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HERE COMES (SIC) THE PORN DOCTOR

Porn Again Research

Well, I'm back and I'm NOT happy. Imagine, I come out of a 2 month long coma during which I have 67 near death experiences (frigging Doris Stokes ... if I never see her face again it will be too soon) and check out what been going on at this blog and what do I find? Brenda Bulldyke!

Someone has walked on my grave. That bitch was my 34th. cousin (not far enough removed) Terry Sedgwick's first wife! I tried to warn the silly bastard. You can't marry your sister, it's not natural. For one, she doesn't come from a good family. For two, you've got a lot of lovely looking first cousins and if it's good enough for the Royals it's good enough for you. (I really should have been more specific because his second marriage to his first cousin Quentin was a total disaster. Sedgwick was always a soft touch not to say a bit hard of hearing, so when Quentin said "I want to have your Barbies" young Terry fell for it hook, line and sinker.) For three, most of the marsupials around her are better looking than her. Did the silly prick listen? Not on your Nelly, though I think my third point might have sowed a seed or two.

I thought I'd seen that last of her demented face when she boarded the British Airlines Tiger Moth in 1957. She said she needed to find her own space, Australia (and Sedgwick) was not big enough for her. You're right, another of that prune faced germ Greer's disciples! Good riddance to bad rubbish was the feeling around these parts. We'd thought she'd died. No such luck.

I have to tell you the plastic surgery she had done to bury her old identity is a vast improvement on the gurnic gargoyle that left these shores. Mind you the surgery obviously didn't do much for her intellect, the same old rambling splenetic tracts we used to cop ad nauseum at Xmas barbeques in the Farcus backyard. "Don't eat those snags, they're a symbol of male hegemony!" (Whatever that frigging means!)

Anyhow you're welcome to the trollop, I've got bigger fish to fry. I strongly suspect that frigging Very Reverend Steven Gilallen took advantage of my comatose state to have his wickered way. I am waiting for the DNA tests to come back from the lab to see if he's the bastard responsible for getting me up the duff. Jesus! I'm too old to start changing frigging nappies all over again. Gave that on my 75th. birthday after an unexpected arrival. I'm still chasing that frigging John Howard for child support for my young Timmy.

As much as it against my principles I might have to have a termination. One Steven Gilallen is one Steven Gilallen too many and I don't have child bearing hips any more. More like ball bearing hips after the op. Must go, due for a grease and oil change on the new joints.

My words come to an end...

This is my first posting here and, to be blunt, I don't take any bullshit! Let me put this fact to you straight and with conviction! All men are bastards! Every single one of them! Dirty perverted gits that they are. (Apart from homosexuals, of course, who understand the need to go shopping for shoes and are never ever violent.)

Don't take my word for the disgraceful behaviour of our male counterparts! According to government figures 100% of men in Britain and America (and even more in Australia) beat their wives and stab their children on a regular basis! Off with their balls, the big sweaty, muscle-bound, machismo bastards! I've seen them, you know? Hanging round the building sites and leering at me through their office windows. Undressing me mentally! Running their invisible hairy hands up and down my body! Probing my love mound with their hard erect members! Gently bringing me to the boil by flicking their tongues against my...

I'll tell you what! If women ran the world it'd be a damned site safer place to live than it is now! Look at what Maggie Thatch did! She didn't put up with all this testoterone induced bullshit. She kicked those ignorant men where it hurt. Filthy male shits! They wouldn't understand love and peace if we kicked them repeatedly in the bollocks to ram the point home. Which I very often do. If women ran the planet there wouldn't be any men. We'd have them all strung up by their thick, pulsating knobs and smeared in baby oil until it dribbled down their armpits and into my twitching mouth where...

Ahem! Sisters! Let us unite against the common enemy! Let us link dildos round the globe in a gesture of defiance! Let us rid ourselves of these pea brained rapists, these penis driven descecrators of women's organs, these lust filled, heaving, writhing bronzed studs with the early morning sunlight winking from their buttocks!

...........

Actually I think I'd better work out what to say in advance before I post my next article hadn't I?

It's the newest bizarre adventure of mine. I live in an eleven flat building wich have an inner yard and my postbox is in the yard. A Hungarian daily paper (Magyar Hirlap) started to send me their news. Silly Marketing. I didn't care about it, but I got a call for the postoffice, that they have a problem: the news delivery man don't want to come into our house, because he afraid of that somebody steal his dropped bicycle. They instruct me to mount a postbox to the street. I called the editorial office of the paper and said to them not to send me the daily. I got a promise... but it was false. Therefore I called the postoffice and said I didn't need this daily, they can safely wipe out theirs butt with this paper. 'Right, but I had to write this in front of witnesses' said they.
Well, I did it. We lived in peace but this didn't take long. Today I have got a mail from the postoffice: I've a not standard postbox (the definition of the standard postbox is in the bloody nobody-knowed 133/1993/XI.29 edict) and they didn't be able to deliver anything. Of course, I have a totally normal postbox, I bought it in the OBI.
So, this is the fact presently: when I get any weekly paper, the delivery man will come into the house and drop me a mail into my nonstandard postbox from the postoffice. They write in this mail, that I've got some paper and I can receive this in the post office.
And the funniest thing: the window is directly at the newsstand.

THE NEWS IN BRIEFS!

A jet bound for Tel Aviv and an Israeli owned hotel in Kenya were both targets of terrorist attacks today. The jet, mainly filled with Israeli passengers, was fired upon with a ground-to-air missile launched from a handheld weapon. The little known 'Army of Palestine' have owned up to both occurances.

And that's where you'd expect the story to end.

However, despite the so called 'Army of Palestine' being the most obvious link (especially since they claim without reservation to have committed both acts) the British and US governments, along with their respective medias, reckon their claims are bollocks and that both attacks were carried out by the Al Queada network.

Why in God's name? Well...and I have to admit that I might be being a bit cynical here...probably because it would cost too much to produce another twelve months of spin establishing Iraq with the Army of Palestine thus giving America and Britain an excuse to bomb the crap out of it. Osama bin Laden, the World Trade Centre disaster, Iraq...they're all now permanently grouped under the same heading in the average dickwit's brain thanks to many long hours of media brainwashing. Then these upstart little farts from Palestine muscle in on the act! I wonder how pissed off they are that not only did their missiles fall wide of the mark but now Al Queada, without even trying, are getting the credit for all their hard work.

Other news, and Charlotte Church, the seventeen year old chubby Welsh diva, has thrown a tantrum at the airport because her mother, apparently, doesn't like her new boyfriend. Exactly how this constitutes news is as much a mystery to me as it probably is to you. Poor little rich girl, famous and rolling in lolly by the age of twelve, having boyfriend troubles...excuse me while I wipe away a tear and light a candle for her troubles.

If he'd been belting her round the face and neck with a shovel that might have been interesting.