The house move is over, what next?!
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Or search for radiothax and select ‘The RadioThax Podcast’ on your favorite podcast app
The house move is over, what next?!
Find it on iTunes
Or search for radiothax and select ‘The RadioThax Podcast’ on your favorite podcast app
The 9 wives of Sir Jeremy Creame
A delightful evening to you. Allow me the delight of introducing myself, I am Sir Jeremy Reginald Bibbington Creame the third. I live in a very large mansion; you have probably seen it on your television. We had the antiques roadshow here in the mid 90’s, I have a sneaking suspicion Hugh Scully stole my mother’s bathing suit, but I can’t prove it! The house and estates are known simply as ‘Creame Country’, is 5004 acres (4 acres more than my nemesis, the Marquis of Bath’s land). It’s been in my family for longer than I can remember; luckily the family historians can date the land back to 3AD. Over the years there have been many attempting to get onto the grounds, but I won’t let them, we have some of the best barb wire in the county! I am not letting the oiks onto my property. I’ve learnt my lesson from Mr Scully’s light fingers!
I am 57 years old. I own more money than I am rather fond of admitting on this document. Several accounts, investments and businesses, cleverly administered around the world make for a very weighty portfolio! But what is life if one cannot share the experience? Not a lot of jolly fun that’s what! Over the years I’ve had many lovers, not all of them one at a time. I once had merry japes at a naughty party with over 600 guests in a weekend, I’ll say no more than that!
I have had nine wives so far. A gentleman whom I sometimes meet with when I need technical computer advice has said I should write a memoir of them. So I have a record should any of my legitimate children wish to know more of their fathers opinion on the relationship; how we met, why we married and why I divorced them. If any of my illegitimate children wish to read of my marriages then I would kindly ask them to throw themselves under the nearest ocean liner for they are worthless to me and I would see them all stricken from existence. They won’t get a penny from me!
First I would like to point out, I don’t know any of my wives maiden names. I am a very busy individual, there is information I need and information I simply have no time for. Most of the bally time I didn’t remember names, I only found out wives 4 and 5 names by looking at the wedding certificates. A little trick to never having to remember names is to be too important to care about the opinions of peons. If you absolutely have to remember someone’s name (potential business opportunity, royalty, parents (optional)) then try to think of a word which rhymes with their name then get your man servant to secretly pin a tiny picture of that object onto the subjects left shoulder. As you see here Clifton (my man servant) has pinned a tiny busy swan to her shoulder, busy=Little Lizzy! A flawless method! As a side note, that baby swan was my gift to Liz as an in joke because she ran out of toilet paper while I was taking afternoon elevensies with her last May day.
I digress. I was a young gentleman of 21, fresh out of Demontford University. I’d achieved my dream of a third in media. I had no plans to make use of the degree, but I thought it would be an easy course (it was) which I could coast through. I moved back into the family home, taking residence in the east wing. Father pressured me to join the forces but that sounded like a lot of ruddy hard work. I took a position at Lemons, a company owned by a friend of Fathers. My position was to oversee the marketing department. My time there was a blur, mostly because my first day there I met Henrietta. Yes she was my secretary so meeting her was inevitable.
University wasn’t a kind time for me, sexually. I got nary a snifter of lady during my time away. Needless to say I was as horny as the 20 rhinos I’d shot on my summer safari. Henrietta was keen to climb the corporate ladder and if that meant she had to scale me to do it then she would and she did! The poor fool thought that sleeping with her young impressionable boss would get her places. The only place it got her was to my heart! I fell for her like the love drunk puppy I was. Father forbad the relationship, one simply should not mingle with a subordinate. Oh but mingle I did. I mingled all over fathers 15th century writing bureau on several occasions (with Henrietta not father).
I don’t know if it was the taboo of fathers rule or Henrietta’s insatiable appetite for pleasures of the flesh but I couldn’t say no to her. So when February 29th 1972 came, she asked me to marry her, I said yes. We were married 4 weeks later. The wedding was a small affair in a local village church. Henrietta’s family were poor, we didn’t let them come. Didn’t want the common folk stinking up the place with their Marks and Spencer off the shelf suits. My best man was Tabbal Clemons the CEO of Lemons. I’d never met the chap before that day. He seemed like an affable sort of fellow, very good friends with Father.
I was so nervous standing at the front of the church waiting for Henrietta. There was talk she wouldn’t come just because we hadn’t spoken for a month. There was a little falling out over my banning of her family. It just made sense for them not to come, or to see her, or set foot on the estate ever. She must have seen my way of thinking because she walked herself down the aisle bang on time. She cried her way through her vows, silly thing must have been so happy to be marrying me. The wedding took 23 minutes.
8 hours later Father was found in his study, he’d shot himself in the leg, stomach, heart and through the head twice. The entire estate passed to me! As of the 1st of April 1972 I was officially named Jeremy Creame Lord of all Creame Country. I began managing the estate, and with the added bonus of fathers £2 billion being transferred to me, I didn’t have to get my hands dirty. Oiks, peasents and commoners were (and still are) paid to tend to the land and estates. I was a (and still am) a strict lord, if we ever caught an oiks stealing from the estate they were beaten, locked in the barn for a week then sent on their way through the village, naked while the children throw rotten meat at them! A harsh punishment some say but its what father put me through as a child and it didn’t harm me any!
Henrietta and I gave up our jobs at Lemons, we spent our first two weeks traveling around Europe. She went to Paris and I went to Brandenburg. We both got home, exchanged traveling tales then I didn’t see her for a month as she got lost in the north wing. The first year of our marriage wasn’t a particularly happy one. We saw very little of each other, I recall she took a room of her own in the north wing, we rarely slept together. But I was still but a boy, I knew not the wily ways of women. I thought this was normal for a marriage. I’m told Mother and Father lived in separate cottages 98% of the year.
Henrietta and I had some good times together, on the 1st of February 1973 our first child was born. Cuthbert Creame, 9 pounds 11 ounces. We had jolly fun interviewing nannies. Henrietta had always been a phenomenally cruel woman, her interview technique was brutal. It was a seven day and night nanny trial, we would hire dwarfs to pretend to be babies and pay them £50,000 if they did as we told them. Henrietta would tell them to keep these women awake all night, for the whole week. The dwarfs would cry, vomit and soil every item of clothing they were made to wear. I haven’t seen a stack of nappy’s that big before or since. Of the 8 applicants, 2 are still in clinical care. In the end we found a lovely Italian nanny, she slapped the dwarfs until they were silenced and put to sleep.
My marriage to Henrietta didn’t last, 2 years to the day of our wedding she asked for a divorce, claiming I was distant and also sleeping with the nanny. Henrietta was found drunk, and dead behind the wheel of a car 8 hours late. As the proceeding court case proved I had absolutely nothing to do with her accident. DNA tests done in 1998 would also go to prove that Cuthbert was not my son. He was also found dead. I had nothing to do with the arsenic placed in his morning Spanish omelette he also fell out of that window on his own!
Wife 2 – coming soon (That’s got a bally rude double meaning!)
Cecil and I are going on a biddy coach tour to Italy in 3 weeks. I’ve hacked into the national holidays computers and acquired a passenger breakdown of my fellow travelers. At least I know some of the horrors I’ll be stuck on a biddy bus with for 9 days!
Personal Bio: Clive has worked all his life as an administrative assistant to his wife. Due to an unfortunate accident at childhood Clive is unable to have children as he has no penis or hips. His life’s ambition was to see a television programme in colour, a dream which he achieved in 1968, he found it mildly disappointing. He enjoys lazy walks on the beach, socialising with friends, watching paint dry and daydreaming about Des O’Conner.
Personal Bio: Susan has spent her life touring the world, leading sexual seminars. She believes herself to be the reincarnation of Albert Moll, founder of modern sexology. Unfortunately Susan has never had sexual intercourse because she’s well frigid and she doesn’t find her husband attractive. She likes lazy beaches, PowerPoint presentations, laser pointers and not thinking about genitals. Her favourite number is 4.9
Personal Bio: Disraeli is an immigrant from the market country of Kimballo. He is here legally, his application approved by the Queen, as all immigrant applications are. When he was a child his favourite toy was a rock which looked like Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. Which given Mr The Rock wasn’t born then, was an amazing coincidence. He likes slow walks near, but not on, beaches; thinking about stationery and the colour ‘nearly blue, but not blue’. His star sign is ‘horse shoe’. He is terrified of water and bridges.
Personal Bio: Amber is an adult entertainment star. Her best known films are ‘The Fawn identity, ‘Red Fawn’, ‘Fawnmower man’, ‘Fawn of the dead’, ‘Fawn of the 4th of July’ and ‘Fawn the sheep’. She married Disraeli for his money and hopes she can finish him off on this holiday. Both her parents died when she was 4 in an industrial pillow accident. Her favourite colour is ‘chapstick’ and her greatest fear is a vagina fire.
Personal Bio: Kitty is the older sister of ‘Titty’. They are identical twins. Kitty is best known as the short one. They dress alike, look alike and do everything together. The only time they have been apart was for 40 years when they had a falling out over who had the prettiest face. Kitty insisted it was her and Titty was certain it wasn’t. They only resolved their difference when they saw each other at the age of 70 and realised they were both a bit ugly. Kitty’s favourite Pokemon is Pikachu. She doesn’t understand how magnets can possible work.
Personal Bio: Titty never tells anyone she has an identical twin. She always hoped her and her sister would reconcile and she could then play tricks on her husband and children. “Imagine the hilarity of just bumping into an identical woman when you’re shopping with your wife” she would say. Titty once auditioned for a west end show, but didn’t get the part because she can neither act, dance or sing. Has one arm 4 inches shorter than the other. Can’t taste anything oniony.
Personal Bio: Witty Price is the third twin of the group. Identical to Kitty and Titty in every way apart from appearance and personality. Witty, the smallest of the three twins, was removed from the childhood home when she was 3 months old because she kept biting her siblings. She’s a very aggressive woman, opting for violence and abuse whenever possible. She worked as a dentist all her life. She has had 5 husbands, all of whom died due to nervous exhaustion. Her favourite colour is blood and she lost a toe, she doesn’t know how.
Personal Bio: Shitty Price is the fourth and final of the Price twins. Or fourtuplette as they’re better known. Shit was born last and due to abuse in utero from his sisters he is highly deformed. While his mental faculties are all there, he does slightly resemble a poo, which is where his name comes from. He cannot speak, he communicates in semaphore or at a push, mime. He was married for 3 years to a cheese plant named Brian. Hates the work of Brooke Shields and won’t entertain the thought of an otter with a hat on!
The Price foursome are all going on holiday one last time as they all plan on dying soon, this will be their last hurrah. Kitty want’s to drink a coffee in a café in Venice while looking out over the Adriatic and thinking about comfy bras, Titty wants to see the Verona amphitheatre and run up and down the stairs but she trips and hurts her ankle and sue them for 42 Euros, Witty wants to punch any street performer she sees and Shitty wants, for one glorious last time, to swim naked in a hotel pool while people have breakfast, he shall rape a bagel then run under a bus.
Personal Bio: Father Christmas is taking his annual holiday in the quietest period of the year. He wants it all done before October when the chrsitmas lists start flooding in. He will probably have four or five elves hidden about his person. Be aware he is a large gentleman and may require assistance using the toilet. This is usually done by passengers seated near the toilet. He may have toys and gifts to hand out if he is feeling benevolent. Once kicked the face off a woman because she asked for a lock of his beard hair. He is also immortal!
Personal Bio: Mary is Father Christmas’s 46th wife, as he lives forever he has gone through many a woman. He marries them young and stays with them till they’re old. Each woman is different but the one quality they all share is they are all really nice. Mary used to nurse injured animals, she would read to the elderly and never bad mouthed a Russian. She met Father Christmas four months ago when one of his reindeer got a poorly hoof. She can speak 4 languages, but they are all English. She has no big toes and often smells of otters!
Personal Bio: Marian recently married a gentleman called Darian. They fell in love over their love of tarragon. They met on a cooking course in maidenhead, by the end of term they shared each other bed. Marian works many a job, until she’d got married she’d never touched a nob. All her life she’d been a virgin, both her parents we killed by a sturgeon. She likes to read, paint and walk. She has no vocal chords and cannot talk. Her life’s ambition is to be on tv, in the remake of friends, she’ll play Phoebe!
Age: 22 and four months
Personal Bio: Darian is an absolute twat, he looks ridiculous in every kind of hat. He bullied everyone at school, he looked like a bizzare human mule. He was 6 feet by the age of 5, the doctors didn’t know how he was still alive. Though he was incredibly thin, he had long arm reach so children couldn’t kick his shin. The teachers were scared of him because he looked like Bruce Forsyth, he used this to try and buy a wife. Hates the colours red, green and orange, loves the Welsh mountain range of Blorenge.
Personal Bio: Wendy is a volunteer with the St John’s ambulance, she has been doing this since 1990. Wendy had a stroke in 1993 but continued her duties once she was able. She has use of both her arms and legs but her breasts no longer work. She loves the music of Vera Lynn and watching indoor bowls on the television in autumn. She collects Wade vases and has over 5! Her greatest achievement is being nominated for nudist of the year 1976. Hoped to be travelling with her husband but he left her shortly after they paid for the holiday because he was dead.
Conceptual artist Ping is a 37 failed art student for Newcastle. He has decided to live for a year as a Chinese migrant despite the fact he isn’t at all Chinese. He is wearing a straw pointy hat and is constantly squinting his eyes. His art contemporaries are saying it’s deeply racists, especially with the accent he uses, but ping claims it can’t be racists because it’s ‘art’. Allergic to rice.
Personal Bio: Opal was born in a small province in Africa called Mallumbolwug in 1943. Her parents both died of boredom when she was 4 years, meaning she had to fend for herself and 6 of her 9 siblings. The other 3 siblings didn’t want her help because they were racist. Opal has a fondness for wasps and keeps at least 6 on her at all times. Four years ago she lost a leg due to forgetfulness. Has always wanted to travel to Europe but didn’t dare because she has a crippling fear of passports
Personal Bio: Sir Patrick is perhaps best known as a convicted rapist, kidnapper and fraudster. He is currently trying to winkle Opal out of her knickers and retirement fund. He surrounds himself with only beautiful things because he is so hideous in both appearance and personality. He has 7 known sexually transmitted diseases and is wanted in all 50 states of America for one crime or another.
Personal Bio: Elisabeth is a well-known public figure in England who is looking for a little peace and quiet on a biddy holiday. She’s had a terrible year with one thing and another and just wants to get away from her screeching grandchildren. Little Lizzy is best known for having a face and waving. She plans to spend the whole holiday wearing a bikini and bending over so the Italian waiters see her royal mile!
Charles of Wales
Personal Bio: Charles can’t seem to escape the clutches of his mother. He didn’t want to come on holiday and spent 4 days locked in his room when he found out he had to go away with her. He doesn’t like coaches and is terrified of ferries. He is hoping to not go through any tunnels. He has bought 9 sun hats to cover his ears as people often mock them when they get sun burnt and go bright red, also if he stands with his back to the sun, the light comes through them and they shine like two luminous slices of water melons attached to the sides of his head! Is also scared of rugby players.
5C – Empty
Personal Bio: Simon is planning on running away from home because his mother and father are trying to make him have a haircut! He hopes to get his best girlfriend (Gemma Ankle 6) to come with him, but so far she can’t afford the deposit. Simon paid for this holiday by stealing his parents credit cards. If his dad finds out, they will take away his etch-a-sketch.
Andrew works for the Indigo valley coffee company, they supply high quality coffee at a low low price. Andrew has been working there since at least the 13th of September 2011. His office number is 0845 054 0067. He sits at a desk for 11 hours of the day just waiting for coffee related enquires. No one has ever seen his legs! He may not have any or he might have 8, we just don’t know. He seems nice!
Personal Bio: Denble (full name Denbletenblebombemble) was born on the 29th February 1988. Technically he has only had 7 birthdays and can claim child fayres on most things. This holiday didn’t have a special child rate because who would be stupid enough to take a child on a coach tour? Denble decided he needed a break from everything due to his wife being a nasty sack of cows. She will often beat him if he leaves a sock on his foot too long. Denble may never return to the UK from this holiday, he has plans to live in an abandoned boat in Venice. He thinks he can make a living singing the cornetto song to tourists. If his wife discovers this plan, she will burn his face off with a toaster!
Cecil Elizabeth Thax
Gender: Old male
Personal Bio: Cecil has recently found himself divorced and living in a new terrifying town away from his friends and local services, shops and bus routes. He is too old to try to make anything of his new life so he spends all day with his son, sitting down and watching day time telly. He used to be a powerful guitarist but he just can’t be bothered anymore. Likes long walks nowhere near beaches. Can’t spell ‘hypothalamus’. Cecil hopes a rich elderly lady will take pity on his sad face and ask him to come live with her in her 90 million pound mansion.
Paul Shane Starshine Elizabeth Andromeda Thax
Personal Bio: Paul is a rage filled, self-loathing hate filled monster. Paul is unable or unwilling to maintain eye contact, talk to anyone or make any effort at anything. His personal hygiene is at best, abysmal. He once had to soak himself in a bath for three hours before his socks could be removed. Paul blames society for the way he is, in reality it’s all self-inflicted. Has never seen a naked woman in real life or in print. Also never touched, kissed, talked to or winked at a lady. Is very overweight and hasn’t seen his own penis since he was 7!
Pambert or Pam for a shortened catchy version is very excited to go away on holiday. She hasn’t been on holiday in 45 years because she’s been in prison. She murdered all those kids who were being noisy little shits on a train. They were whooping and also cheering at every station they arrived at. She threw them all out of a window while the train was going over a tall bridge. She has served her time in prison and even though she isn’t sorry they let her out. She would have been out in 30 years with good behaviour but she’s a right bastard!
Personal Bio: Hambert searched the world for someone with the surname ‘Pambert’. Her maiden name was Hambert, making her name Hambert Hambert. Her middle name is also Hambert because her parents were weird. She is the sister of Pambert. She would visit Pambert every month in prison , she’d hold up the pictures of the dead children just to make Pambert feel bad. It didn’t work, as stated Pambert is an utter bugger! Hambert met her husband ‘Bamburt Pambert’ in the congo, up a tree looking at some frogs. They fell in love instantly and were married come Christmas. He died soon after due to sexual relations with a tree frog.
Personal Bio: Chinbolt prefers to be called Big chinny bolt face, but no one ever does. He resembles a young Jimmy Hill, his chin is his predominant feature. The only thing people notice about him is his chin, it curves out from his face like a half moon, it measures a whopping 18 inches and comes to a point so sharp it can cut glass. He has never kissed anyone for fear of impaling them. He has no penis!
Personal Bio: Human was once a man called ‘Gilbert’ but he decided that he would live like a caveman. He has no job, house or possessions. He pretends he can’t speak English and only communicates in grunts. He’s often found wearing nothing but a loin cloth and the blood of the animals he’s killed. He gets leg judder meaning he is constantly kicking his legs, which will be a nightmare for anyone who has him sat behind them in a coach or que. He is married to Susan, who paid for this trip so she could have some quality time to herself in the cave.
Personal Bio: Terrance prefers to be called Terrence, with as much emphasis on the second E as humanly possible. TerrEnce worked from home much of his life designing spoons. There’s only so much design a spoon can have before it becomes a small spade so he would just make the handle longer or shorter. This earned him over 4 million quid in 8 years. He loathes chop sticks, won’t allow any other cutlery in the house! He will not spoon with his wife!
Personal Bio: Postage (real name Jane) has a wry sense of humour. When she realised she would marry TerrEEEnce Stamp she rushed out and changed her first name to ‘Postage’. For the first six years of their marriage Postage thought her husband was the actor ‘Terrance Stamp’ she was mightily disappointed when she found out he wasn’t. Can’t wait to stay in a hotel and see other cutlery. It’s been 4 years since she used a fork!
Tome is part of the ‘Babe Audio Quartet’ a group of for young gentlemen who perform music and dramatic readings of some of pops and popular cultures greatest achievements. Tome looks like Tom Cruise and thus Tome will give powerful renditions of some of Tom Cruise’s best known performances, such as “I’ve been disavowed”, “Show me some money”, “Nice top gun flying there”, “I’m on a missions, a really hard mission, you might almost say this missions…..really difficult” and the classic “I was in war of the worlds, who remembers that?”. Tome is 6 foot tall and bald.
Personal bio: Thom is a spitting of Tom Hanks, so much so that he founded a theatre group of famous Toms. Thom devised a one man play called ‘lost on an island with a volleyball’. Thom had never seen or heard of the movie ‘Castaway’ it was just a coincidence. Other titles for his play were ‘Volleyball head island’, ‘One man and his ball’, ‘Touched by a ball’, ‘CRAB ATTACK!!’ and ‘Coconut love’. Thom plans on putting on performances at various street corners around Italy to see how they take it. If it goes well he’ll leave his husband and move in with Trevor!
Personal Bio: Charles has travelled forward in time with his best time travelling friend to explore the wonders of the modern age. So far he has seen dinosaurs, cavemen and early man. he now wants to experience the next step in human eveolution, Italian man circa 2015. Charles is a little bit racist and doesn’t think much of the Italians due to once an Italien boy kicked him in the Dickens. Charles loves long walks holding a slow beach, eating potatoes and writing about stage magicians from the 1980’s.
Gender: Interchangeable willy and foo foo
Personal Bio: Sme is from the human year 2839 where time travel was first used for tourist purposes. Sme was the first man to travel in time on a purely recreational basis. It cost the equivalent of £12 of today’s money. They work on a whole different monetary system in the future, mostly a form of prostitution. He found Charles Dickens first because he read all of his books and found references to a ‘Sme’ from the future who took him traveling in time. Sme is allergic to walks and beaches but loves the smell of clip art.
Personal Bio: Tom Tom’s act is something special, a real magical 20 minutes. Tom Tom is a performance artists who works primarily in restaurants. He will sit at the corner of the room and listen to dinner conversations of couples, groups and various other collections of people then, at an important point in the conversation, Tom Tom will run over and chip in with some nugget of information, throwing the person talking off and making them forget what they were talking about. He has many topics of conversation but he will make damn sure none of it is relevant to what you’re talking about. His favourite fun fact is that ‘Armadillos almost always give birth to quadruplets.’ Tom Tom has three arms!
Personal Bio: He’s just a Tom Jones cover artist. Sounds quite like Tom Jones, looks a bit like him too. Often smells of biscuits. Is wheat intolerant and allergic to pussycats. Also like the real Tom Jones, Tom Joynes has a son who he denied that he was the father of for 21 years. Hates the sound of tap shoes, doesn’t eat squid because he fears they will reanimate in his stomach and is very very homosexual.
Pascal La Fromage
Due to a confusing and illogical administrative error Pascal is, was and always shall be a French exchange student. He has spent his whole life roaming from home to home, going to polytechnics, universities and collages, switching places with one student or another. He’s essential the student equivalent of Quantum leaps Sam Beckett. He hopes each exchange will be his last exchange home. May be dead, no one can tell!
Personal Bio: Andrew is perhaps best known for being the editor of ‘Business information systems – 3rd Edition’. Andrew also had a hand in writing the book, along with Bocij, Chaffey and Hickie. Andrew needs a good long break away from thinking about business information systems as he feels they are taking over his life. Last week he referred to talking to his wife as ‘a communal dialogue with value exchange’, he referred to pooing as ‘a waste deduction meeting’ and his children as ‘contraception insufficiency’.
Personal Bio: Sinclair is going on holiday to get over the recent separation of his wife from him. They were married for 63 years (yes they were married when he was 9), they were happy for about 0.4 years. Sinclair never liked the way his wife smelled, looked, spoke, thought or baked but he had to stay married for the children (they had 23). The thought of having to tell Sinclair Jnr Jnr Jnr Jnr Jnr that he would no longer be living with his mother was too much for him to take. Favourite food – cigarettes.
Personal Bio: Claire is also going on holiday to get over Sinclair, unfortunately they booked this ticket 2 years in advanced and didn’t want to lose their deposit. Claire plans on sleeping with as many Italian people as her ancient withered dried up old lady minge will stand. All her children have left home so she has nothing to stay for. She plans on stabbing Sinclair in the chest “accidentally” with her knitting needles at least 29 times. Claire is also deathly afraid of arm rests!
Personal Bio: Humpty is a numpty from Clacton on Sea. His wife is known around town for being awfully frumpy. Humpty often gets grumpy when his bed is lumpy and if he eats tuna fish he is often trumpy. He has tiny legs, they’re frightfully stumpy, and when he get up late he is very grumpy. When he was a child he was ill, he was very mumpy, his face and all his cheeks were terrible bumpy. Hates the Spanish!
Personal Bio: Hampty is wife to Humpty, who is well known for being a giant egg. Hampty met him through her king’s horses connection. She fell in love at first sight, poor humpty was smashed to bits and she had the task of cataloguing all his shell sections, ready for putting back together again. She was put in charge of Humpty when he was repaired and helped him through his years of physiotherapy. She’s only made this mistake of cooking him eggs 8 times in their marriage. Sadly they have only been married 4 days!
Gender: Identifies as a pan dimensional ostrich hammer
Personal Bio: Bo Bo is a small child, often given to fits of anger and violence. ‘He’ is a professional clown, by the time he was 8 months he’d donned his first curly red wig and was doing prat falls and tumbles. People said that he was just learning to walk, but his mother insisted he knew exactly what he was doing! He finds it incredibly hard to sit down for more that 3 minutes without having to get up, run around and play his trumpet. He could ride a unicycle by the age of 18 months! His pet hate is being inside any vehicle!
Gemma is Bo Bo’s mother. She was ‘little miss adorable’ 3 years running when she was 4, 5 and 6. She is a big name in the child pageant circuit. Her first child (Jo Jo) died due to a hairspray incident. She’s hoping Bo Bo will perform well at the Lake Garda little Miss and Mr prissy pooh competition. She’s done nothing but encourage Bo Bo. She has had 18 plastic surgeries to ‘enhance’ her appearance, she is 82.4% plastic and about as attractive as a block of lego. And not even that sexy lego, just a normal 8 x 2 brick that’s old and dirty. Gemma has a deep fear of learning how to read and write.
Seat 12A – Empty
Personal Bio: Mark takes massive offence if anyone refers to him as ‘he, him, sir, Mr’ because he thinks he’s transcended gender definitions. A lady once asked him if he would mind leaving the ladies toilets and using the men’s. He stabbed her in the cheek with his tampons. She wasn’t hurt but very shaken up. The man is an utter bastard!
Gender: unknown but identifies as female
Personal Bio: Miss Mist is a cloud entity from sector 9, citadel 4 of the tittytwotwo region of Pluto. Miss Mist was looking for a luxury holiday but couldn’t afford one due to the train fare from Pluto to Earth. She is made entirely from mist, of a yellow hue. She can neither talk, see, hear or feel but she has a general sense of movement. Do not approach her with a fan or any kind of ‘waffting’ device as she could be blown away.
Personal Bio: Argyll Terrier is a small white dog. He is going on holiday to get away from being forced to wear tartan coats and pose for photos for biscuits wrappers. Has no testicles. Is very aware of what his owner is doing while he’s away and plans to maybe not go back. Obviously being a dog, he can’t communicate what that information is, but there’s a look in his eye that shows, he knows!
The Whitby Incident
Recently my father and I went on a mini break to Whitby for to have a relaxing time after one thing and another. Our first day went exactly like this!
Picture the scene, February, cold, frigid and indifferent. No, not every woman I’ve ever met, the Yorkshire seaside town of Whitby. We arrived at our accommodation pre tea time (pre time); we didn’t know what kind of room we would get as there were dozens of rooms in several large properties. As it turned out we were in room 6 (of 7) in Beech house. A large five floored house. We stood at the bottom of the staircase and looked up, there were many flights of stairs to climb, room 6 was right on the top. This was going to be a herculean task, climbing to the top. By the second flight of stairs, each leg lift was an exercise in torture and determination. Our bags weighed more than the earth, our feet were being crushed under our bulks and our lungs had the capacity of a small otter. We had to have 5 sit downs per floor.
Once we had made the long climb we came to our door, it was on the top of a tiny landing, no more than 1 meter square. Right next to our room was room 7 which was also served by this tiny landing. The doors were not opened by standard keys but rather by a futuristic keypad, you had to input a 5 digit code then your door would unlock and access to your holiday accommodation would be granted. I entered the code and we got into our compact en-suite room, it was very nice, clean and tidy. There were tea and coffee making facilities and an ironing board and iron. Cecil collapsed on the bed, I sat on the floor. We didn’t move for 55 minutes. Why couldn’t they have a stair lift fitted!?
We spent the day losing money in the arcades. Cecil beat me at mini golf, half way round the course when I had gone 10 over par for the sixth time, I tried to bend the putting stick in anger but it was very sturdy and I just bruised my knee. We thought about walking up the hundreds of steps to the abbey but after the stairs to the hotel room, we gave it a miss. We had tea in an Italian restaurant. The woman serving us kept looking and giggling at Dads toupee. He’d worn his poshest one, it’s jet black. He looked like his head had been tarmacked. The waitress wasn’t Italian, yet Dad kept saying “oh bella bella, senorita” I didn’t tell him that was Spanish; he seemed so pleased with himself.
The meal was nice, we then slowly walked back to the hotel, not wanting to face those stairs again. By the time we got back and climbed the stairy mountain, we were both exhausted and went straight to sleep.
7th February – 3:58 am
I woke with a start; there is thunking coming from downstairs, an odd moaning and scraping noise. I eventually figure out it is the sound of a man, a man who seems intoxicated. And from what it sounds like he’s being pleasured sexually. I think “Oh aye, someone’s ‘pulled’.” there is staggering noises coming up the stairs leading to our room. The moaning continues. It sounded almost like Gollum was creeping up the stairs, drunk and being fellated. The man gets to the top of the stairs and onto the tiny landing. He is making very drunk noises; he’s not capable of forming words. He’s still also making the sounds of a man enjoying the oral pleasures of sexual stimulation. Cecil was asleep. Cecil had taken his sleeping pills because since mum left him, he cannot sleep. So no matter how hard I tried the old man lay slumbering like a babe in a papoose. Whatever was to happen, I would have to deal with it on my own!
He is thrashing around, oddly he doesn’t use the keypad to enter room 7, he remains on the landing. He bangs on the walls, clearly unable to stand up. Suddenly I realised that the vigorous rubbing noise is not a sexual partner, but rather the man is rapidly ‘loading his pump action flesh gun’, he’s milking his own member’, he’s ‘jettisoning his DNA payload’ he’s ‘making the snake vomit’, he’s ‘making a withdrawal from his own sperm bank’. He’s wanking! Wanking incredibly enthusiastically and from the sounds he was making, he was enjoying himself very much. I wasn’t certain he was loving his own love muscle until the horrific sound of him spitting onto his own hand and the subsequent squelches. Then his moans grew in intensity.
Now at this point the thought that was predominant in my mind was “Do I go out there and put a stop to this or leave him to it and hope he goes away” but before I could form a coherent thought in my head (it was 4am) the man started trying our door. So apparently being from the 1950’s I shouted “Oi” at him. He instantly stopped fiddling with both himself and our door. He went silent, probably shocked to realise someone was in the room. I can only assume he passed out then as he went quiet for 40-50 minutes.
I was nearly drifting off to sleep when he must have come to, which is surprising because he hadn’t put the landing light on so he was in pitch black out there. There were some more rapid sounds of him pumping his womb broom (masturbating) then he stopped doing that and tried to use the keypad to get into room 7. Given he was so drunk he couldn’t make whole words come out of his mouth, I didn’t expect he’d be able to get in. He couldn’t! After several attempts and variations on shouting the words ‘Fuck’ and/or ‘Jesus Christ’ he gave up. He decided to take the door by force. Thankfully the tiny landing didn’t give him any room to get a run up, so he was basically just leaning on the door. Also he’d begun loudly farting every 3 minutes.
I’d had time to think now; I could have gone out there and spoken to him, either with a swift kick to his precious ball zone or talking to get him into his room. But the landing was so small, if we scuffled then one of us would be going down the steep curved stairs or the final horrific option was; he gets into our room and either pisses, shits, vomits or ejaculates somewhere, maybe all 4! If I tried to help him into his room I suspect he wouldn’t know his room number. So I decided to leave him on his own.
Then he tried again to get into our room, I felt he needed a much sterner telling off this time, so I shouted “Oi, what the hell are you doing? Give up!” I am apparently a school teacher from the 1920’s! Thankfully my harsh words stopped him in his tracks. I should have realised this meant he was easily put in his place and I could have gone out there and dealt with him, but then we heard the sounds of zips becoming undone. He was of course getting naked, all the while saying “Jesus Christ” and complaining he was cold!
I’d had enough, time to man up! I did what any self-respecting grown man would do. I rang reception for help! There were some emergency phone numbers in our welcome pack so I called them. They could deal with naked, drunk, masturbating man who may or may not have poo, piss and cum all over himself, this was my holiday, I didn’t need to see that! He had gone silent again, passed out I assumed.
I sat up in bed and waited for someone to come, after 10 minutes there was the sound of none drunk people talking. We heard footsteps and a ladies voice saying “Shall we wake him up?” A man said “Do you want letting into your room” to which my drunk, wanking hotel friend said “Nah, I’m alright!”
The people then left! Our rescuers just walked away leaving him sleeping on the landing. I sat in bed for 30 minutes shocked! Listening to him, he had gone to sleep. I thought he had gone to sleep, he was very quiet. I couldn’t hear anything. I looked under the crack in the door. He had vanished!
I opened the door and there was no sign of him. No smell of bodily fluids or solids. It was as if he was never there!
I went to bed and fell asleep, not waking till 1pm, Cecil was still asleep! I went to the bathroom and got a put of cold water and poured it over his lazy old face. He woke up with a start, shouted “man overboard!” I told him of everything that he’d slept through. He just laughed, the old idiot. I was furious!
We got up and walked to reception, which was in another building 5 minutes away. My lack of sleep meant I was in a frightful mood. I complained vehemently. They said “Yeah, it happens more than you think, I’ll have a word with him”. They didn’t seem like they were going to do anything so I said that we weren’t going to stay there and we wanted a room change. A Queue was forming behind us and we used the word ‘masturbating man’ a few times, so to appease and shut us up, they put us in Starfish cottage, a three bedroom house, a luxury house, with all wood walls and posh shower and bath!
The cottage was a lovely upgrade but we had missed the bus and the mystery trip away. We decided to spend the afternoon walking around Whitby’s charity shops, looking for any bargains that might be on offer. Dad bought some new socks, a book about fly fishing, 2 pairs of glasses and a trombone. He can’t play the trombone, but that’s as he says “because I’ve never tried” so the horrific sounds of trombone pumps could be heard all evening. It was horrible, but he fainted due to lack of breath so I got to concentrate on the film I was watching.
We went to bed by 10:20pm we had to be at the bus by 8:30am tomorrow morning to be taken home. I shall be complaining in the strongest possible terms to the travel company about this!
Good morning to you, I hope this communication finds you well. May I begin this email by saying that the following comments are of course not aimed directly at you, the poor customer service rep who has to deal with such matters.
I am a man of not very many means, I don’t make b’trillions of English pounds, I hardly make enough to makes my ends meet or ends meat. This month, due to a holiday meant that my pittance of a wage was paid a week early, thus meaning I have 5 weeks between wages. The cause of this means I have to spread what little money I have over a long period, I’ve had to forgot certain luxuries, for example I’ve had to cut back on topping my olive loafs with gold leaf, I haven’t been able to buy this month’s copy of collars and cuffs magazine (about shirts, it’s nothing blue), I’ve cut right back on the Smaptons and I’ve all but stopped the helicopter lessons. It was only a small remote control helicopter that a friends son was teaching me how to fly, but still it was £7 an month.
Also I’ve not been able to buy the Mach 3 ultra-turbo razors I normally use. I don’t grow vast quantities of facial hair, I can go a week without needing to shave, but this month I needed to shave, I was going to a funeral for an enemy of the family (we’ve had a three generation long rivalry between the Coleswells, because Pearl Coleswell in 1913 accused my great grandfather of being from Norfolk, thus a bitter hatred was born, but we have a mutual respect for each other so when Bernard died (of natural causes), I felt it only honourable that we attend his funeral and pay our respects) I needed a clean shaven look. But I couldn’t afford my usual razors, so I bought a bag of 10 single use Bic razors. The morning of the funeral I set about shaving the 2 – 4 mm of beard hair from my lower face and chins.
My shaving technique is perfection, I lather up using the wettest water Yorkshire can supply, apply conditioner to my powerful man face so the hairs are soft, supple and full of volume, I then spread on an even layer of shaving cream foam, I then use the razor and go with the grain of my face fur, not applying too much pressure to ‘raze’ the hair away. This is a technique that has stood me in good stead for many a year. But using your single bladed Bic razor, I knew something was wrong! The facial hair was certainly coming away but so was something else, my facial skin was also being slightly shaved off! I reduced the pressure but this meant that the razor wasn’t shaving my hairs off, so I increased the pressure. I couldn’t find a balance betwixt applying too much pressure and scraping the skin of my chins or not enough and just removing the shaving foam cream.
At the end of the shave I looked like I’d gone 10 rounds with some very angry Lilliputlians. My face was covered in tiny bleeding dots. Within seconds of washing the remaining shaving cream off, there were bloody trail marks all down my face, I looked like something from one of the horror films! I tried to stem the flow using dots of toilet tissue, but there was too much blood. I held a towel to my chins and after five minutes all was well. It stung very badly but the bleeding had stopped. I applied aftershave, but only behind my ears, I’m not Macaulay Culkin, the young house bound child.
I went to Bernard’s funeral and during the hymn ‘Morning has broken’ my chins began bleeding again, my son thought one of the Colewells had slit my throat and he screamed at Colbert Coleswell, Colbert (who is a qualified masseuse) jumped at me, but not to punch his enemy when he saw him weak, no he jumped at me and held a hankie to my neck, he didn’t take a second to think for himself or any blood diseases I might have, it could have been Ebola for all he knew. But no, he jumped at me and stopped the bleeding and stayed with me till I felt better. This senseless and honourable act united our families and ended the three generations long feud! We all went to the wake and made our peace not only with the deceased, but with the Coleswell’s.
So I thank you for making cheap plasticy razors that take a layer of skin off along with facial hair!
All my love
Bic’s reply (which couldn’t be more cooperate and boring if it tried)
Dear Mr Thax,
We have received your email concerning the BIC Razors you purchase and we apologise for the delay in responding. We value all consumer feedback and appreciate you taking the time to write to us.
We are sorry to hear of incident which occurred whilst using this razor. It is standard in relation to a query with a product that we would ask for the item(s) to be returned to us.
Please let us know if these razors are still in your possession and we will send you a protected envelope for the return.
We will then forward them to our Quality Control Department in France for to be closely inspected, and replacement product will be sent to you.
Thank you for your custom, and we hope you will still remain a valued customer of BICÒ
UK & Ireland Credit Controller
BIC UK & Ireland Limited
Dear computer user
Hello, please allow me to introduce myself, my name is Jimbo Vaginapouch, please don’t mock my name it’s an old family name going back several generations, I come from a long line of Vaginapouchs. My family ancestor invented the Vagina pouch in 1294, a Mr Hoobert Pouchmaker, the pouch was initially intended to house small clams but due to the material used and the hard abrasive nature of the clam shell meant the pouches would perish rather quickly, in time and with a surplus of said pouches Hoobert became disaffected with the world, he withdrew from society, shunning all and sundry, his clam based pouch invention haunting his every thought, he turned to drink. Years passed and Hoobert grew old and bitter, mostly because his primary drink of choice was bitter, or sometimes he would have a cider, usually in the summer months, but I digress.
When Hoobert turned 59 he was at his local tavern, he’d taken to using his pouches (of which he still had a large surplus) as a mini carryall for folded flat breads, by midnight he had passed out and the kindly bar wench (Mimi Von Unpouchedvagina, an eccentric German aristocrat working in a bar for fun) took pity on him and carried him home in her powerful German arms. When they arrived back at Hooberts house Mimi saw the piles of pouches, and as was her nature she tried to use one to cover up her lady zone, for she had been sold a pair of crotchless bloomers and couldn’t find anything to cover the exposed region well enough. It was a success, Mimi’s furry wizards sleeve was pouched and in that instant a union was born. When Hoobert pulled round he was married and had a new business partner, they were the only sellers of Vagina pouches in all of England. We now know them as underpants, but back in the day they had a very different name. So that’s me Jimbo Vaginapouch and I have a computer related product to sell to you, I feel you’ve got to know me now, you trust me implicitly so you will agree that all the claims I am about to make are 100% accurate and are in no way intended to entrap you and your computer into buying false, malicious software.
Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor
Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor is the class leader in providing client to user to business to bespoke pathogen peer to peer jargon to user experiences based on desktop interfaces. Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor will simply install itself onto any computer, laptop, unpleasant cat or diary whenever the user has accidently clicked on any unscrupulous advertising link. Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor is self-aware and once installed on any computer, removal is next to impossible, it will worm its way into every nook and cranny, it will install itself into hidden alleyways and show homes also it’s probably under your bed, depending on how much space there is under your bed of course, to be honest the more space there is under a bed the more versions of Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor there will be, so god help you if you have a bunk bed, or any other type of bed that’s on legs, of which there are many kinds and they’re not all bunk beds, there is a subtle difference, there is no shame in being a grown up and having a high bed, it means you can make forts and who wouldn’t want to do that?
But what does Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor do? I hear you think. Well, like the name suggests Super-Fast Computer Performance monitor pretends to speed up computers and monitor performance, this however is just its name, it can neither monitor nor speed up anything, in fact its name is the definition of irony because it will in fact drastically slow down your computer and the only thing it will be monitoring is your keystrokes and harvesting all your delicious information. After it has resided on your computer for no less than 30 days it will the demand you pay a fee to ‘unlock’ some more advanced features, you will of course do this for me, Jimbo Vaginapouch, for I am a very good friend of an auntie of yours. Go on, it’s only £219 for a year’s subscription to Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor. The added benefits of subscribing are that I can buy a new car and I can get my wife that back, sack and crack operation she keeps bringing up at church. Never marry a vicar, especially one with a ‘sack’, I can’t believe she kept that quite till our wedding night!
To sum up, please install Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor on your computer if only for the fact that I get sexual gratification knowing there are hundreds of IT technicians having to uninstall and clean out programs like this every day, it literally turns me on to the point of orgasm thinking about them all sat at their nerdy desks spending 2 hours running various cleaning programs to get rid of my pointless and obviously malicious software. I love thinking of their blank gormless faces as they watch slow progress bars go from 0% to 100%, their frustration as my software changes all the home pages in all the browsers, then they open the browsers to see the owner of the computer has over 30 toolbars installed. Oh yes, that’s what I like! I also love to think about the standard computer user who when greeted with my software doesn’t understand its true purpose and thinks it’s actually helping their computer speed. I sit at home vigorously pleasuring myself thinking about all the time I’m wasting of these people, time they could better spend away from their computers maybe reading a book or being with friends, but no, I keep them indoors trapped in front of their computers angry, frustrated and annoyed at my software!
If you want to buy my product I take paypal, visa, mastercard and Tesco clubcard points, but don’t bother sending me your bank details, I already have them!
Thank you I’ve been Jimbo Vaginapouch and you’ve been reading the words that I’ve written!
Do you need any pouches? Only slightly used!
They say write about what you know, but then Bret Anthony Johnston (Harvard University man person) says “write what you don’t know”. As this blog post is all about writing, I shall do just that, write about what I don’t know.
That is to say, it’s not a list of all the things I don’t know, but if it were it would look like this
Well how to drive any vehicle really, save for a bicycle, pedelo and Eurofighter.
Further things I don’t know
The list goes on for another 372 pages, mostly about my lack of knowledge of DIY procedures. But for this particular blog I am going to write a detailed and in depth report on animal husbandry, a subject I literally know nothing about, I’m not even sure it’s a thing that exists.
Animal Husbandry – The meat and two veg of a farmers life
Cows, pigs, chickens and corn/maize/wheat/all plants come into the world in one way. Via the Cramston method, this method is different for each species but primarily requires two components the dominant chef and the beta creature. The chef will, when sufficiently gorged on nutrients and has reached emotional maturity, sidle up to the creature, with its belly and shoulders puffed up. Then the ‘movements of the night’ will begin, the chef will stand still for a duration of no more than 4 minutes. All the while the creature will place its hands/paws/claws/straws over its eyes to hide from such a display. This can last from anything from 4 minutes to 5 minutes. Never a second longer. Once this stance is over, jets of genetic matter will spray fourth from the chefs nose, eyes, ears and lungs into the creature’s receiving pouch (usually located on its halo). Then in 19 weeks a new baby is delivered via carrier hippo.
It is at this point a farmer will become involved and place the new baby ‘thing’ in a big shed, you’ve probably seen them on farms. These big sheds have millions of microscopic cots in them for the new babies. Each baby will get to select a cot which will then determine which university it will be accepted into later in life. Oh the babies are obviously microscopic or something. After 3 days the babies will outgrow their cots and have to move into something larger, generally this is a matchbox filled with sand or cat litter, used or un used, it matters not. The babies will develop their own voice and vocal singing style, usually at this point the farmer will slaughter any babies with a tendency towards country and western after the horrific events of the ‘cotton eye Joe’ incident. Though this practice is not done world-wide and thus this horrific blight on the musical landscape is still with us. Due to the high salt and vinegar content in babies leaning towards ‘pop’ music these are usually spared and milked for their savoury milk.
When the infants mature to semi full maturity they are put in fields to graze and contemplate the deeper meanings of the universe and life. The moment they come to a grand unifying theorem of the universe they are slaughtered and turned into foods such as chicken for dipping, ham based beef disks, hog legs, turtle shell soup and pies, eye slabs and of course spherical spizzas.
Those which never achieve any kind of spiritual or intellectual enlightenment are then split into two distinct categories, the dangly thrust poker and the squishy flap pocket. They are then formed into pop combos and made to perform on Saturday night light entertainment programs depending if their life story is sob based enough.
I also don’t know anything about what it’s like to live on another planet. But I know for a fact that the people of Mars live in giant underground antigravity spheres (which are actually rhombus shaped). They primarily live on a diet of news feeds, information and cress. They will spend their days working in their interchangeable buffalo fields separating out the various herds of buffalo which each night get mixed together due to very poor field and fence management. If they’d just invent the gate, they would be fine and have far more leisure time.
The days are hard on Mars, but the nights are harder. Usually due to all the earth robots raping the native Martians, this is because the suns radiation has caused the robots to become sentient and very very sexually aroused.
The only yearly festival they have on Mars is to celebrate the arrival of ‘King Two Buttocks’ (all Martians only have one large buttock, they have their anus on their forehead). King Two Buttocks was born with a birth defect which made his buttocks look doubled. That’s incredibly erotic for Martians. They all dress up in fake double buttocks and hop (they only have one foot, but 4 legs) to each others houses and pass their bowel motions into other people’s mouths (Martian’s eat their own doings, to feed someone else in this way is the highest compliment imaginable).
Also once a year they have a running/hopping contest to see who has the sexiest ankles.
So there you go, that’s everything I don’t know! And now you know it, so I can now ask you about it, and learn what you know, so I will then know everything there is to know about what I don’t know about. Or something!
I also don’t know how to use a ‘ correctly’s.
I feel like a master of the universe with my nine inch bazooka! I parade around the galaxy, smiting all, conquering planets, enslaving barbarian hoards all with my nine inch bazooka. I fly in my intergalactic star ship, the only weapon I use is fear, intimidation and my nine inch bazooka. I’ve fought the Kraimbulba people, freed the slaves of Nalbuoo 9, entered into deadly combat with the pan dimensional Smaptons beasts and bazookaed countless other races. I have done all this with my mighty nine inch bazooka by my side, which looking at other bazookas available on the market is actually pretty tiny, but never the less I have mastered the entire universe with it, despite its small size!
Which is how I expected the email to continue after reading its subject line which was “I feel like a master of the universe with my nine inch bazooka!” sadly in the email I was given a link which I dare not click on.
For you see, in the past week I have been getting a large amount of spam, normally I get not a whisker of spam, but for some reason I’m now being bombarded with 30 or so a day. Some of which baffle me. I’ve had several, mostly to do with weight loss but one I got said by taking these pills “You will grow very large in just 2 months with our wonder drugs”. Now I’m already quite a chubby fellow, my width is sufficient for me, but I would like to be taller, but to ‘grow very large’? How large 7 foot? 8 foot? There is a certain point where being large becomes more of a problem than something to be desired. Specialist shoes cost a fortune. As it stands I already sport extra-large t shirts, going up to extra extra large is a problem but XXXX-large? That’s just adding problems atop problems, and if I were ‘very large’ would I struggle to fit in my house? A car? Would my bed support me? The whole thing is fraught with complications. Similarly with another email I got telling me to “Enlarge your pink just by popping a pill”. My pink? I’m pink all over, will this pill make me grow more skin? Why would anyone want to get very large, maybe for some kind summer gala whereby you’re playing the part of a giant and want to be authentic in the role. Is there a pill to get very small?
Then the spams started to get a bit freighting. “Scare people with your tool today”. This baffled me. The only tool I have is a screwdriver set with interchangeable heads. And it’s pretty flimsy, I don’t know how I could really scare anyone with it or why indeed why I would want to frighten anyone with my tool! My tool is useful for doing things around the house, it’s not an instrument of terror!
Then they started bringing celebrities into the mix making the claim that “Jay Leno found taking drugs” to which inside the email I am told “So hard you can break an egg”. So hard I can break an egg?! Jay Leno has to take drugs to get the strength up to brake an egg? I could become ‘so hard’ that I could break an egg? I can already break an egg, they are incredibly fragile, a baby could break an egg. Do they mean some drug could make my penis so hard it could break an egg? On what planet is that a desirable or aspirational thing to want? Are people crying out for their eggs to be broken open by erect penises (peni?)? Does cracking an egg with a willy somehow improve the egg. Of all the body parts I can think of, that’s one of the last things I would use to crack open an egg! Last thing being eye ball or testicles, I’m not sure which!
It was at this point I realized these emails were all about increasing the size of a penis. Which makes me wonder, who would read “Scare people with your tool today” and think that’s a good thing?
I was also offered the opportunity to “enlarge my pole with wonder pills”. I can only assume they mean our flag pole we have in the back garden for when we’re feeling particularly patriotic.
The most resent spamulation I got says “There’s no trick to becoming a true man, with our wonder pill” but isn’t taking the pills a trick?! What’s the definition of a true man? I would say a true man is a chap who can with one hand, use a remote control while at the same time feed himself crisps, never dropping a crisp or missing his mouth, while also never missing to mute the TV when adverts come on or some embarrassing person starts singing or being ‘madcap’ on a quiz show, and also channel surfing with all the skill and panache of the slobbiest slob . While the other hand masterfully hold his cola beverage and is also able to get a cushion to hide an embarrassing erection should one rear its ugly head.
In the end I’ve got so fed up that I’ve decided to make my own growth pills, which are basically boiled sweets with a few drops of baby bio on them. I shall email everyone I know saying “hard miracle growth pill lumps guaranteed to make your cylinder expand along all its dimensions, people will run in terror at the sight of your giant ungainly swollen cannon”.