Mr Crackhead the drugs mule is literally that; a twat caught trying to smuggle coke under an unbelievably ridiculous and dodgy syrup.
The wassock was nabbed as he got off a flight from Columbia (where else?) at the appropriately named El-Prat airport in Barcelona. Security claimed that he ‘looked nervous’ as he got off the flight. Personally I think the fact that he had what resembled a large, dead rat perched suspiciously high on his bonce might have had more to do with it.
Upon detention, it was found that a half kilo of cocaine was stashed under the wig. Now it goes without saying that drug runners are cunts, but it takes a spectacular grade of cunt to try and get away with a wheeze as utterly inept as this.
It is to be assumed that Mr Crackhead will now be detained at the pleasure of the Spanish authorities for some time. Personally I wouldn’t bother with any of that; I’d just make the cunt eat the shit, then see if he thought drug running was such a good idea. That would never do though. After all, there’s the cunt’s ‘human rights’ to consider…

Nominated by Ron Knee

I nominate office collections for a cunting.

This is one of those things that starts off as a nice idea. Gladys is retiring after 35 years, and we want to get her a card and something to remember us by.
Unfortunately, it then it gets taken to the fucking extreme and you start having to have a ‘whip round’ because Jane’s split up with her boyfriend (for the umpteenth fucking time,) or Tim in accounts goldfish has died at the weekend and people come around asking for a couple of quid like a mafia protection racket…woe betide anyone who doesn’t want to pay.

I tend to keep quiet when these things go around and discreetly leave the room, mainly because I’m a tight bastard and don’t see why I should give someone money for doing their fucking job. Isn’t that what you get wages for??
Anyway it was found out that I hadn’t put money into the collection for someone. When I explained the reason was that I have only met them when they started and we’ve never said a word to each other because we work in different teams, you’d think I’d admitted to drowning kittens.

Bastards….every one of them

Nominated by The Final Cuntdown

Now, I know this has been done before but I’d like to give it a good cunting, purely because veganism at its very core is designed for cunts.

Now in my experience veganism is a twining leftie fad that is championed by those who wish to fight for free speech whilst forcing their eco terrorist agenda down people’s throats. It’s mindless hypocrisy at its worst, the fake meat boom being the cherry on top of the soy bean shitcake. How has it become a billion pound industry?
Because like all fads it panders to the weak to create an enclave of people who follow a shit agenda and use it to look down upon ordinary folk, whilst preaching how they’re helping the environment and make the world a better place. Yet I don’t see these companies sharing their wealth with those who need it. At least big corporations don’t pretend, we all know they’re greedy cunts. More than anything it’s the fake agenda that fucks me right off with these eco cunts.
Footnote being, when the winters start getting colder, my fat steak and knitted woolly jumper are gonna be keeping me a damn site warmer than their hemp sacks and veggie meat.

Cunts.

Nominated by GrandCuntRailRoad

One of my favourite pastimes is a long walk followed by coffee and cake at my favourite café.
After a leisurely five mile amble in the sun this morning, I drop into my usual haunt, to find yet another new assistant behind the counter (I call them ‘Karma Chameleons’; ‘they come and go, they come and go… a wo-hoh…’). This one is undoubtedly of Antipodean origins.
‘Gooday!’ she says with a beam as wide as a boomerang. ‘What kin ah gitchya?’.
‘Hi. Erm, a slice of lemon drizzle cake please, and a large cappuccino, semi-skimmed, extra hot’.
‘Now warries! Arl git rarht on it’.
So I wander over to my corner spot, and proceed to glance through ‘The Metro’. Over comes the cake (excellent as always) which I savour, and then proceed to take a sip of my coffee. There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that it’s very hot. The bad news is that it tastes, well, decidedly peculiar; a bitter tang, oily, and with a chalky texture. A second sip confirms it to possess definite sink cleaning potential, and back to the counter I go.
‘I’m afraid this coffee tastes unpleasant’, says I.
‘Arrh, ah’m sorree bert thet, Arl gitchya nather, now warries. Cappuccino, ixtra hot, soy milk, rahrt?’.
‘No, semi-skimmed’.
‘Arrh rahrt. Sorree thawca sid soy. Now warries’.
So a replacement duly arrives, which is indeed very good, and the source of the nastiness is explained. Which begs the question; who in their right mind actually drinks this soy shit, and why? Well here’s my take on it. If you like your coffee to taste as though a seagull’s just shat in it, you’re a soy boy and no mistake. Everybody else, avoid this cack like a dose of the clap. Gooday.

Nominated by Ron Knee