Tuesday, 19 December 2017

My Mate Bob Looks Like a Vagina

I swear to God it’s true; my mate Bob really does look like a vagina. There’s something about the odd, distorted shape of his mouth, the thin, labial quality of his lips, the wispy sprouts of beard and the small, pink, nubbin-like projection of his nose. It all adds up to a resemblance of the female front bottom that is quite remarkable.

He’s gained a certain notoriety in these parts. Cunt Features, they call him. Old Minge Mush. He’s the closest thing this town has to a celebrity, and folks travel from far and wide to come gawp at his pussy chops. Bob is no fool; he knows an opportunity when he sees it. He’s got his own website, has hooked up an endorsement deal. He’s raking in the cash, exploiting his twattish appearance.

And in all honesty, I’ve used his fame to my own ends, too. How could I not? I’m the best friend of a minor star, why shouldn’t I cling on to his coattails and go along for the ride. Oh yes, I tell the ladies. Me and Bob, we’re like that, we are. And I curl one finger around the other to demonstrate our closeness. You want to meet him, you say? Well, I’m sure something could be arranged . . .

Last week I got talking to this girl, a blonde bombshell type in a short skirt, with insatiable eyes and a dirty laugh. I wasted no time slipping into the conversation that I’m best friends with the vagina lookalike.

She almost chokes on her alcopop.  “He’s just an urban myth.”

“Nope. Straight up, one hundred percent, Scout’s honour.”

“No way.”

I sense an opportunity. “I could introduce you to him, if you’d like.”

“Really?” There’s a seriously mischievous grin on her face.

So, we grab our coats and head across town. Bob always drinks in the Red on a Thursday, I know his routine like the back of my hand. Sure enough, there he is, Muff Mouth himself, surrounded by a crown of onlookers. I elbow my way through, dragging my blonde accomplice by the hand. “How’s it hanging, Bob?”

“Not too bad, mate,” he replies, his pink labia lips ever so slightly moist.

“Oh my God,” the blonde whispers in my ear. “He really does look like a vagina.”

I take her back to my place. She’s raring to go and no mistake, and wastes no time getting naked. “Come taste the honey,” she coos, and spreads her legs real wide.

And would you fucking believe it? Her vagina looks just like my mate Bob.

The erotic tension instantly dissipates. I turn away, stare out the window, do anything to keep from looking at the hideous visage of Bob, grinning vindictively up at me from between this gorgeous girl’s thighs.

“What’s the matter?” She asks. “Is it me?”

“No, it’s not you,” I dolefully hiss. “It’s Bob. It’s fucking Bob.”

Thursday, 14 December 2017

By the Numbers

I’m loitering on the corner of Glan Morfa and Brenig Lane, just kind of minding my own business, when a gruff voice addresses me from behind.

Smith. The very man I’ve been looking for.”

I turn and find Dirty Barry’s fat, gross face leering at me. Shit. This is all I need. “What seems to be the trouble, officer?”

He pulls open his lapel an inch, flashing the butt of a forty-four nestled in a shoulder holster. “Let’s you and me take a walk.”

Someone once asked why they call him Dirty Barry, and he only laughed. In truth, it must have been a rhetorical question – either that or the dude who posed it had no nose. Dirty Barry’s ripe odour is enough to make you gag when he gets up close and personal. The son of a bitch hates his wife, so he works every minute of overtime he can get his grubby little paws on to avoid going home and being around her. Thus never gets chance to take a shower.

As well as dirty in the foul-smelling sense, he’s also dirty in the corruption stakes. He takes pay-offs, hands out beatings. Rumour is he once even killed a guy, acting on orders handed down by Cheesy John, owner of the biggest dairy farm this side of Aberaeron. Judging by the fact he’s carrying a piece, I’m starting to worry I could be next on his list.

Who the fuck did I upset this time? I wrack my brain trying to think who I might have pissed off so much they’d want me dead. There was the pants incident, but that’s all blown over now. I sold out, abandoned my principles and took the money; blew it all on a wild weekend in Colwyn Bay.

Or maybe it’s the esteemed Doctor Roberts, General Practitioner and local bigwig; he’s made it all too clear he’s not happy with me ever since I wrote that article exposing his liking for Nazi fetishism. He’s certainly got the motive, plus the cash to stump up for a contract killing. But I made it more than obvious to Roberts that if anything happens to me, the beaver pics I have of his wife will get splashed all over the internet from here to Merthyr Tydfil. Call it an insurance policy.

Surely Roberts wouldn’t be this stupid? I guess I’m about to find out. Dirty Barry is jabbing me in the back with the muzzle of his gun and frogmarching me toward a dark alley, where I assume he’s planning to do the deed.

But there’s one thing Dirty Barry hasn’t counted on. See, this game is all about the numbers; if you don’t add up the numbers, then your number might just be up. Dirty Barry may have a forty-four, but I’m packing a thirty-eight, and three plus eight beats four plus four, any day of the week.

I perform a spin kick I learned from watching Monkey Magic, knocking Barry’s weapon from his hand. I draw down on him. I’m now holding all the aces. “On your knees, pig. Start talking. Who paid you to whack me?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Barry sneers.

I kick him in the ghoulies, a medium-weight hoof to the pods, and he crumples like an empty pack of cheese and onion.

“It was Mrs Roberts,” he gasps between distressed intakes of breath.

Mrs Roberts? Now there’s a turn up for the books. Not the evil doctor, but his nympho wife, who once spread her legs for my camera, one rainy afternoon in May. She knows I still have the pictures, and she knows damn well they’ll turn up in highly public places if the Roberts’ make a move against me. What the hell is she playing at?

The plot thickens. Guess I better go see Mrs Roberts and find out why the tempestuous bitch is trying to kill me.

Sunday, 3 December 2017

Does God Poo?

While engaged in an online theological debate recently, I was suddenly struck by the notion that the question of whether or not the Holy Father poops is one that is fundamental to the entire Christian belief structure.

In accordance, I have developed a theory, a new challenge for atheists to lay at the feet of the faithful. Does God poo, and if not, where did all the poo come from?

In the beginning, you had God and the angels. Now, the bible is not clear on whether or not these folk had toiletry requirements, although it does, I believe, implicitly state the angelic hoard were bereft of sexual organs. So, if no winkles or wee-wees, one would have to assume bumholes were a no no too.

Now, God decides to create a world, and upon that world he makes man and woman, his best work yet, whom he favours above all else. He models them in his own image.

God is looking at his new creations, and he thinks to himself, “They’re pretty good. But you know what would improve it? What if they squirted out foul smelling poison every day? Like, Eve’s ass is shapely and aesthetically pleasing and all, but wouldn’t it be better if I stuck a little hole in there and had shit come out of it?”

For no reason whatsoever, God now blesses his new children with bowels and anuses, and presumably, Adam and Eve go cordon off an area of the garden of Eden where they can take a shit. As the garden of Eden was largely an orchard, and all there was to eat was fruit, you have to think diarrhoea would be an issue. The place certainly wouldn’t have been paradise for long.

Yes folks, God invented poop. I mean, he also invented cancer and famine and haemorrhoids, but surely poop was one thing we could have done without. You can’t even blame poop on the devil; old Satan tempted Eve to eat an apple, but it was God’s doing that she had to poo it out again.

So why the switch from angelic, poop-free creatures, to dirty, shitting people? What changed in God’s design preferences that meant he decided to foul up his beautiful new world with poop and sewers and sceptic tanks? Does God poo? If he does, then how can he claim to be all seeing and all knowing when he has to spend half an hour locked in the little boy’s room every day? If not, then why did he see fit to curse humanity with poop, even after claiming he’d modelled us on himself.

Answer me this, Christians: Where did all the poo come from?

I don’t mean to insult anyone’s religion. Hang on, who am I kidding? Yes I do; I absolutely want to insult your religion. You know why? Because every time I’ve gone to a wedding or funeral, and all the way through school, I’ve had my intelligence insulted by your constant need to cram that shit down my throat. I don’t come knocking on your door to tell you I think you are a fucking idiot because you believe a giant pixie in the sky controls everything, so why don’t you do me the same curtesy?

Last year, I had a couple of hardcore Christian fundamentalists stay at my house, and of course, they couldn’t help but try to convert me every chance they got. One time they were in the kitchen, watching a Youtube broadcast of some crazy preacher, yelling about how all these sodomites had incurred God’s wrath, and would be punished. I glanced over their shoulder to see what the fuck he was talking about, and it turns out it was the staff at CERN, who were using the large hadron collider to search for the ‘God Particle’. This fruitcake took exception to that; God created everything – there’s no need to ask further questions.

I did point out to these morons that it was a chap at CERN who invented the world wide web, the very same technology they were using to watch their bigoted, Nazi bullshit, but they didn’t see the irony. Christians never do. I only wish I’d had my poop argument to use on them back then.