Michael Cargill

Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.

Tag Archives: opinion

A single egg can provide so much pleasure

eggHi, 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.

Steve Dog writes 50 Shades of Grey, for blokes

Oy oy, saveloy. Steve Dog here and I have to say I’ve been propefistr 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 them 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 several 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.

Peace.

These days, it’s the cakes that are the real terrorists

Pssscaket! 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, which is to shout “Not now, Margaret!” 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 of them! 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 anymore. Cats eyes? Street lights? Toll roads? Like, hello! A baked lump of fundamentalist flour, sugar, and egg simply isn’t going to take any notice of those things. They are masters of strategy and will simply outflank anything that you put in their way. But 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, Margaret!

Snivelling toads really get my goat

My name is Joseph O’Reilly and I am a self-made man who justoadt gets on with things; when confronted with a problem I can make my mind up very quickly about what needs to be done. I can yay or nay an idea in seconds, bish-bosh! I juggle the ying and the yang of everything around in my head and the entire world slows right down to a crawl. You know the slow motion stuff in the Matrix? It’s kind of like that but without the guns and the crap acting; it’s all happening in my head, baby, and in my head I am the Lord of the Dance. Lord of the Dance? Oh bejesus McMurphy why did I think about that? It reminds me of my arch enemy from Lord of the Rings, Samwise the hobbit.

Oh mercy me he is the worst person on the planet. I hate his fat face. I hate his whining voice. I hate his splaying, dirty feet. Of all the people in the world who manage to never step onto an upturned plug, why him? He goes around barefooted the whole time! I hope he dies of verruca poisoning after trying to scratch his ears with his big toe or something. Why do I hate this creature, you ask? Because he is nothing but a snivelling toad of course! “Oh, Mr Frodo, shall I share the burden?” “Oh, Mr Frodo, can I comb your hair?” “Oh, Mr Frodo, can I stick my finger in your ring?” It’s nothing short of snivelling toadery and he’s like Ross from Friends minus the testicles.

Oh sweet Mary Jesus, you got me going now! Ross from Friends? A horrendous toad if there ever was one. He is the sort of man who has to ring his mother when he wants to put a set of shelves up, a horrendous drip of a person. He reminds me of a nephew of mine, another utterly atrocious example of a man. He will stare at the contents of his fridge for ages before deciding what to have on a sandwich. For God’s sake man, just grab the cheese and the pickle, and get slicing and slopping! It’s as easy as bish-bosh! Spit-spot! I have usually eaten and put my slippers on before he has finished choosing between butter or margarine.

And before you ask, yes they were on a break.

I am a dustbin man and I have to be careful

dustbin‘Yo ho ho, and a container of rotting cabbage’ as the boys say down at the depot. We are a tight-knit group of lads down there – we have to be, otherwise we would all go stark raving mad with Lyme disease. Citrus-based drinks and cakes are popular in this town yet people just throw away the peel without a second thought about who has to take care of it afterwards. The younger, more aggressive ones among us think that these people are taking the pith, but the wiser ones such as myself just see it as a natural hazard of the job. It’s about perspective: there are brave soldiers getting blown to smithereens in Afghanistan, whereas all I have to do is make sure my jacket is zipped up tight.

Being a dustbin man is strangely hypnotic and if you’re not careful it can take over your life. One Saturday afternoon I popped into town with my wife to do some shopping. I spotted a pile of discarded clothes on the floor and before I realised what I was doing, I had hoisted the entire bundle up onto my shoulder ready for disposal. I even yelled out “Hold up there Bazza, got some old rags here,” such was my state of confusion. Even as the store security guard was bundling me to the floor, I was twisting his ear round to start up the crusher machine. Still in a daze, I then banged my fist on his groin as I always do when I want Bazza to open the passenger door for me; the handle don’t work, see, and it can only be opened from the inside.

Sometimes, if I have to take a step backwards, I start making a beeping sound and move very slowly – if I’m daydreaming about being in control of a ten-ton vehicle, I don’t want to be stepping on some little doggie’s toes. I once accidentally stepped back and knocked over a garden gnome a few years ago. I hate garden gnomes so I wasn’t actually that bothered about it, but the owner went bleedin’ mental at me. Shouting and hollerin’ he was. I told him to calm down and get some perspective: there are women out there carrying around rape alarms lest they get harassed by dirty old men.

All he had to was move his shitty garden furniture out the bloody way and all would have been fine in the world.

A chat with Mr Sellotape

John Sellotasellotapepe here, head of the mighty Sellotape stationery empire. Interesting fact: did you know that last year 16 billion rolls of Sellotape were sold? That’s quite impressive, yes? But hold on, this got me thinking… how much of that Sellotape sold was used to package up other boxes of Sellotape ready to be sent out to shops and newsagents all over the globe? So then I got thinking some more and started wondering what was used to seal up boxes before Sellotape was invented… I could come up with only one answer: spaghetti.

It’s true, it has to be! Think about it – spaghetti is Italian and several thousand years ago the Romans ruled the earth. Them Romans was Italian so it makes perfect sense from a historical perspective. They must have had a huge cauldron that they cooked all the spag’ up in and then used it to tie up their sandals. Chances are that they used it to string their bows in an emergency as well. In fact, they probably even whipped their slaves and crucified Jesus Christ with the stuff. Say what you want about the Roms but they knew how to use their spag’ and it kind of makes you wonder where it all went wrong for them… and I reckon they got into the bad habit of overcooking it. Nothing worse than going round someone’s house for dinner and finding that they have overcooked the pasta, it totally ruins the night. Heaven only knows what effect it would have on an empire quite literally built on the stuff.

Although I talk about the Romans ruling the earth, this was long after the dinosaurs went extinct. Now I tell you them bally dinos where a strict lot what with all the sharp teeth and deadly claws flying about the place. I wonder how the tyrannosaurus rex would have used Sello or spag if either of them had existed back then – those arms of his are quite short and not really suited to finding the end of the tape. Plus, that big chin of his would get in the way and maybe even knock the roll out of his hand by accident. I reckon he could probably scoop up a load of spag quite easily and twirl it into a manageable clump – he could even make a giant spider’s web with it to catch any low-flying pterodactyls. Would probably have to get a helping hand from a passing diplodocus though.

Man, I love Sellotape.

I think my radiator is watching me

radiatorHi, my name is Larry. I won’t to tell you my surname as I’m trying to keep it a secret from something that, under normal circumstances, I would trust implicitly: my radiator. My suspicions about this heating element first started last month when I hung my socks over it to dry. Almost immediately, I heard a meowing sound. At first I thought it might be my cat until I remembered that I don’t have a cat. Therefore the only logical thing to assume is that my radiator is alive and watching me, waiting for my guard to slip so it can pounce and exact some kind revenge on me. One of the precautions I’ve undertaken is to never read any of my mail directly within its sight – I usually get a torch and open the letters whilst sitting underneath by duvet. If I get any junk mail I just leave it lying on the floor in the hope that it fools him into thinking my name is Dominos or something.

I have tried to find out more information about radiators because, let’s face it, no-one really knows where they come from. When was the last time you saw one for sale in a shop? They are always always preinstalled in a house somehow and I’ve never had a radiator salesman come up to me and say “Hello, I am a radiator salesman, would you like to buy a radiator?” When people used to talk about bleeding their radiators I assumed it was a technical maintenance term, but now I realise it’s a codeword for hiring a radiator hit man. I wonder how much an assassination like that would cost and whether it would leave much of a mess…?

Last night, when I was making a cup of tea for myself, I shouted out “Oh, I really fancy a glass of lemonade,” to fool the radiator into thinking that someone else might be in the house with me. I don’t usually drink lemonade either, so this would have been a kind of double bluff tactic; if you think something is watching you then it’s a good idea to keep it second-guessing all the time. I sometimes paint eyes on my eyelids so that when I’m asleep it looks like my eyes are still open.

Hmmm, I wonder what happens when I leave the house; does it try to delete all my Xbox game saves…?

Piers Morgan reviews his own shit-eating grin

piers morganCowabunga dudes! It’s Piersy Morgers here and I’ve decided to tell you all about moi. I’m a big fan of cats and have an entire shed dedicated to them and their mysterious ways, one that I built myself using a combination of blood, tears, and self-satisfied smuggery. I decided to name the shed Sheba and appoint myself as its queen, which of course makes me The Queen of Sheba. I like to wear a robe and fill the pockets with kittens so I can listen to them mewling in honour of their gracious kingy-queen and I even have authentic photographs to show as proof if you don’t believe me.

I also like holidays and my favouritest holiday was when I popped over to Iraq back in 2004. I got kidnapped by a gang of Iraqi criminals who threatened to kill me unless I gave them lots of money. When I told them I was a celebrity they soon changed their tune and it wasn’t long before they were begging me all day and night for my autograph. When I was rescued by some British soldiers their translator informed me that my captors thought that I was the gay wimpy one from Four Weddings and a Funeral, but it still counts, right? Celebrity by proxy is still celebritiness and yes, I have 100% authentic photographs that I can show you as proof.

Some time last year I bought myself an owl and named it Twitter. I could tell right away that I was doing well with Twitter as it kept responding to every ‘twit’ I made. “Twit-twit-to-WOO!” I would say and it would do a twitty right back at me. If I leave Twitter alone for too long I get worried that it has forgotten about me, so I make sure that I unleash a mighty T-bomb at him every now and then. Occasionally he flies around and does lots of little Twit-shits on me, but, well, I kind of like the attention and it gives me a real feeling of legitimacy among all the other Twitter owners out there. But make no mistake, I’m the master of Twitter.

I have authentic photos of all this you know, especially the Iraq stuff. They definitely aren’t fake as I can tell by looking at the pixels and from seeing quite a few Photoshops in my time.

My immortality serum is almost ready

ChemistryHello. My name is John Bubble and I am a chemistry chemical EXPERT. Ever since my 12th birthday, when I got a Johnson & Johnson chemistry set, my fate has been in my own hands. The moment I opened up the box I found myself captivated by the clammy feel of the fire-retardant test tubes and the smell of the rubber squeezy bit on the pipette, though the boner I got when I saw the bulge of the girl’s breasts on the front of the box was pretty good as well. Right there and then I knew that I was a mere GCSE exam away from being a full-blown genius. I told everyone in my class to call me Sir Anthrax but they misheard me and started calling me Stiff Anus instead.

After braving the dangers of iron filings and bicarbonate of soda for a few weeks, I decided to step things up a gear by getting some crushed Trebor Extra Strong Mints and shampoo. It wasn’t the baby-kind shampoo either so I had to wear the safety goggles in case I got some in my eye. Down at the bottom of my garden, wearing my goggles for safety, and Buzz Lightyear jumper for comfort, I mixed the two components together… and then I fled for safety and threw myself upon the ground in case something bad happened. An hour later I peered through my binoculars and was suddenly aware that I had turned the entire world black! SUCCESS! Then I realised I’d left the lens cap on and had climaxed somewhat prematurely again.

Now, on the cusp of my 14th birthday, I’m about to unleash my IMMORTALITY SERUM upon the world. Well, upon me anyway. Then I shall be rid of these teeth retainers that make me dribble and spit like my grandmother once and for all! I will have the hairiest chest and the largest Adam’s apple you will ever see! And Sexy Susan won’t dare laugh at my Yoda impressions ever again for she will be my wife. She doesn’t know it but I can sometimes see her bra through her blouse. But enough talking. Here we go… time to quaff the serum and take my rightful place in the world.

Ooooh, it tastes like chicken.

Monster Truck madness is the cultural backbone of society

My name is John Bobness and Imonster truck have been a Monster Truck fan ever since my 12th birthday. I remember it well as my dad was unconscious after getting drunk on the toilet cleaner, so my birthday was once more in the hands of my next door neighbour. People often say that I look very similar to my neighbour, which came in handy as it meant he could vouch that it was okay for me to buy cigarettes and whisky at the local shop. My dad said I was too young to drink so I just used the booze to sterilise the cigarette burns I got when he was drunk and unable to control his arms properly. That’s okay though because chicks dig scars, right?

I still remember that first Monster Truck show. We got a hotdog each and I dropped mine as we were trying to squeeze past a family who were all wearing Cookie Monster t-shirts. All four of them had ponytails and for some reason they smelled entirely of baked beans. Anyway, when I dropped my hotdog, one of the kids picked up and ate it in one mouthful! It was so funny and I asked him to give me high-five but I don’t think he spoke English as he just looked at me and belched. I bought another hotdog later on but it wasn’t until I got home that I realised the sauce had fallen all over my shoes. I had to use the whisky to wash it off.

Since then, I have been a complete fan of Monster Truck shows and collect all the figures and the posters. Sometimes the back of the trucks come in handy at dinner time if there aren’t any clean plates available, although I have to make sure I clean it afterwards – the mould starts to smell after a while and makes me cough if I sleep too closely to it. We have a cat with one eye and he makes a great obstacle for my truck to climb over. If I run the truck over his tail he doesn’t even flinch and my dad says it’s because all the nerve endings are dead from being used to clean out the coffee mugs.

That sounds so cool!

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