Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Tag Archives: women
G’day, mates! Alf Stewart here.
Now, as a proud no-nonsense Australian who doesn’t take a dingo bat’s whisker of nonsense from anyone, you can imagine how cheesed off I was when I found out that the old wife-aroo has been having an affair behind my back. Although I’ll be the first to admit that I’m perhaps a little hard on the silly little strumpetty slap, that’s still no excuse for her to go galloping off into the arms of the first two-bit dingo mongrel head that’s willing to blow a kind word and a compliment up her skirt.
“Oh, you don’t understand me!” is what she claimed when I spoke to her on the phone. Well, too damned right I don’t understand you, you bloody wombat! How am I supposed to know you don’t like it when I let rip with a heavy stonker from my backside if you don’t tell me? I’m no bloody mind reader, no matter what those carpet munching women’s magazines say. And what, exactly, is the problem with me checking out the young girl next door when she’s out sunbathing in the garden? That’s one fine pair of tambourines she’s got tucked up down under that blouse of hers, and I’m man enough to admit that I’d love nothing more than to take her backstage of Sydney Opera House and show her how a real man bangs away on a percussion instrument.
Since then, I’ve been doing what any bloke would do under the circumstances: whatever the hell damned hell of damn I want. At first I went into town and took in a few titty bars just to get the old didgeridoo back in action, but I had to stop all that when I caught sight of my little niece up on the main stage. I tell you, that was creepier than a dingo’s backside that’s been stuffed full of creepy crawlies and I hope to hell that she washes her hands before she slaps any more shrimps on any unsuspecting barbies – the flaming smell would carry for miles around, attracting God only knows what type of dirty dingo mongrels from all around here.
Mate, this world has gone to shit. Dingo shit.
Ever since I watch Peter Pan film, I been fascinate with idea of eternal youth. Peter Pan never have to worry about get hairy ears and nose due to getting old, and he also able to get in cinema for student price provide he has valid student college card. Downside is that he have to keep go to college and do homeworks, but I say is worthy trade. Also, having beautiful fairy in short skirt follow him around is good bonus too.
Dear King of Dubai
I’m thinking of taking my family on holiday to Dubai next year, but the possibility of being kidnapped, beaten, raped, and then thrown in jail is a cause of concern. Are these horror stories true?
My friend, I completely sympathise! There are bad peoples around, so is important for tourist to think before leaping. For instant, if wife wants to leave hotel then she at risk entire time she is in possession of a vagina so I recommend she leave it in reception safety box so no-one can touch it. Also, don’t leave things lying around that might tempt hotel cleaners to spread rumours – if they find female underwears whilst looking through your luggage then you only have yourselves to blame if sniffer dogs find wife.
Is just common sense, no?
Dear King of Dubai
I’m considering building a massive new hotel out in the desert next year, but I’ve heard rumours that the workers are starting to demand better working conditions. Is there any truth to what the doom-mongers are telling me?
My friend, I completely sympathise! Is well known that troublemakers are making troubles out here in the desert, so is important to stay vigilant. Some of enterprising managers have been handing out breathing masks to their workers, under excuse that it protects during sandstorms. However, under Dubai law, breathing mask is same as muzzle you put on noisy dogs, so technically it means that all workers only have rights of animals! Which is to say, no rights at all!
Is just common sense, no?
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.
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 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.
Hello, my name is Bridget and I am chairwoman of The Female Support Group for Equality of Life for Ladies. I am proud to say that no man, living or otherwise, has ever entered into my thresholds – of that you have my word. Apart from lifting heavy boxes, there is not one thing that a man can do that a female cannot do. Even if there was (like changing a plug or chopping up bits of wood) us females have other skills that are just as useful. Sure, you might be the screwdriver and blowtorch type who can advise me why my car is making that noise, but I can spot, from a mile away, whether someone has taken too many Malteesers from the box when I wasn’t looking. That, my dear penis-owning friends, is a time-honoured skill that only a true female can have. Penis-owners should note that I am not actually your friend, it was just a turn of phrase.
Penis-owners make my life hell as everywhere I look I see the remnants of the penis-dominated world we live in. If I go to the bakery for a baguette, I am reminded of an engorged penis. If I want a bread roll, I am reminded of a shaven swollen testicle. If I want a ring doughnut, then I am reminded of what penis-owners like doing with their penises. Don’t even get me started on the double-cream chocolate éclairs. I am constantly surrounded by penistry architecture. At least if I go to Greece the statue builders made the penises really small, though non-existent would have been better. Whenever I come back from Greece I always want to go around with a chisel and knock off all the penises of the men that pass me in the street.
In the headquarters of The Female Support Group for Equality of Life for Ladies, we have taken great lengths to decorate the interior properly. There are no pictures of men at all. There are no pictures of married women. There are no pictures of single women who are either dating a man or suspected of dating a man and no pictures of any women who have been photographed in public with their father or expressed admiration for their father. Currently, we have pictures of Mother Theresa, Attila the Hun, and myself. Personally, I prefer the pictures of me over the other two but not everyone agrees. Those people are weak and I have my suspicions that they have been in the company of penis-owners recently.
Now, if you will excuse me I need to go to the butchers; they said that they would save the last turkey in the shop for me.
My name is John Sumpter and I hold the lofty position of Director of Rucksacks here at the British Hiking Association. I am here because I have an important message to deliver to all those damn sluts out there: you are in our sights and we will be right on top of you whether you consent to it or not. You are all in way over your head, you are pushing onto our turf, and we won’t stand for it. It cannot be stressed hard enough that anything related to walking, hiking, pottering, trekking, rambling, backpacking, sauntering, and strolling belongs to us. They have nothing to do with you, the UN, and certainly not the European Court of Human Rights, but to us, the BHA.
I have seen the Slut Walks on TV and I have read about them in the paper and I am appalled and offended at just how irresponsible and dangerous they are. When someone comes to us we make sure that they are properly kitted out and prepared for whatever they are going to do. Do they have the right shoes? Do they have adequate clothing? Do they know how to use an ordnance survey map? Those sluts out there, they are advocating that their members undertake long and daunting hikes across urban built-up areas in nothing other than high heels and a strapless bra; that’s dangerous and I want to know where they are storing their emergency supplies of Kendal Mint cake. None of my phone calls have been returned on this matter.
I empathise with these ladies and the message they are trying to get across, really I do. They want to be able to walk somewhere without being harassed or bothered; well, so do we! Believe me, there is nothing worse than spending three hours navigating your way around the Southern Downs looking for a particular boulder and then having some rich kid with a GPS device coming along to spoil things for everyone. That’s a violation of the BHA code and we vigorously stamp down on such transgressions. However, we deal with it internally and that’s how those sluts should do things too.
We place our balls in their court.