How is it that you only find things at the last place you looked for them?

Friday, July 28, 2006

Only Because We Have Promises To Keep And Vaginas To Bleed


The Jun is fond of oneginas, well who isn't. And he has priapism to worry about! Now onto the sexual innuendo route that I shall take to make this blog an interesting read for you sick minds, this happens to be our 13th time and let me assure you the sex is still good. We still have fun *twinkle in the eye*

Blogging is just like a marriage, you need nurture it (oh wipe those tears off, Oprah!), you need to adjust and fine tune and work your way through to a happy and fulfilling relationship!

You also need to bribe the worse half with obscene amounts of chocolate to write and you dare not have mindless issues (psst, Women's lib, someone needs help!) in getting bullied into shamelessly plugging the blog. Ya, we have been the 'ok tata (w)hore please' variety!

Now a quick and spritely jump onto the next topic to appease the annoying thought germ crawling in my pinky, or was it brain?

So I am going to ask another one of those useless rhetorical questions: What is that one thing that makes you behave the way you do (crotch itch doesn't count here)? As in, is it the sand or is it weather or is it just your sad existance in this vast cosmos where all you can look forward to is reading a few thoughts on pathology, scatology and world piss (overdone joke and yet funnay as hell!) dished out to you crassly by 2 retarded imbeciles with the mental faculties of an evil genius trapped in his laboratory for seven, that's right seven long minutes.

I've run enough for my pinky today, time for the Jun to hypnotise you into believing plugging our blog is the best use you can put your worthless life to.


What is this picture really about?

If you look at it carefully, you will realise that it's about much more than four hungry, deprived SEC A1+ children at McDonalds. Oh no, it's about much more than that. It's about cruelty to animal(e)s. And world peace. "Why?" you dare to ask. After reprimanding you for your impudence, I direct your flailing attention to the happy meanl toy lying carefully wrapped in a semi-ball like plastic holding device. "Where?! Where?!" Next to the fifth Coke from the left, or the first Coke from the right you ninny. See it now? It's a lizard like creature. Wrapped in plastic. Can you even begin to understand what that means? It means that while you're shaving the hair off your schlong to make it look bigger, you aren't realising the damage that huge corporations are causing to endangered animals like the iguanamadeupbullcrapnomenclature smooshedupwordus lizard. You're no better than the four uncaring boys in the photograph. Just look at the face of the boy on the right. Look at the anticipation on his face as he waits to sink his teeth into his third juicy, tender, Mayonaissey McChicken burger.

It's about world peace because I say so.

But what is really the problem with the world today, is the total, and I mean completely up-to-the-brim-can't-take-anymore-can't-breathe-help-someone-beeeep-ECG-stops total lack of interest shown by certain professors in improving the grades of obviously revolutionary Dissertation Concept Notes. I mean, what the eff! Screw the world, I'll make it on my own as a travelling circus monkey. Or I'll just be content with a goddamn B-. Die devil bird.

(etymology - "to the loo". Commonly used by energetic youth who suddenly have to stop interesting conversation because of the urgency ensured by wetting their undergarments. For no fault of their own of course.)

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Everybody Farts


When the meal is huge and the dessert,
the dessert is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of the beef,
Well hang on
Don't let yourself go,
'cause everybody farts and everybody poops sometimes
Well, everybody farts sometimes,
Everybody poops.
And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody (also) constipates sometimes.
So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on,
hold on, hold on, hold on,
Everybody farts. You are not alone.

So this ladies and gentlemen is the post which celebates *glint in eye for brilliant typo* the return of the champions of the cause of the poor souls who live their life hoping that one day would come when the hot chick in office would lose her top in a fit of rage against irritating co-workers who keep staring at their LCDs with mouth agape at the audacious literature they come across in useless blogs!

The sand in the vagina (refer to my own personal blog for more details on this... *shameless pushing of personal agendas*) of few corrupt beaurocrats has been sent to the beach and life in the happy land of blogs is back on track. Yippee.

And now we (that would be me and the conscientious alterego dying of immense boredom it gets subjected to by not so little evil me... muahahahahah) present to you in all his guts and glory... THE JUN A.K.A THE (woo)MAN A.K.A THE FARTSALOT A.K.A ITSNOTFUNNYNOMOREBIYAATCH


The thing with Women is, they're weird. There's women and then there's women. There's those who look at you like you just stepped on their little toe and splashed mucky water all over their brand new pink polka dot dress. Then there's those who'd punch you in the face for it. And then there's those who'd frisk your motionless body and flick your wallet.

What I'm trying to say is (apart from "GET OFF THE EFFING CAPS LOCK") that men should really put their foot down and make it known that just because you bleed from your onegina, you don't have the right to demand attention, chocolate and people who understand poor grammer. Especially the last one.

On a wholly unrelated but related note, we've been lazy okay. It's not easy typing so much, so fast, without care for man, beast or the feelings of those poor African children your parents keep ranting about when you don't eat stupid bhindi. It's an ugly vegetable okay!

However, as with all stupid promises (like "I'll donate my eyes after I die"... I mean, what the f*** dude!) there will be updates sooner, better and with further inaccurate references to fictitious professors you want to kill (one tiny little finger at a time) because they gave you a B- for your goddamn Dissertation Concept Note.

The world is always to blame.
And stale bread pudding is always to be avoided.
Trust me.