Beat Me Outta Me

After a night of cheap vodka and bad coke I woke up this morning with a headache so heavy, deep and painful that it made my eyes water. Luckily I had to counterbalance this a big stiff hangover horn hard-on, and as soon as I was fully awake I stared stroking it long, slow and smoothly, long, slow and smoothly – so smooth from spitting onto the palm of my wanking hand, as lazy lube.

Afterward, having conjured this girl I were bucking from back when I went to tech, I laughed to myself when I remembered how after the first time I sliced her she wanked me back to hardness and she goes, gripping it like a joystick: Danny Pongo, its so beautiful, and big – you go right up in me, so deep and far I can nearly feel it in my stomach…it’s soooo biggg! --- And I waited a while, let the comic timing stretch for pace, and say: We’re gonna need a bigger boat ---

I rub me semen into my skin, as it’s supposed to be good for it, then get my little Tinkerbell vanity mirror out and put some in my hair and style it how I like. Short of gel, there’s nothing holds like semen.

I go out for some Rice Krispies and in the grocery store nearly have a cry when I go to the cat food aisle for Boke the Cat. But after paying the girl I distract myself from sad thoughts of mourning by having a lightbulb moment concerning my personal hygene and ideas of self preservation.

Now, my thinking on this matter followed this course: I have a lovely, spunky wank this morning…it goes all over me, I rub it all into my skin and put it in my hair, and I leave the house without washing my hands…I pay the girl in the grocery store for my shit using cash, and inevitably our hands might touch (which they did) and now she’s gonna have traces of my semen on her. The problem is then if she’s say raped or murdered by an opportunistic crazy, the pigs are gonna examine her corpse afterward and find my seed on her. The chances of this happening are not completely remote, either her being murdered or me being caught. She has a few stalkers alright. Such a sweet fresh wee thing, still in school, but legal for sure…for after all, as Party Time observed: Old enuf tah sail Thah San, Old enuf far wan app Thah Bam!

So, yeah. Lesson being wash your semen off your hands before you leave the house. Pigs will work harder to pin it on you than to find the culprit. Less work that way. But sometimes they go all out to find a patsy, cos they gotta, cos who really did it can’t be done – usually due to the perp’s standing or for other esoteric reasons.

When I got home I found Rhonaldo in the kitchen doing the dishes. He was in nothing but a pair of tight little day-glo green cotton boxers. I sat there and put one leg over the other and watched his full round arse point and jut and tense while he squelched away in all the soapy suds with all the plates and cutlery clanging.

And I pulled out another one, a sneaky one this time, imagining that soft young arse of his rise up before me, full and round and plentiful as a rising sun. Then I imagined that sexy wee bit from the grocery store joining us as well and us all having a sexy, sweaty dirty threesome.

And I proceeded to beat me outta me!

I Say, Wills Dont You Ever Crave To Appear In The Daily Mail Dressed In Your Mothers Bridal Veil?

Yesterday for the Royal Wedding Party Time had his cohorts round to talk about his latest wheeze, which is, like I said in the previous post, the importation and distribution of Crystal.

The only thing I have said on the issue is that instead of going to the trouble of importing it why not just make it up here. Fuck, the internet says it’s a piece of piss. Chemicals, some tubing, some other chemicals….but no….Party Time says the risks are too great, both in ‘law’ risky, and in ‘could-kill-yourself’ risky, as it is a dangerous game making Crystal. Very Explosive.
- Ah hove san many a few palls keelt in a math-lob act-splosion! – Went Party Time, lamentingly.

I still think importing it is most risky of all, but what do I know. Furthest up the rung on that particular ladder I’ve ever got is selling shit on in bars, grams and ounces, depending on the product.

After they’re done having their ‘sit-down’, as Party Time likes to call it Mafioso-like, we all sit down to watch the Royal Wedding. Luckily we tuned in at just the right time, just as the bony pony Kate emerged from her lovely posh hotel in her nice frock.

She is a bony pony all right.

Some hours later I read this claim by a commenter on Anna Grace’s blog called Valerie and thought back to her bony pony face.

“PS what did you think of the Royal Wedding?

GLUED to that screen, I was! Now I don't know about Wills but you want to watch that Kate. Someone told me the other day she was a notorious prostitute in Tottenham North London and a real one for the crack pipe!”

And I thought, reading this and casting my mind back not an hour or more: I can see that.

Some other thoughts I had regarding the Royal Wedding go thusly:

"as for that royal pair it was discreetly mentioned in the papers over here, they're cousins, distant cousins. man, i got thrown outta a bookies yesterday for asking if they did odds on terrorists attacking the whole thing, and if htey give out different odds on different organizations. but i hope they fucking do, and all hte fawning dickheads they got on the sky news tonight as well, blow em all to kingdom come! she's a sleeket bitch who has been i think placed under some sort of mk ultra like programming - and he is as useful as a paper shower curtain. he is dumb as dirt, and while he was v.sweet sixteen, handsome ways, he has now lost all his hair and his head is in the shape of a peanut. she, though, she's lovely. but now v.skinny. i thought once that if she appears on the money soon as queen it means you can have a wank over your money, yeah, vpretty...saying that by the time she's queen she be old and withered and have a resemblance to an old man's finger."

"god in heaven! I hate em both!!!


i wonder if he has forced her to let him up in the VIP entrance? i bet he has. i reckon this is how they choose their wives, the royal blue blood inbred twats.


just like a perverted Cinderella, wills has to find the right hole that can sustain his enormous reptilian dinosaur cock (as they are all reptilian shape-shifters, the royals) - the exact right fit, for there is a girl out there that will - it has been predestined through dna, and it will most likely be a relative of his!


but really though, they're all, the royals, baby eating, human sacrificing satan worshipping (all for real!) oddballs, y'all!"

And in response to these pictures from here:

"Its not their penises, its diana's nose (harry's got the cloned one) that they keep tied round their leg, and keep with them as a lucky charm....i'm. ABSOLUTELY sure of it Infomainiac!!!!"

Some time through the day I got monumentally bored.

I suggested to Rhonaldo, Billiard, Slug and Party Time we have a circle jerk (wank race) and I open a book on it.

So that’s what we did. Party Time recommended the odds on me were shortest as I had a great cock, but that it had a hair trigger.

- Cant con meek hamshelf cam jooz bah thee site aff hees ahn cack! – Went Party Time.

Slug complained that with the Queen keeping on getting into shot it would put him off, so we placed him as the rank outsider.

The Sky News cut to the balcony and we were off…

Billiard has his great pale belly pulled up out of the way and was going hammer and tongs, his face near as purple as his bell end with all his concentration.

Party Time’s wouldn’t work, and the more frustrated he got the more he pulled and jerked at his big brown trunk. At one point he yanked at it so hard I thought he was gonna rip it off.

Rhonaldo and Slug had a good rhythm going, very boring, and I sat there stroking all my half-a-foot, slowly and smoothly, working up a fat little bead of precum before slathering it all over my helmet’s edge…

And just like that, when the new Royal Pair lean in to share their first kiss as a married couple, I shoot the shit just as their lips meet…right in their fucking faces…

We all laughed and swapped coin…

Beat You RedWhiteBlue As The Flag Stick Your Head In A Bag Till You're Startin To Gag

So in regards the penultimate statement I made last night, in regards the ‘intel apparatus’ mentioned, I learn that unbeknownst to me Party Time has been having pow-wows with spidey wee fuckers in my place when I’ve gone out for the day.

These pow-wows were taken up with discussions planning the loose organization of some sort of network, whereby Party Time would import Crystal from London, and him and this wee band of vicious looking cunts I found sitting round in my living room yesterday afternoon would then distribute it around the place.

It has also transpired that Party Time has been using my phone to call his connections in London who would get stuff sorted that end.

I am in fucking full red alert tonight!!!!!!

Last night, speaking to mother on the phone about Coronation Street, we hear three distinct clicks, like a phone somewhere else in the house were being picked up, put down and picked up again. I just thank my lucky stars she attributed this to the telegraph lines being haunted by those souls who had passed while on the phone, but unfortunately for me I knew the terrible truth of it – the truth of it being it was much more likely to be: Intel/Police/Some other sophisticated gang (doubtful)

This trio collected from god-knows-where by Party Time are for sure the most dangerous looking and weird bunch I’ve ever encountered in this place.

They are Billiard, Slug, and Rhonaldo (not cos he’s Brazilian, but in reference to his prowess on the field of soccer).

Rhonaldo is the youngest at 16 and he sits looking at me his mouth opening and closing opening and closing like a sinister goldfish, he’s chewing his gum, then he blows a big bubble and pops it and Party Time takes the opportunity to break the ice and he tells me what’s happening.

Billiard like his name suggests his entirely in the shape of a Billiard ball. He is early 20’s by the looks of him and is very fat and he breathes heavily every time he shifts.

The last one Slug I have met before many moons ago (he was mentioned on this years ago). He is missing three fingers in total and he told me back then his molester uncle cut them off with pliers. I do remember though subsequently finding out the real story was he got em cut off in prison by bullies and was too ashamed to admit it.

So this was them. Party Time had not yet made up a name for his gang but I’m sure he will, knowing him. No doubt there’ll not be a wall in Belfast safe either with them adding their tag everywhere.

Last night I went out for a pint of milk and I spied a car with two dudes in civvies in it watching me. They’d this big long slender aerial sticking out the back, and the motor had new plates on it, too. I thought I was gonna drop dead from an anxiety fit.

Then last night I had a nightmare about that murderous looking wee cunt, Rhonaldo. His eyes stared into mine, but they’re like an empty TV screen and there’s nothing behind them but wires and cogs and this liquidy faecal matter driven by pistons and coursing through the valves of his mind.

I woke up in a state of panic and have remained that way for the rest of the day.

And I miss Boke the Cat, who, by letting me stroke him, was able to calm me down in times like this…

Here’s what Party Time’s trio would put you in mind of: