I want to cunt fucking boogers.

I just want to sit here of an evening after a long week or two of the brats being back in school. I open the bottle of Pinot Gris and go to clear the nostril. Takes four fucking swipes and I’m still not done.

I think I might have a hanger-on. I’ve tried wiping it on bog-roll, the chair, my son’s sweater and the mutt. I tried to hide the booger inside some curry sauce and the savvy mutt still wouldn’t wrap his chompers around it.

At this stage I’m ready to employ a chain-gang of Doozers to clean the inside of my nostril and lick the hanger-on from my finger.

Nominated by CaliAngel

Today’s titanic piss-boiler was an article from some cunt of a GA suggesting that traffic signs should be buried into pavements and kerb-stones so that the fuckwitted snowflakes who go round with their cunting mobiles stuck to their gurning fucking fizogs might be able to see any dangers ahead…

The twat GA doesn’t seem to realise that if you have got a handful of electronic gizmo 4 inches from your bloody eyes, you are no more likely to see something at pavement level than at any other level. FFS a million bloody times.

I knew it would come to this. Your Auntie Belinda predicts that fines for running over or twatting these gizmo-obsessed freaks and deviants will be higher, because the poor little diddumses were innocent and unaware (or some utter tosh like that); they have the divine right to bear no bloody responsibility whatsofuckingever for their semi-comatose states; we are expected to knacker OUR poor eyes, because the fackin cuuuuunts won’t use theirs. We shall be expected to show a “Duty of Care”…
I’ll show them my fuckin arse-grapes.

And how much did said government adviser get paid for this prize turd-nugget ? Ladies and gentlemen of the Cunters’ Jury, your guess is as good as mine.

Nominated by HBelindaHubbard

Sitting here orn me air cushion (for me piles cunts) but this time Yours Truly has the old arse ache and thank the Christ for it (for the cushion, not the arse ache).

Was visiting a local supermarket, all ‘70s insitu concrete and running piss and navigating me old arse up a steep slope. Got overtaken by a Japanese bint orn one orf these Boris type battery bikes panting and peddling like fury. As YT was ogling her arse clicked that the silly mare had run oit orf juice and was aboit to fall orf. Dropped me bags and manfully nippily stepped in to steady the bastard but the fucker weighed a tank.

Took the full heft orf the panzer plus the bint while moving in to do me Sir Galahad and hopefully have a feel but was knocked flying. Me old para training kicked in, time was in Dream State and YT was able to lock orn a spot and role oit orf the impact. Japanese bint had a soft landing orn me old belly and balls. All very spectacular but not much harm done. Been pain dead doine there for years. Punters come running up to see “if the old gent is OK”. Well fuck that, never one to play the gallery. Said I would not mind a cuppa tea though. They all congratulated me and then sodded orf.

Japanese bint standing there far too weak to handle the powerless monster so hauled it up (Christ me fucking back) and pushed the cunt up the slope for her at which point she pisses orf leaving me orn me tod. No cuppa tea then or Japanese rituals orf gratitude. Start to stump me old arse back to me manor and apart from a bit orf a graze orn me shoulders thought “you manky old cunt, you’ve pulled it orf agin’, got away with”. Thinking orf me glory days. Went to bed with a nice single malt.

Woke to me come-uppance. “You do not do full power roles at your age onto rough concrete you old cunt” something whispered gently in me shell like. Could not fucking move. Lungs hurt, every shoulder muscle throbbing and bruised, back like a fireman’s ladder with heavy cunts carrying fat slags running up and doine in hob nailed boots. Oh me poor old arse, that has saved YT many times over the years. Now it says no, never agin’. Purple bruises and KGB class pain in me kidneys. Pissing blood. Lovely jubbly.

A weekend in bed and several bottles orf single malt later just up to whether YT should toddle over to the quack or not. Nah, stay au lit old son and keep orn the whiskey. As to the bastard bikes, answers a few questions as to why YT has seen so many punters pushing the buggers looking white faced and knackered and why so many are just left abandoned despite being charged to the punters credit cards. Healthy new lifestyle? Total cunt.

Nominated by Sir Limply Stoke

Receptionist: (Sighing) Yes?

Cap’n M: Good morning, I’d like to see my Doctor, please.

Receptionist: Have you made an appointment?

Cap’n M: No. My Doctor’s name is…

Receptionist: You can make an appointment up to six weeks in advance.

Cap’n M: I understand, but I’ve taken the time off w…

Receptionist: We’re extremely busy.

Cap’n M: I didn’t know I was going to be ill six weeks ago.

Receptionist: I can book you in for three weeks on Thursday.

Cap’n M: If I’m still alive.

Receptionist: …Or we have an open clinic on Wednesday afternoons, 2-4, though it’s a long queue.

Cap’n M: I don’t get much for my tax, do I?

(Receptionist shrugs)

Cap’n M: Are there any slots this morning? I don’t mind waiting.

Receptionist: What’s the problem?

Cap’n M: Pardon?

Receptionist: What’s your medical matter?

Cap’n M: Are you a Doctor?

(Receptionist rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs)

Receptionist: Name?

Cap’n M: Dr.Banglagashawanaradashi.

Receptionist: Your name!

Cap’n M: Captain Magnanimous.

Receptionist: …and what are you seeing the Doctor for today?

Cap’n M: Sorry, are you qualified?

Receptionist: There’s no chance the GP can see you today.

Cap’n M: You’ll excuse me but I’m not comfortable discussing medical matters in a packed waiting room, without privacy, to an unqualified person.

Receptionist: Try the A & E at the local hospital although the waiting time for tax-payers is a minimum of five hours.

Cap’n M: (mutters) That’s 18 miles away!

Receptionist: You’ll have to speak up.

(Pause)

Cap’n M: Alright then. I’VE GOT SCROFULOUS-LOOKING BROCCOLI SPROUTING FROM MY BEANBAG, MY COCK IS PEPPERED WITH A SWEATING, YELLOWY RASH, MY SPHINCTER HAS THE ODOUR OF CHEAP, FRENCH CAMEMBERT AND MY GOOCH IS PERMANENTLY ITCHY. I’VE COME TO INQUIRE ABOUT A GENDER CHANGE OPERATION, BUT I DON’T WANT THE SAME DOCTOR THAT DID YOURS! Could you help?

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

I made an appointment eventually for next week after putting up with the bad attitude and being explained to like a fucking three year old about how over worked my highly fucking paid GP is, yesterday I get I get a text to say my appointment is today at 8.45, so I think ok I must have made a mistake, I procede to move heaven and fucking earth rather than cancel, only to be told [even with attitude at this point] you must have made a mistake your fault,even when I showed her the text [still with attitude,i cant get you in today],I don’t want to be in today, sort your text machine out and can the attitude you cunts, its not like I want to be here its a fucking total ball ache…..so doctors receptionist are cunts…..

Nominated by fuglyucker

Cookies. No, not the delicious biscuits, the internet cookies. What are they and why am I being asked to accept them on almost every website I go on? Am I missing something here? The language websites use to describe their function sure sounds sinister.

Nominated by OpinionatedCunt