Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Tag Archives: italian
Hi there! My name is Ed Miliband and I have something that I want to tell each and every one of you. Yes, that’s right… everyone.
But before we get onto that let me tell you a bit about myself so we can get all cosy: my name is Ed Miliband and I’m a YouTuber. Some of my fans will know me from my videos David Cameron: a man who probably doesn’t even have a willy and David Cameron: a man who probably wears velcro trainers because he doesn’t know how to tie his shoelaces properly. I bet he asks his mum to do it for him.
That second one is well cuss and has had at least 58 views since I uploaded it last year.
The other day I was on the bus when someone looked at me. I didn’t have my glasses on but I could tell from the bumps on her chest that this person was a woman, so I held her gaze for as long as I could. I wanted to smile at her, at this woman who was still looking at me, but she turned her head before I got the chance. This was a shame because it was going to be one of my nice smiles, and the experience left me crestfallen. Yes, crestfallen.
I got out of my seat and decided to approach this woman, to ask her why she felt that way, to roll my sleeves up and ask her why why why. It turned out that she was Italian and didn’t speak much English, something that struck a cord with me. If this simple woman is able to thrust a lance through my heart with such ease, what is stopping me from doing the same thing to my nemesis?
When I got home I put the kettle on and psyched myself up to create a brand new Facebook page… and I’m so very glad that I did. Within minutes, my David Cameron: does this man even have a bottom? post was generating comments and interest from all over the globe. The atmosphere was electric.
Later that evening I asked my brother to make me a cup of tea, and he did. I then told him that it was a rubbish cup of tea, an accusation that left him looking utterly crestfallen. Yes, crestfallen.
I then asked him if he knew about the Italian woman on the bus and he told me he didn’t… and that right there was the problem. I put my arm around him and reassured him that I was willing to be ‘his’ Italian woman on the bus, that he should look up to me as if I really was an Italian woman on the bus who didn’t speak any English.
And that is my message to you all… do not see me as a wonky man in a suit who forgets to put on his glasses… instead, see me as ‘your’ Italian woman on the bus who doesn’t speak any English.
For that is who I am.
Buon giorno! Come in, come in, my friends there are plenty of tables for you and your scummy family. Let me take your coats, and oh, what this? Fake leather jacket from TK Maxxies, how very bourgeois of you. Here, scoff on these bread rolls and shut up-a your face as I fetch you the menu and stare at your slut daughter’s breasts at the same time. I make faces at your ugly wife as she reads out entire menu over and over again and I let out fart near your idiot son’s head. Now sir, pissy wine for you and your fat wife, yes? Vodka for slut daughter of course and a large lemonade for your son of idiots. No sir, we no sell Guinness or Budweiser as we are no gypsy restaurant. We no sell Twiglets or Wotsits either before you ask.
Ah, I see you get confuse with words on menu. Your daughter has iPhone so why not get her to use translate app? You know she only use phone to get text message with photo of boyfriend’s penis. Okay, well ‘anti pasti’ is like a starter course, but we add £3 to price and say it cooked with olive oil. Everything is olive oil including the shampoo I use on head, is nice and shine and sometimes we use to clean toilet if carbonara goes bad and give people stomach bug. Okay so you sir have lasagne, how very imaginative. Slut daughter has fish, wife has lasagne too, and idiot son wants the fried sausages; why he no go McDonalds instead?
We now have your order so me and petite waitress with nice ass go stand outside and have cigarette. We laugh at you and your family and then I tell waitress again that I like her nice ass and that I want to rub olive oil all over her. She give me horn and makes my Tower of Pisa start to lean but the chef is her boyfriend and he is buffoon. Although he look like paedophile and has smell of dog she say she love him. I want to shove that ponytail of his up his own ass until he scream and cry like baby.
What’s this? You only leave £1.50 for tip? You English dogs.
Hey ho, Anglo Saxy peeps. My name is Silvio Berlusconi and as real-life bona fide pervert I consider myself lucky to be an Italian. Not only do Italian ladies have very sexy faces but the police are corrupt and useless bastards, which mean I can do whatever. My favourite trick is to dress up as a park keeper and do a shuffle-walk around the park until I find a lonely lady on her lonesome. I will then say “Hello lonely lady, how are you?” and engage in short conversation whilst moving around so I can see down her top or in between the buttons of her blouse. I have experienced many fine examples of cleavage and side-boob due to my expertise in this area.
Usually I admire German people and race but their leader, Angela Merkel, looks like pig-dog. I would guess that her lady parts are very hairy and messy, which mean I get sick when flirting at EU meetings. EU meetings get very boring if I am sitting next to French boss Nicholas Sarkozy. I believe he is gay and that his strange face scares away all the children. His wife is jolly sexy though and when I make jokes with her she laughs like princess. I once called her a princess and she smiled at me. I then put my hand on her leg and she gave me look of death. I sent her flowers to say sorry she then send me text message saying to pisses off. I looked up French word ‘piscine’ in dictionary and it says is meaning swimming so I have bought lovely bathing suits for me and hers to go swimmings with some day.
I am off to England soon to says hello to posh twat Dave Cameron. There are some mighty fine ladies in Parliament Houses and I often stay hidden on balcony with binoculars to get good looks at fine ladies. I will carry tissue with me so that I can unzip my trouser and do what I call ‘cheesing the pizza’ if I see fine ladies in fine underwear. Many years ago I see Margaret Thatcher in underwear and I had to run to toilet to be sick.
I see now why she is called iron lady her lady parts look like steel wool.