Was laid up today with a bad back brought about by a long bus ride I took from Glasgow to Stranraer, all cooped up at the back of the bus. It is a terrible thing, backache. But not as bad as the toothache described somewhere above. This backache, though. Like a headache, only in your arse.
So as I say, laid up in bed, givin’ the oul porno sites an airing. Haven’t been there in a while, but they’re a welcome addition to a slow, painful day – not as good as the real thing mind you...
The site in question (crosscuntry.com for those who’re interested) had a peculiarly titled one on there – ‘Incest revenge fantasy. Boy rails his Mom for sending him to snooty medical school’ cried out for attention amidst the vast mosaic of thumbnails covering the screen. Wasn’t up to much as it turned out – she all wrinkly fake tits and too much rib – like a fire guard made flesh – and him – though with an enormous cock so large in body to cock ratio I think it might’ve been some type of donkey cock cast stuck on him – was all dead eyed tick-tock strokes never upping or downing tempo but staying at the same monotonous pace give me the feeling I was being hypnotized.
So I opened a new tab and went to YouTube and stuck on this
and watched the rest of the 15min vid with passive interest wondering if that really was his mom – then in my boredom imagined the song was the soundtrack to the vid – where Miss Fireguard ribs is so bored in her suburban noir nightmare she decides to have it off with her big cocked dead eyed son.
The strange realms one enters on his day off – when the only other source of entertainment is the paint speckled ceiling. There was always the Bible of course, the one ma give me as a house warming present – but only fruits and homophobes read it.
Here is a cracking poem. Would’ve just posted it here without going through the rigmarole of asking the fella’s permission, but as he comes across as a bit of a cunt and is by all accounts a bona fide hacker who’ll probably send me a virus I’ll give you the link instead...http://www.dirtyfilthy.net/past/2009/3/5/sincerely_mine/
Thursday 30 April 2009
Wednesday 1 April 2009
FuckThePolice/Comin'StraightFromTheUnderground
This the other day on rumormillnews.com raised my spirits immensely. In light of my previous run-in with a pair of 'tin badge punks', after I was arrested for pissing against a church by the biggest pair of shithawks to ever carry a gun and an elevated view of their own authority, I see any retribution on the increasing numbers of heavy handed cops a good thing. It can't have helped that I told them I thought the church should 'get fucked', insisting christianity was a bad channel5 movie rewrite of the babylon mystery religions anyway, and subsequently, after being goaded into it, raised the game by repeating over and over 'Jesus was a cunt'.....however....here it is.
3 Times A Day
We used to have this rugby teacher in school. Blond, chiselled, a bit dull and simple on it; but an easy way and an accessible sense of humour meant he was loved by all. Like a counterfeit Adonis, he was.
I used to tramp through the expansive grounds on the way to the unseen bus stop every Monday and Thursday at half one after lunch. The rugby season started some time round sept’-oct’. I used to love dandering through the windy do-it-yourself paths under the tall trees, kicking crispy dry leaves up on either side of me, like golden wings sprouting from my feet – like Mercurius.
I used to spend the afternoon then hanging out in Castlecourt with my pal Joe Kelly till it was time to go home at half 4. With hindsight it wasn’t the shrewdest of places to go when there was a risk our ma’s could be out buying their poi pourri in Debenham’s. We used to go and hang around outside the Pretty Polly and stare at the mannequins in the window in their Babydolls and suspender belts and long violet silk mesh dressing gowns with fluff on the cuffs. After a week or two Joe took to letting his hard-on show. It used to start growing on the way up the escalator. Sometimes I became afraid it would poke into the back of a woman in front – or worse – knock against the head of some youngster. Then, not long after this phenomenon took hold, he started playing with himself – right there in the gangway – with grannies and precious housewives passing by. His mouth used to fall open and his eyes would glaze over. I started hanging back from then on as he approached the window. As time went on he got closer and closer to the window till his nose was nearly touching the glass. The Bananaman Castlecourt security intervened by then though. There’d been complaints. And the girls working in the place were going to call in the police.
The following Monday I was waiting for him in our hideout expecting that our routine hadn’t changed. That now we’d just go down to Smithfield and find some seedy place to stand outside of and we’d get off on all the sex stuff they had in their front window. I told him, “They’ll have dirtier stuff, better than lingerie. Blue books and descriptions of herbal aphrodisiacs. And they won’t mind us standing there playing with ourselves while we take a look. Knowing the dirty cunts down there they’d encourage us – and maybe pay us for the privilege.” But Joe Kelly didn’t turn up that day and from then on me and him never took the day off again to go wandering through the shitty old Belshaft.
BUT – While I was waiting for him that afternoon he bailed on me I did see through the bedroom window of our counterfeit Adonis, which could be seen from our hideout, him getting down to business with the elderly art teacher (elderly to me then – now maybe 53 – kind of woman were I to meet her now I’d go for – just past 40) and this coming through his trembling singleglazed windows at full volume.
Ironic. A young rugby coach ballin’ an individual a good bit older than him. When the place is now so well known for teachers ballin’ those that much (by legal standards anyway) younger than them. ;x
I used to tramp through the expansive grounds on the way to the unseen bus stop every Monday and Thursday at half one after lunch. The rugby season started some time round sept’-oct’. I used to love dandering through the windy do-it-yourself paths under the tall trees, kicking crispy dry leaves up on either side of me, like golden wings sprouting from my feet – like Mercurius.
I used to spend the afternoon then hanging out in Castlecourt with my pal Joe Kelly till it was time to go home at half 4. With hindsight it wasn’t the shrewdest of places to go when there was a risk our ma’s could be out buying their poi pourri in Debenham’s. We used to go and hang around outside the Pretty Polly and stare at the mannequins in the window in their Babydolls and suspender belts and long violet silk mesh dressing gowns with fluff on the cuffs. After a week or two Joe took to letting his hard-on show. It used to start growing on the way up the escalator. Sometimes I became afraid it would poke into the back of a woman in front – or worse – knock against the head of some youngster. Then, not long after this phenomenon took hold, he started playing with himself – right there in the gangway – with grannies and precious housewives passing by. His mouth used to fall open and his eyes would glaze over. I started hanging back from then on as he approached the window. As time went on he got closer and closer to the window till his nose was nearly touching the glass. The Bananaman Castlecourt security intervened by then though. There’d been complaints. And the girls working in the place were going to call in the police.
The following Monday I was waiting for him in our hideout expecting that our routine hadn’t changed. That now we’d just go down to Smithfield and find some seedy place to stand outside of and we’d get off on all the sex stuff they had in their front window. I told him, “They’ll have dirtier stuff, better than lingerie. Blue books and descriptions of herbal aphrodisiacs. And they won’t mind us standing there playing with ourselves while we take a look. Knowing the dirty cunts down there they’d encourage us – and maybe pay us for the privilege.” But Joe Kelly didn’t turn up that day and from then on me and him never took the day off again to go wandering through the shitty old Belshaft.
BUT – While I was waiting for him that afternoon he bailed on me I did see through the bedroom window of our counterfeit Adonis, which could be seen from our hideout, him getting down to business with the elderly art teacher (elderly to me then – now maybe 53 – kind of woman were I to meet her now I’d go for – just past 40) and this coming through his trembling singleglazed windows at full volume.
Ironic. A young rugby coach ballin’ an individual a good bit older than him. When the place is now so well known for teachers ballin’ those that much (by legal standards anyway) younger than them. ;x
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