I’d like to nominate litter louts for a right royal cunting.

My dear old grandad always used to say that a dog shites on its own doorstep because it doesn’t know any better. You’d expect that people would know better, but sadly not. There are thousands of brain dead mongs everywhere who’ll ruin any public place, be it a street, a park, a beach, a motorway, a playgound , whatever, by burying it under a pile of their cans, bottles, food containers and other assorted shite.

These arsewipes should be herded up and slung into concentration camps. Hitler might have been a total cunt, but he wasn’t ALWAYS wrong. Cunts.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Hands up if you fucking well despise dandelions.

I love flowers and plants of all kinds, and while I’m the first to admit that I’m no Monty Don, I do enjoy a spot of gardening, a pastime which I find to be both relaxing and therapeutic. But one thing puts the mockers on it for me, and that’s dandelions, those pig ugly little triffid wannabes.

We’ve had precious little rain these last few weeks, and gardens have started to resemble the Kansas dustbowl as most plants have shrivelled up and died. Not dandelions though, oh no. You’ve almost got to admire just how tough they are, harder than Jason fucking Statham and that’s a fact. Get a drop of rain and they’re like a rat up a drainpipe. There are suddenly hundreds everywhere, and you can hear them growing.

You can rip off their fucking sickly looking yellow heads, blowtorch them, dig them up and poison them, but you can never succeed in getting rid of them. Miss one flower, and you’ve got a ‘clock’ which scatters a thousand seeds to the wind. Flies envy their ability to breed that fast.

I’m not paranoid, but I reckon that Mulder and Scully need to get on to this bloody sharpish. The fuckers are out to take over I tell you…

(enter Mrs Knee with my meds and a soothing ‘now calm down, dear, the doctor’s coming…’).

Nominated by Ron Knee

I would like to nominate the Netflix (un)Original series “Designated Survivor” for a cunting.

The premise is great: during the State of the Union address the Democrats and Republicans nominate a “Designated Survivor” to remain in a protected location away from Capitol Hill. Usually cunts who’ve upset their respective parties.

Now what happens if Capitol Hill is blown the fuck up and all of Congress with it??

What a great premise for a series. Kieffer Sutherland playing the impromptu President thrust into the ultimate position of power.

So potential rag heads have blown fuck out of DC. So in complete opposition to the Trump mantra of “Let’s stop this shit…” (cunts from predominantly “peaceful” shitholes) “…until we know what the hell is going on!”, Kieffer – me auld sausage – takes the opposite slant that it CAN’T POSSIBLY BE PEACEFUL SCUM so let’s let all of the cunts in anyway and fuck the unworthy, waycist US citizens in deference to our bomb-makery friends.

Also there are strong nods that the attack could be – shock, horror – from within the US Govt itself.

In fact pick any line Trump has said in the last 18 months, flip it 180 degrees, and you’ll be in the ball-park of what Kieffer says.

His wife is an immo lawyer fighting to keep ICE targets in the US.

You really couldn’t make it up. Except Netflix has. Not that their preachy fucking message will ever affect the glitteratti or meejah establishment where THEY belong!

An original idea completely ruined by leftist neo-liberal bullshit.

Fuck you Netflix you unpatriotic cunts!

Nominated by Rebel without a Cunt!

‘You learn something every day’, they say. Well today I learned that multiplexes are cunts.

Things started badly early doors, with rain putting paid to my gardening plans. Not having been to the pictures for ages, we decided to take in a flick, and that’s when the problems really started.

I waded through the programme (mostly Yank shite) trying to pick the bones out of-
* ‘animations’ (cartoons to you)
* another bastard superhero
* a musical with that horrible smug cow Streep in it
* something with her off that shitty ‘Ghostbusters’ retread in it
* yet another fucking shark film (done to death, or what?)
* corporate franchise money trees of the ‘Mission Impossible 27; Cash In’ & ‘Star Wars; The Next Fast Buck’ variety

Amazingly, I found a gem buried in this slag, a low-key, 50s set Brit drama called ‘The Book Shop’ (recommended), so off we went to get our tickets. Easier said than done. Nowadays, you can’t simply buy a ticket. You have to turn up an hour early and stand in a queue with all those who also want to buy teeth rotting popcorn, a bucket of cola, or a trough of something called ‘nachos’. The latter appears to consist of microwaved horseshit with bits of card stuck in it, all smothered in elastic ‘cheese’ sprayed from a can, would you believe. This abomination can actually be taken into the ‘screen’, where it reeks the place out like a particularly ripe fart. Then I finally reached the counter, only to shit a brick when told by the spotty faced, minimum wag oik ‘serving’ that even with a concession, it would cost the thick end of twenty notes for me and the missus to gain admission. Fuck, we wanted to see a film, not put a deposit down on the dump.

So, we finally got settled in to await the film, only to be tortured by a barrage of ‘aspirational lifestyle’ adverts. Very persuasive in my case as it turned out, as I couldn’t wait to get out to buy the latest must have top of the range smartphone and a fucking BMW.
At last, the main event, preceded by a plea to ‘switch off your phones, finish your conversations, and enjoy the film in peace’. No fucking chance. As the credits rolled, some cow opened a huge bag of cellophane wrapped sweets which she then rattled for the next hour.

Meanwhile two ‘Mrs. Brady Old Lady’ types chuntered on (‘my Sidney had a coat like that’, ‘…coat like that, yes’) until hushed by a shout of ‘be quiet, you silly old woman!’. Then some cunt’s mobile phone went off… Finally, I had to lurch out half way through for a leak, missing a chunk of the film (the prostate, now there’s a fucker that needs a cunting if ever there was).

Well now I know. If you actually want to enjoy a film, the last place to see it is in a multiplex. Next time I’ll wait until ASDA’s got the dvd for a fiver, and I’ll enjoy it in the peace of my own home, with the added advantage of being able to pause it if I need a piss.

‘The Multiplex Experience’, coming soon to a cinema near you, and it’s a right sack of cack.

Nominated by Ron Knee