Saturday Night Fever was on the other night and I said that it was like watching Jersey Shore but with more macho haircuts and the women don’t get punched.
I said it to myself as there was no one here but me… I laughed.
Have you seen that video of that horrendous thing Snooki getting punched in the face on the show? I have, in fact I’m the reason it’s had over a million views. The first time I saw it I must have looped it about one hundred times. Someone had mashed it together with the mortal combat music and I nearly wet myself laughing.
And I know that it’s bad to punch girls/women but you can hardly call that thing a woman; though saying that with enough tequila in me I probably still would; it would be a lie if I said I haven’t done worse.
But this is something you can bank on; I’m definitely robbing her place when she’s passed out.
… And taking a car, I aint paying for a cab.
What the fuck is a Snooki anyway?
I can only imagine it’s what a mentally/physically disabled person would come up with using that brown modelling clay when asked to sculpt a vagina.
There was a load of hoo-ha on that show too because that Snookie thing and her mate BJwoww or whatever kept getting their tits and gash out… and?
I still don’t know what’s so offensive about a pair of tits on telly?
You can show breast as long as you don’t show nipple but when some bloke sprays a diet coke that some stupid office tart has shaken up on purpose over his tight white vest, he’s allowed to strip off.
And I say stupid because if she wasn’t she wouldn’t be working in an office answering phones for a living… bitch.
But that’s enough sexism from me for now; I wouldn’t want to ruffle the feathers of any feminists out there. Whoops, shouldn’t say feathers either that would imply that I’m calling them a bird and you can’t say that nowadays either.
Where the fuck was this post going anyway?
… Oh yeah, another rant about censorship.
A few months ago someone reported an image that I posted on my Facebook wall for being inappropriate. It’s that image just over there, a fake magazine cover that has a tiny picture of a pair of boobs in one corner.
At first I thought it was really petty, just someone having a bit of a pop because I may have upset them with something I posted. Then I started thinking, well what if it’s someone on my friends list that really found a funny picture offensive?
What’s offensive about a set of tits… and do women really find them offensive?
If people started posting pictures of dicks on Facebook I don’t think I’d find it that disturbing.
Speaking of dick pics I have been coerced into the wonderful world of internet dating, something that I don’t really want to do and still find a bit of a mystery. But as I say a few mates have persuaded me into joining a few of these sites because “you’re a right miserable fucker recently, you need to get laid.”
I guess some company would be good for the soul and you can’t deny that a good shag is pretty much what everyone needs from time to time, but…
It’s like a fucking cattle market for your phone.
I scroll through the profiles of these women that are either way out of my league who are looking for professional blokes that can take them on holidays to far flung places or complete monsters that have a gang of kids that need a bloke to pay for their Sky TV packages. Instant family, just add wages.
Seriously, I haven’t found a single girl/woman on there that I have anything in common with. I did get a message the other day from a middle-aged woman that looked like 90’s television chef Rusty Lee asking me what I thought about the weather.
I didn’t respond to the message.
And I really don’t know what to say in these messages, as a socially awkward person I find it hard to approach women anyway, especially if it someone that I find attractive. It’s like my brain plays a horrid trick on me and I just get all weird and find solace in the bottom of a glass until I become a wreck and end up waking up alone and screaming.
I talked to a female friend about it and she said “just be you.” Fuck that!
A self-torturing sociopathic gobshite that thinks to highly of himself and can only express any kind of emotion through his computer; a man-child suspended in a state of arrested development with more emotional scaring that Freddie Kruger’s arse.
Yeah, just be myself.
And I’m not one of those cheesy guys with a laundry list of chat up lines or one of those guys that is mental enough to send a message like “you have nice tattoos… show me your butthole” then send a picture of my dick to every girl online until one of them says “okay.”
I knew a bloke that did that in night clubs. He literally went up to every girl and asked if they wanted a fuck until he found on that said yes. If none of them did he’d just go to another club and do it there.
And you know what, it always worked, fucking brazen bastard, you have to admire the man’s stones.
His dick is so viral that his spunk must be orange.
But I shall persevere; I will scroll, like, favourite and perv.
I shall continue to get drunk and send the occasional message in the middle of the night then regret it as soon as my eyes crack open in the morning. I will continue on my quest to find someone that doesn’t mind dating a neurotic mess of a writer with no job.
I will continue to click on women that look attractive in their thumbnail pic but turn out to be swamp-donkeys because I’m not wearing my glasses. And I will keep sending hate mail to people that draw on their eyebrows with a marker pen because it’s fucking hilarious.
Maybe I should start sending pictures of my junk to the spray tanned overly loud women of Essex?!