Tuesday, March 07, 2006

The turd jog I should be drooling

RSJS writes:

Fuck? Oh, boyo’s getting ideas again. It’s all about themes for him. Oysters in lycra and themes. Theeeeeeeeemes. First the little hooligan pisses on our perfectly functional sexual escapades with themes: I mean, prisons, hospitals, harems, “Morthos She-wolf of the SS”, all good ideas, but the lisping sanitation-worker and the mutant crab fantasy? The heroic oven-cleaner drinker and his incontinent sidekick Stumbling Al? I still have burn marks on my oesophagus, and he still has photos of same. It just ruined what was until that palaver a good hearty male bondage exercise. And now he’s applying it to Brain Stab. I don’t trust ‘im, you just wait: I’m going to be waking up in a Taiwanese jail with the entirety of this fucking post tattooed in calligraphic script from my arsehole to my shoulderblades.

Heh, shoulder “blades”. I have so much back fat they ain’t blades, they’re clubs. But I digress…

And what really wrinkles my nutsac? The fact that he sends out cryptic “Send me your data, weaselly greasemonkey, you are teh late with making me joy!” emails without, y’know, helping a brother out and reminding me what the theme is on the off-chance I deleted every previous email marked “Brothers and sisters I have a theme…” and went back to the therapy. The expensive, expensive therapy. The rank little tweetle beetle.

…one hurried trawl through the deleted items…

“The third job I could be doing”. Ooh, er? In other words he’s got a good idea for a post and the rest of us can just suffer. Apparently I am going to suffer the pain and ignominy of having his glorious post etched into the pink skin of my back and bum.

Hang on, THAT’S the third job I could be doing: The first is God-emperor of everyone’s pants, the second was the heroic oven-cleaner (“Dave” I think he was called), and the third one could be back-up tape for Brain Stab with the wondrous words of the contributors lovingly, copperplatingly preserved under my skin. Yeah, a walking database of the piffle and wank these gutsacks of cheese splatter chunkily across your screen every time you scroll by. They’re firing cheddar-flavoured sperm at your monitor, and now that will be spread across my body.

Jesus that’s so FUCKING wrong.

Oh, and "pie".

1 comment:

Josh said...

Don't worry, folks -- we'll make sure that he gets the help he needs.

And by "help", I mean "beatings".

And by "needs", I mean "loves, the filthy, dirty whorebeast."