People that wear sunglasses indoors are cunts…
I used to have a couple of mates that did it …. !?!
I went to a club a couple of years ago (the last time, I’m too old for that shite now) and there were cunts all over the place wearing sunglasses. IN A DARK FUCKING ROOM!

How vein do you have to be to wear sunglasses in in a dark room? Stumbling around, not being able to see a fucking thing just so you can look “cool”.

Well you don’t look cool, you look like a cunt.

I hope you fall down the fucking stairs…..

Nominated by Deploy the Sausage

Circumcision
I´d love to take a blunt scraper to the prick who first thought of circumcision and give him a taste of his own medicine. The idea of whacking a bit of skin off a newborn baby´s tiny dick is horrendous yet it continues to be done all over the world. No wonder Moslems are always angry. They have had their dicks shortened by a bloodstained penknife and can´t even have a drink to compensate. The Jews have the same torture inflicted on them but at least they can turn to drink (although I´ve never known one who does) or Woody Allen jokes about his mother.
I had to be circumcised when I was in my 50s after suffering from recurring lesions on my prepuce that made peeing an agony when the urine came in contact with the cuts. The doctor promised that removing part of the foreskin would solve everything. When I saw my poor little dick after the operation – hacked to pieces and stitched together with cable wire – I almost cried. It took five weeks before I could walk straight and now I gaze mournfully at my mutilated member that was once a pleasure pole to comely wenches and nymphets. Alas no longer. Woe is me.

Nominated by Mr Polly

A Dodgy Curry
A couple of nights ago the wife and I fancied eating out, and took ourselves along to The XXXXXXX Indian Restaurant (name withheld due to fears of possible legal ramifications). There I partook of a seemingly excellent curry with all the trimmings, washed down by a couple of beers.
Observant cunters will notice my use of the qualification ‘seemingly’. By ten that evening, I was feeling decidedly queasy and took myself off to bed, followed shortly by the missus with her book. At this point my tripes were starting to tremble alarmingly, and I sent a number of putrid guffs rattling off to the boundary in rapid succession. The wife was having none of this, and ‘suggested’ that I might like to relocate, so that she could get some rest without fear of being gassed in her sleep.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I crept downstairs and brewed some tea. After a couple of sips, my worst fears were realised. My insides felt as though they’d turned to scalding liquid and I did the crouch and dash into the loo, where I furiously proceeded to pebbledash the toilet bowl as my arse erupted like Vesuvius with a real grump on. A right pan cracker and no mistake.
Thus began a night of existential misery as I alternated between shivering on the settee and squatting on the bog as the curry did its best to mangle my guts into a pulp. A couple of bog rolls and several Diocalm tablets later, I crawled back to bed as the dawn chorus started, and slept like the dead for six hours. Come the afternoon and I ventured out of bed to try a cup of weak tea. For the remainder of the day I hobbled about like a bow legged cowboy, thanks to a raw, ragged ringpiece which felt not so much wiped as abrased by industrial strength sandpaper embedded with aluminium shavings.
I’m recovered now, but take it from me, hell will have frozen over before I patronise that fucking curry house again. This was a true shockhorror experience; literally a thundering sack of cack. They say that if you’re feeling really down and depressed, it can seem as though the bottom has fallen out of your world. Well I say, eat a dodgy cunting curry and it really will feel as though the world’s fallen out of your bottom.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Wimbledon, that annual bore fest.
Need I say more, except I hope that Mr Dynamic gets eliminated quickly.

Nominated by Mystic Maven

A cunting please for Dame Margaret Beckett.

This turd in a dress has had it coming for a number of years, primarily on three cunts, I mean counts.

Firstly, she was one of the mongoloids who thought it would be a good idea to sponsor Comrade Jezbollah Compo’s leadership bid, all for the sake of having a proper leadership debate in the Labia Party, even though she did not intend to vote for him, the stupid bitch. Initially, Compo was struggling to get the required number of supporters, but with the support of Suckdick and Beckett, he just scraped through. Beckett has therefore directly contributed to Compo’s reign of terror.

Secondly, during the enquiry into Speaker Bercunt’s bullying of staff, Beckett agreed that The Bercunt was a bully and a dwarf cunt, but said it didn’t matter and he should stay as he was needed to thwart Brexit.

Thirdly, she is an evil fucking Uber-remainer whose latest wheeze, along with that Arch-Cunt Grieve, is to propose a motion that in the event of a no deal, all funding and tax raising powers for government functions like health and welfare will stop, thereby artificially making the effect of no deal so awful that no government will consider it.

This is easily the most evil piece of legislation ever proposed by a British Parliamentarian. For proposing it Beckett, along with Grieve and any other MP that supports it, deserve a special place in the hottest part of hell where they can enjoy the sensation of having red hot pokers inserted in their fundaments for the rest of eternity.

Cunts. Fuck off.

Nominated by Marvellous Mechanical Cunting Machine