Note:  Just last night, I had a conversation with the mother of my wife who not being British, told me that all British humour is toilet humour.  Being a stand up Englishman, I wholeheartedly disagreed and fought my corner.  I wonder what this “humour” post will be about?

I am sorry.  This post is about bowels.  Passing wind.  Poop.  Rainbows.  If that is not your thing, why on earth are you on this site!  And what do you have against rainbows!

Something occurred to me a couple of days ago.  I was sitting there holding Shawnee and she was doing her thing.  Her “thing” is staring around the place, making the odd noise and crapping out the side of her nappy on to my two favourite shirts.  I swear she could hit my shirts even if I wasn’t wearing them.  And they were in a different room.

But she sat there and was quite happily squishing her face up, and farting.  Every time she did, there was an approving “That’s my girl!” from me, and “Ahhh…there, that’s better!  Well done!” from my wife and her Mum.

So I am thinking.  What if I do that?  What if I was to lift one leg, squash my face up and get rid of anything giving me a stomach ache?  I am thinking that the words “Oh you pig” and “That’s disgusting!” and “YEAH!  WOOHOOO!!!  A very good effort indeed my son!” are going to be shouted. 

OK, so the last one would be by blokes if done while enjoying a lads night out down the pub.  Maybe not the ideal comment. 

But what I am wondering is this. 

Where do the boundaries blur from “awwww!” to “Oh dear god no…I can’t see anymore, the smell is affecting my sight”. 

From “I just want to eat you up!” to “What the hell did you eat, and how long had it been dead for?  I want a divorce you dirty animal”. 

From “Hahaha I felt that on my hand!!” to “I hate you and everything you stand for you pigdog.  I hope it haunts you forever”.

Why is this most basic human ability frowned upon? 

Or there is the other end of the body.

People beat their children on the back to make them burp.  If I sit there belching I get frowned upon.  So a child makes a standard boring burping noise, and everyone rejoices that it’s stomach ache has gone away.  I go burping out a rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan’s greatest hits and at the same time remove the gaseous issue I have going on, and I get a load of grief.

Well?  Answer me!  I want to know!  Why is it OK for a child but not for an adult who is just getting rid of the same gas that gives us a stomach ache and uncomfortable bloatedness?

Oh, and I saw a rainbow on the drive to work the other day.  See, told you it was also about rainbows!

According to THIS news story, they have created a “drug” which increases a females sex drive.

Except replace “Drug” with “Face Mask”. 

“Drug” my left buttock!  And by that, I don’t mean literally drug my left buttock I mean…oh hell…if you don’t know what I mean, none of this site is ever going to mean anything to you.

This “Drug” they talk about.  It has been around for years.  There is nothing groundbreaking about it.  I reckon if I was to put on a George Clooney or Brad Pitt face mask, my wife would see an increase in her sex drive. 

I was going to try it for the benefits of research, and of getting my leg over.  But I am a sensitive soul, and I would know she was thinking of someone else during the act of me wriggling around on top of her like a distressed caterpillar. 

Oh, and before all you women run off to the shops to buy your “Face Masks”,

It will only be made available on prescription for postmenopausal patients with diagnosed sexual problems.

Is it a “Diagnosed sexual problem” when you think that your other half has over time has taken on the look of a river rat and you find him as attractive as being beaten repeatedly with a rubber dog poo in front of your neighbours wearing only your “Brigitte Jones” underwear?

Unless that is your thing.  Then…erm…hey, good for you buddy!  And I guess there is no need for a DrugFaceMask of some famous movie star as looking at your own reflection in a colander probably works for you.

The same news story also says:

It says 60% of the men who use Viagra have no erectile problems.

So they are just using it because they can?  I once took a whole pack of them, and then stood in Millets selling tents.  Made a fortune I can tell you!  Fainted after a while from severe lack of blood flow to the brain, but hey, it is a chance you take.  And I have a very nice bike I got with the money I made!

At the very end of the story, they say:

However, some medical experts do not feel one drug can solve the complex issues behind sexual dysfunction.

Nope.  If you cut off my penis and stick it in a tasty roll, cover it in ketchup and serve it to me without me realising…well…I am gonna need a hell of a lot more then Viagra to get it back up!  It doesn’t take a “Medical Expert” to work that one out does it Sherlock!

Before I get on with the post, just a quick Happy Birthday! to Jim over at TheMovieWhore.com.  Have a good one my friend.  I will have a beer for ya later!

Now.  On with the post.

I have mentioned once or 19 times before that me and religion, well, we aren’t the best of friends.  Religion is like the younger sibling who gets all the attention when it should be all about me.  So we don’t talk.  Hell, I don’t even send him a birthday card. 

In fact, as far as I am concerned, the sibling known as “religion” owes me. 

Strangely, I think he just paid up.  Well, lets just say I am re-evaluating.  OK, so I wont be going over to his house every Sunday for nibbles of bread and a glass of ribena anytime this lifetime, but I am thinking of at least entertaining him.  Or stealing his ideas.

Here is why:

A Bulgarian priest is to go under police surveillance – because of a field of cannabis he claims is a gift from God.

Or the even more fun paragraph:

He is a man of the cloth and so a lot of people don’t want to think badly of him but frankly if someone has a huge crop of cannabis in their back garden it’s highly unlikely they are just sitting there admiring its horticultural properties.

Yes, Father Stoned-a-lot (Lancelot’s brother?) believes that it is part of God’s gift of nature. 

Oh, and the police have never seen him cultivating it. 

DUH!  Of course they haven’t.  They watch all the roads for him coming along and rolling his joints, but if they think about it, watch the skies.  He is damn well flying in.  He is high as a kite.  Or maybe the policey men are also “Enjoying their job” a little too much?  Lets be honest.  How many people could really do the job of surveillance on a huge field of weed? 

“For this job, you will be required to sit and stare at a huuuuuuuge field of weed.” I think everyone in the world knows someone who would wet themselves in anticipation.  Actually, I just wet myself, but that was because I reeeeeally need to pee, but want to get this post out.  Yes, I mess myself for you people.

Now.  As I said, I am thinking of borrowing this way of thinking.  But I don’t smoke.  And I don’t take drugs (yup, Mr Clean I am).  So I am thinking weed is maybe not the way forward.  But I need to use this “God said so!” thing and use it to my advantage.

Alcohol.  I can use alcohol!  And I don’t mean rubbing alcohol, as that really hurts when you drink it.

Well, so I read in an online science article somewhere.  Once.  In between my “other” surfing habits.  OK OK…fine…I clicked the link by accident while searching for “Rubbing myself while drinking alcohol”.  I haven’t been back there since, and have taken all science related items out of my favourites.  I promise to not try and sound sexy again.  OK?  Sorry.  Can we move on?  You are making me uncomfortable with all your unimpressed looks.

But anyway, I have taken up walking in to shops, picking up as much alcohol as I can, and leaving.  You don’t have to pay for it.  This “God” chap wanted me to have it.  I know this because he put it there, and gave me taste buds that enjoy it.  He didn’t invent money or any other currency system.  OK, so I can’t say that for definite.  I break in to a sweat every time I walk near a bible, so reading it may cause me to combust.  And when I am full of alcohol, that is just going to be messy. 

Actually…that is a valid point.  He created a book that turns me to flames, and then gives me a drink that fuels the fire! 

Stuff it.  This religion lark is not for me.  I will pay for my hangovers.

Hang on.  He is also giving a gift that brings pain in the shape of a hangover?

And religion is supposed to be fun?

You can read about the PuffFather HERE

Ahh yes.  The profoundness of watching a film and thinking of something completely irrelevant.  This time, it was “The Time Machine”.  I find watching Guy Pearce “act” about as exciting as getting molested by a bear with a dodgy disease. 

But that doesn’t matter.  (Does it?)

Geez.  Ya know…I cannot remember where I was going with this.

Hell.  I dunno.  Lets talk about something else.  Lets talk random.

OK, lets start with beauty pageants.  As you know I have done a few posts on pageants, but I decided to google “animal beauty pageants” and see what came up.  The result?  Scary.  Reptile, bulldog…hell, there is even an “Ugliest Dog” pageant.  Although I have since confirmed that this is fixed, and not a true reflection as I couldn’t see my 1st wife on there anywhere.

Harsh but Fair.

Weirdly, as I move on, I stay with the her, but not directly.

Lets talk about cows.  According to “boffins”:

cattle and deer align their bodies in a north-south direction

Boffins?  Someone with an unhealthy appetite for looking at the rear of a cow is not what I would call a boffin.   I guess the other part here is…WHY?!  Not why do cows do it,   but why do we care?  Why do they care?  Strangely, the news story fails to mention the answer to this question.  Maybe because there is no other reason apart from a German scientist with an unhealthy craving spending too much time looking at Google Images.

Moving on from cows to idiots.  I filled in my very first DMCA today.  Yeah, someone was actually interested in ripping off my content.  Sad sad lonely human being.  I read this stuff back and am amazed you peeps come back.  Is it because you just love a good car crash movie, or much much less?  Of course, it was the fact that the site with my content would reload an advert whereas he/she/SheMale was making money so that was that.  Closing down the site.  “What was the site?” I can hear you not even interested to know.  Well, I wont tell you that as they could make more money from ads until the DMCA is being actioned.  But if the person who stole my content is reading this:

“Hey.  Dude.  Your village wants their idiot back!  Be a good freak and head on home.”

Moving on from idiots to “OH MY GOD I JUST DONT CARE!  STOP GIVING HER NEWS SPACE!”.

Amy Winehouse is facing legal action after pulling out of a concert where she was one of the headline acts.  Sorry, but if I paid £50 for a ticket to a gig and then she pulled out, I would think I was on to a winner and the night was about to get a LOT better.  Geez…I JUST DON’T CARE!  MAKE THEM STOP!!!

So anyway.  As the post title says.  Just what does a blind person dream about?  Any ideas?

So I just read this post back.  Anyone else hear the death knell?

Once in a while, you read a news headline and think “Huh??” and you then click that little link to see what is coming.  In this instance, the headline read:

Cash-in-buttocks man in M25 ban

So obviously, I clicked the link.  Fortunately, the first thing I noticed was the lack of pictures.  The last thing I needed to see was a man with £280 stashed between his cheeks.  Although was it in big notes, or smaller denominations?  His butt could have looked like the face of a gerbil who had just had the feast of his life.

Or maybe it was in small change?  If it was, what do you pull to see if you win the jackpot?  A one armed bandit indeed!  I am assuming that the best way to “hit the jackpot” is that you stick 20p in his mouth, and then one good yank on something that looks like may be used to play the game.  His eyes show two 7’s, his face turns to a huge smile and money comes pouring out of his behind.  You can imagine the handle gets pretty greasy though and is probably best saved for a little old lady with a bucket of coins and no sense of decency.

The other thing the story mentions is that this man who has a penchant for inserting money up his behind is also a druggie.

He is a very confused druggie.  Maybe a little on the thick side who took someone winding him up for real.

He obviously has read that bank notes are the favourite tool for the sticking of drugs up your nose, but really…”Butt Crack” is not a registered “Class A” drug.  You can see him now sitting there getting high on a £20 note he just wiped his arse with.  I want to know how they got him for 44 previous drug related convictions. 

Maybe he had a habit of wiping the note on other people and then sniffing it?

But the good news is that this naughty felon has been told to go to a drug rehabilitation programme.  No more crack for him then!

Of course, this is not the first time someone has had trouble with simple instructions. 

Did you know that “superglue” sticks really well?  And by really well, I mean that if you were to put it on your penis and insert it in to a vacuum cleaner, you just might get stuck!

Yeah really!  Who’d have thunk it!

But indeed.  A “Circus of Horrors” Dwarf did just that.  Obviously when you have a name like “Captain Dan the Demon Dwarf”, you have parents that just weren’t that keen on you at birth.  What was wrong with just calling him Colin?  That is the problem with the world people.  Call your kid a normal name, and brains will come as standard.  Call your kid “…The Demon Dwarf”, and you know bad things will happen to them in life. 

I have to question just what this show was though.  Because getting jiggy with a vacuum????  I hope it was a Dyson!

Right.  I am off to wipe my butt with a vacuum.  Surely you can’t get arrested for that? 

Butt sniffing drug monster HERE

“Captain Dan” with a complete absence of mind HERE

A while ago I wrote a post about a camel beauty pageant.  I would put a link to it here…but that would involve me finding it.  Therefore, think of the fun you can have looking for it yourself!

Alternatively you can read this one which is not about a camel.  Instead, it is about a cow. 

Well, lots of cows.  And they are pretty.

To some people.  Not to me.  

For instance, the religion Hinduism worship cows.  I like to eat steaks.  The two couldn’t be further apart.  But lets take it one step further.  Lets give a medal to the prettiest one.

Really.

Yes, in Ireland, there is a yearly contest where I guess the farmers look at their prettiest cow’s, and enter them in to a competition.  They get points for:

• Shapely legs
• Nice back
• Nice Udders
• Temperament

It doesn’t say if the winner gets turned in to dinner, or if it becomes a deity though.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Each to their own and all that, but how is this calculated?  Is the temperament looked at before they go and grab a handful of her udders, during the cupping and fondling of the udders or when you don’t call her back the next morning?  Because that is a wide range of temperament. 

Or maybe they do all three?  “yes, she was fine when I was buying her a drink at the bar, and then all the time I was fondling her udders, but I didn’t call her the next day and she went mad.  You lose 5 points for this, as I never said I would call her”.

And “Nice Udders”?  What constitutes “Nice Udders”?  Is it the quality of the milk?  The shape of the udders, the way they swing when she walks?  The colour?  And just how do they do this?  All stand around with clipboards saying “ohhh yes.  Lovely udders.  Very swingy while having a good firmness to them” as they grab them?  Or do they put the cow on a vibrating machine to check the consistency of the udders under the pressure of vibration?  Do they lose points in this instance for their milk becoming milkshake?

“Nice Back”.  Of course it has.  Are we talking “Back” or “Behind” here?  Because if I was a cow (which hey, if I ever take up buddhism, I may well decide to come back as one just to tease you all), I would have issues with a bunch of blokes looking at my rear.  I would be making comments about being more then just a piece of meat!

You know, none of this makes any sense.  So I have decided to start my own “beauty contest”.  It involves money.  I for instance have a VERY pretty £50 note in my wallet.  Personally I think it is the prettiest £50 note ever, and will never be beaten.  Do you think you have a better one?  Well you send me it and lets see who is right!  Sadly I can’t guarantee that the money will be returned, but hey, if you win the award why would you care!  You too could get a certificate from me to put on your wall!

If we get enough entrants, I will let you come for a party aboard my new boat.*

Oh, and if you feel the need to see a video about the pretty cows, go HERE.  Perv.

* – I need about 2000 entrants so don’t be shy…tell ALLLLL your friends!

People are all too often berated for doing something completely normal (to them) 5and then to the rest of the world, it seems a little weird.

Take for example this tale of woe.  Of wee.  Of “woohooooo!”.  But it ended in an “ooohhh….”. 

It could happen to anyone.  Even you!  Well, if “you” are a man.  If you are a woman and can pull this off, then you need to realise you are indeed a man.  Or confused.  Or there is a special word for you.  You know the one?  Yeah?  Hum….aphrodite?  It might be Aphrodite.  Of course, it might not.  But who are we to question something that has absolutely no bearing at all on this post?

Where was I?  Oh yeah.

So there I was.  Walking in the park.  A sunny beautiful day.  And then I saw her.  I only knew her by her nickname which was “park bench”.  I often wondered what her real name was.  I had an idea that it was “Doris”, but part of me knew that it would not be such a lavish name.  I think “Doris” was a name of a friend as she wore a label that said “In memory of Doris”.  Who was this Doris?  What happened to her to require such a label to be worn on “benchy”?  Would we ever know?  Hell, do we even care?

Park Bench was an angel.  And I knew she was interested in me.  I knew this because she stalked me in that park.  Every single time I went to that park, she was there.  In the same place.  Staring at me.

I would often go and sit on Park Bench.  We would talk for hours about many different subjects.  Well, I say “we” would talk.  Benchy was not one for the talking.  Actually, she never really replied back.  Just creaked once in a while.  I just figured that she loved to hear my voice and listen to all the wonderful things I would say.

Then it happened.  One day, I was walking towards Park Bench, and a dog came running past me, making me lose balance.   I stumbled.  My trousers fell down.  I realised I had “gone commando”, and I was exposed. 

Stumbling.  Tripping.  Panicking.

I fell on Park Bench.

And then it happened.  Realising I was in heaven, something grew.  I became stuck.  It wouldnt go down.  I thought about as many things as I could which would normally resolve this “issue”.  I thought about Thomas the Tank Engine.  I though about Margaret Thatcher in a bikini contest with the Queen.  I even thought about why today of all days these things were working for me. 

It just got worse.  People stopped and stared.  Laughing at me, pointing at me, disgusted at me.

They had to cut me free as I couldn’t get over my happiness at my encounter with Park Bench.

OK, so you are thinking that this didn’t happen.  Sadly…it did.  OK, so not to me because car engines are more my thing when it comes to getting jiggy with it. 

Did I say car engines?  I meant my wife.  Sorry, a bit of a typo there.

Aaaanyway.  A man in Hong Kong did indeed try to hump a park bench.  Actually, I say try, he succeeded I guess.  The evidence?  Him, a park bench and his love truncheon stuck on one of the holes.  Indeed.

So the story mentions, they actually removed some of his blood in an attempt to “reduce the swelling”.  They also say it took 4 hours to cut him free.

From a park bench???  4 HOURS???  They were English workmen I guess.  Stopping for regular breaks to enjoy a tasty cup of tea.  But you have to give him kudos on the fact that for over 4 hours, he was still “stiff as a brush”.  You would think that with that many people staring, playing with him and the loss of blood from the body that maybe…just maybe…the best way to solve this was to “relieve him”. 

Surely that would fix it.  You pull curtains around the bench, put on some Barry White and tell him to just get involved with himself for 10 minutes (or however long it takes.  Some of us can get it sorted in 28 seconds…apparently.  Not that it has ever been timed. *cough* And that would be it.  He would be free to propose to the bench and go on his merry way.

A couple of months ago:

So there I was, looking at my nasty ingrowing toenail. It was a terrible. It sat there staring at me, being all ingrowy (if that is even a word?).  I decided it was time to take action.  So being sensible, I asked Google the best way to clear my toe of this heinous visitor that I didn’t ask for. 

The results were a little…well…different. 

Stupidly, one site said about using a cream.  A CREAM!  Geez.  What will happen when I use it?  I will get softer skin, no wrinkles and turn out looking like a ten year old??  No way.  As I said in the last post…nothing but bad news can come from using these creams. 

So what to do.  Well, I dug deeper.  Removed the cream results.  How about pliers.  I figured it would mean ripping the nail off with the pliers, but nope.  You attach the pliers to places no pliers should be.  And I don’t mean Finland.  Apparently the excruciating pain takes away the thought about the toe.

Never going to happen.  I am rubbish at DIY anyway.  It was only going to end in tears whatever way I did it.

The only result that made any sense was to blast Gamma Radiation in to my head.  Obviously. 

So I bought a Gamma Radiation machine.  And I blasted myself in the head with it.  Daily.  For 3 weeks.

Nothing happened.  My toe was exactly the same.

Well, when I say “nothing happened”, I am not completely telling the truth.  You see, now when I get angry, I change.  I change a LOT.  And I don’t mean I actually turn in to someone funny.  I turn WEIRD. 

Let me take you back 2 weeks.

I was doing some gardening.  A bird flying above me kept swooping down trying to grab a hold of my seed.  Now, don’t take that as some dodgy sexual metaphor.  I mean that this bird was trying to get my grass seed.  I was livid.  I had spent a good 19 minutes in the garden doing work, and now some naughty pigeon was trying to eat what was supposed to make the garden all pretty and green.  It was important to me that the garden was a nice deep green colour.  But Mr Pigeon was making this very difficult.  I reached the end of my tether.

I went nuts.  My heart started racing.  Then, like those dodgy episodes of Manimal (if anyone even remembers it!  If not…google it!!) I started changing.  My hands pulsed.  My head pulsed.  Hell, there was even pulsing where there just shouldn’t be during such a life altering moment.  A minute later, everything around me seemed bigger.  Like I was now an elf.  Wandering over to the door, I looked in the glass.  I saw my reflection.  I had changed.  My calm demeanor was replaced.  I turned in to something I didn’t want to be.  I became….

That is me.  Actual size.  Smaller then a pigeon, but faster.  More agile.  An angry green chick.  And I wanted revenge.

Except that I was a chick.  Chick’s can’t fly.  I got angrier.  More angry then ever before.  All around me, all I could see was RED…

The angrier I got, the hungrier I got.  My wife came out to bring me a cold beer to help with all the “Man Work” I was doing in the garden.  I pecked at her feet.  She had black shoes on…black…it drew me to it.  It was like food.  I pecked and pecked.  She ran in to the house screaming.  I couldn’t call her.  My voice was back to pre-puberty.  I sounded like a distressed mongoose.  I ran about the garden calling her.  All she would hear was a mad chirping noise.

And then I spotted it.

Piles and piles of black seed.  Grass seed.

I knew I shouldn’t.

But I did.  I turned in to that pigeon.  Eating all the precious grass seed. 

I felt dirty.  I felt used.  Even though I had used myself. 

It took a while, but an hour or so later, I returned to human form.  Checking that the important parts were back, I removed my hand from my trousers and went in to the house to tell my wife.

Since then, it has been a traumatic time.  Every time I see someone washing a car, I feel a need to go take a crap on it.  Every time I see a puddle, I go wash in it.  I eat too many nuts and seeds. I throw bread in to lakes and then swim in after it and eat it myself.

I want to use my new ability for crime fighting purposes, but I almost strangled myself with my cape.  I need a purpose. 

Help me.  Help me find the meaning to all this.

Signed,

Confused Chicky chick  (although you can call me Hulk)