Self-checkout in grocery stores…
This is the second time this week I have needed to go to the grocery store for a few select things (most groceries I already have). Both times I proceeded to the self-check out station, only to find some degenerate with a full shopping cart, scanning each item one by one.
What the fuck??
The lesson learned: If you have a stockpile of thirty-plus groceries, get in line and wait for a cashier like the rest of us. Don’t be a cunt.
Nominated by Goodwill Cunting
I’d like to to nominate John Swinney please (this is my first attempt so please be gentle, fellow cunters!)
I came across (ooh er missus!) this little snippet of world-shattering news by accident:
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-tayside-central-50821872
Apparently, Herr Swiney (see what I did there?) and an organisation calling themselves ‘Perth Against Racism’ are getting their collective knickers in a twist after some stickers bearing the slogan “It’s okay to be white” have mysteriously started appearing on lamp posts and drainpipes throughout Perth city centre. Swiney has been positively foaming at the mouth over it, ranting the “atrocious” stickers had “no place in Perth or any other part of our country” and “we must stand together to resist this unacceptable material.” One stupid cunt had this to say: “I am certainly worried now for my daughters who are not white, but are from Perth. It’s sickening and disgusting to know that people think like this.” Don’t worry, luvvie. I don’t think you need to worry about the Perth branch of the McKu Klux Klan coming to rape and murder you and your daughters in the middle of the night, dressed in their tartan hoods and kilts.
What I find especially ironic is that Swiney is the current deputy and ex leader of the Scottish Nazi Party, whose unashamed and palpable hatred of England and anything English doesn’t seem to constitute racism. Incidentally, his uncle, Tom Hunter (VC) is the only Royal Marine from the Second World War to receive the Victoria Cross and was killed in action. He would have been very proud of wee little Johnnie.
Quite clearly (and apologies if I am) I must be missing the point as to what I see as a violent overreaction to a few stickers. Just remove them and have done with it. I understand the slogan may have been picked up by neo-Nazi groups, but I believe that was in the USA.
Anyway, we don’t seem to have the same fuss over the Black Lives Matter movement, do we?
Nominated by Cupid Stunt
Now, this used to be a fascinating night when I was younger, but in recent years it’s been a pile of cunt, usually fronted by either a potato crisp salesman or a `national treasure’ Lesbian.
Now, given the recent results of the `Glorious 12th’, I have been dipping my toe back into the bizarre world of ‘today identifying as Auntie BEEB,’ so thought I’d give it a go. Well, fuck me. After some Dark key footballerist who is apparently descended from Jesus himself, the greatest sporting highlights this year appear to be wimminz football, wimminz rugby, wimminz cricket, and any number of raspberries able to steer their wheelchairs without stacking it, oh, and Michael van Gerwen, presumably because he represents Europe.
Fuck off until you can do it properly again, you bunch of faggot, virtue signalling, Libtard arsewipes.
Cunts.
Nominated by Kunte Kunty
The period of mist and mellow fruitfulness has passed, and we’re plunged headlong into that time of conspicuous consumption referred to as ‘The Festive Season’.
Now aside from the fact it starts about the middle of September, I’m okay with Christmas. It’s a happy time, to be savoured with family and friends, and of course it’s a magical event for the Grandkids. But no sooner is Christmas done than the dreaded New Year arrives. I’ve never really seen the point of this additional binge so hot on the heels of the previous one, but this year I’m dreading it, as the wife and I will be spending it with the outlaws in Edinburgh.
Based on previous experience, there appear to two ways of celebrating Hogmanay in that grand auld toon. You can join the crush in the centre, where about a hundred thousand punters pile into Princes Street and recreate the Black Hole of Calcutta on a vast scale. There you’ll stand for hours, crushed like a sardine behind crowd barriers in the freezing cold (and like as not, pissing rain), while complete strangers tell you how much they love you, and everyone tries to convince everyone else that they’re having. a. wonderful. time. At midnight the fireworks will briefly blossom over the castle, then with a sense of anti-climax, everyone will stagger off, leaving behind several tons of litter, and hundreds of gallons of piss swilling around in doorways.
Alternatively, you can congregate at the in-laws, where dozens of complete strangers will tell you how much they love you. Old gits will dampen the atmosphere by insisting that the telly is on. This is so they can watch her off BBC Scotland’s early evening news programme introduce a series of cunts in tartan, who will proceed to prance about like fannies whilst yelling ‘yeeee ha!’, accompanied by a couple of tools playing unrecognisable jigs on fiddle and accordion. Everyone will try to convince everyone else that they’re having. a. wonderful. time.
As midnight approaches, mein host will instruct everyone to ‘charge their glasses’, and the reverential countdown to ‘The Bells’ will commence. Three, two, one… ‘Happy New Year!’. Everyone will hug everyone, and my mad bitch of a sister-in-law, now well oiled, will grab hold of me, shove her tongue down my throat and attempt to play ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on my tonsils. Then everyone will attempt to neck more food and drink than seems humanly possible while some cunt insists on bawling ‘My Love Is Like A Red Red Rose’ at the top of his voice. Matters will proceed in this vein until around five am, when the wife and I will collapse into bed. The room will then proceed to revolve around us as we hover on the tortured fringes of sleep, feeling like death warmed up.
Around midday I’ll struggle out of bed in urgent need of a piss. Then shivering and with a mouth that tastes like a camel’s enclosure, I’ll lurch downstairs in search of coffee. The wife, normally the epitome of womanly loveliness and elegance, will resemble the Wreck of The Hesperus, and will plead pitifully to be left to die in peace. In the kitchen, I’ll be greeted with a boisterously cheerful ‘Happy New Year!’ from the in-laws, and an enthusiastic ‘let’s get the bacon rolls on!’. Jesus. A bacon roll’s just what I’ll need when my head feels like a cannonball that’s about to plummet due south and exit explosively from my arsehole. ‘Any Andrews’ Liver Salts?’ I’ll croak. ‘Ha ha’, they’ll crow, ‘th’ Anglish never cad hawld their drenk!’
And New Year’s Day will drag on, with me doing my utmost to avoid noise of any description and alcohol of any kind, and longing to get back to the comfort of my own bed. The awful horror of excess indulgence and enforced joviality is bad enough, but what I really can’t stand about Hogmanay is the self-congratulatory heartiness of it all; that ‘here’s tae us, wha’s like us? Gey few, an’ they’re a’ deid’ maudlin, mawkish sentimentality. Mercifully by the 3rd of January we’ll be back in the quiet of our own house, and it will be, as my dear old mom used to say, ‘as far away as it will ever be’. Roll on.
Nominated by Ron Knee
A Festive Cunting for Ms Khatun.
Who the fuck is she? Well, she is the Headteacher of Whitehall Primary School in Essex (co-incidentally, the little dark key knocked off his scooter and stabbed by some other filth went here). And, to celebrate our Christian heritage, she has changed the words in a carol from “Jesus the Saviour” to “Jesus the baby”, among other changes:
The reason for this? What do you think? Yes, to not upset the peacefuls. Welcome to Britain – diversity is our strength, but just don’t be white or Christian.
Fucking cunt.
Nominated by Lord Cuntingdon