavement, and then go onto the grass to do that funny thing that some dogs do, when they clean their arse by dragging it along the floor.
Unfortunately, I’m not a dog, so would it be okay if I came to your house, and shit all over your doorstep instead?
11/06/2012Posted by on
Pssst! It’s me, Jon Bon Jovi. Not the real Bon Jovi of course, it’s just a pretend name that I use to cover my tracks. I was in Sainsbury’s supermarket the other day, perusing the delicatessen, when I heard a rustling in the Bon Bon Cake section. It sounded very suspicious, so I did what I always do when I feel threatened; shouted “Not now, Marjorie!” at the top of my voice. It’s a defensive reaction that has always served me well, and I got the idea from hedgehogs. And why not? If a hedgehog hears a twig snap, or an amorous couple engaging in a spot of noisy, impromptu coitus on a picnic blanket, then he will roll himself up into a ball until the threat has passed.
It’s been about twenty years since I last got on a plane, and with good reason; I am scared to death! The authorities spend all that money on X-ray machines, metal detectors and bald men who want to sneak a digit up your backside, yet none of that is going to stop anything with a biscuit buttery base, is it? What will these security bods do if some chocolate fingers and sultana croissants team up, and start sneaking through the air vents? Are they going to go after them, armed with cups of warm, sugary tea, hoping to dissolve them before they get anywhere near the fuel tanks? I think not.
Even the roads aren’t safe any more. Cats eyes? Street lights? Toll roads? Like, hello! A baked lump of flour, sugar and egg simply isn’t going to take any notice of those things. They are masters of strategy, they will simply outflank anything that put in their way. No-one ever listens to me, they just roll their eyes and call me a nutter. Wait, hold on. Why are those security guards looking at me? Why are they surrounding me? Good Lord, not even Bon Jovi is safe from these tasty snacks! Somebody, please help!
Not now, Marjorie!