Archive for September, 2008

Free Vegan Porn!!!

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 27, 2008 by Buck Frain

I’m interrupting the important series on share-house living to bring you this important bulletin. I have discovered a new and exciting genre in the diverse realm that is pornography – VEGAN PORN!!!

I felt it was only fitting to try and give something to all those people who have stumbled onto this site looking for wank fodder and have felt ripped off because it was all just obscene language and spite.

Vegan porn is pretty out there but it is new and entirely meat-free  with no connection whatsoever with animal products or flesh of any kind. I have included two examples from my own extensive vegan porn library and I can safely say that no animals were in anyway involved in its production, unless I count because I took the photos and I’m made of meat.

My first example is this nubile, barely-legal, virgin poppy. Ooh yeah, she’s young and she’s gagging for it.

 

And my second is this one below – my favourite TILF (Tree I’d Like to Fuck) Just look at this mucky old slapper, she’s bang up for it any old time! This dirty old bitch has been around and seen it all – just count the rings!!!   

 

You people are fuckin’ sick, they’re plants! JESUS!!! No, seriously, I don’t judge anyone for their sexual orientation. Whatever floats your boat – ya sick fucks! By the way, if anyone has any more vegan porn whether it’s floraginas, cuntrees or rootable fruits, I’d be really interested in it – from a purely academic standpoint, you understand. Please send all herbaceous whacking material to buck.frain@gmail.com  If it’s any good I may even post it here – I’ll credit you, of course! Stay freaky!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #3

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2008 by Buck Frain


#3. Bio-hazard Bathroom

Let me make this clear: I am not a clean freak. I’m not like the former emergency room nurse I lived with for a while who used to disinfect everything including the walls on a daily basis. Incidentally, she was great, I never lived in a house so clean – it’s just a shame she was also a paranoid schizophrenic, we were on a good wicket for a while.

I am realistic – I get that there is dirt and I tolerate it in moderation but seriously, what the chewed-off-piss-flaps is wrong with people? Why do these pigs insist on living in their own filth? It makes me want to vomit in their beds, and I mean a really good cheese-fondue-and-red-wine vomit that stains and stinks with equal power. Fuck it – the bathroom is where you come to get clean. When the floor of the shower is slick with a layer of – what the shit is that? Algae? – when black mould is climbing up the soap-crusted glass of the shower screen, it’s just revolting. How can I get clean in filth? It’s impossible. 

I try anyway but when I reach for the soap I see it is covered with pubes. Not just one or two, although that would be bad enough, but fucking hundreds of them. Is there actually any soap underneath? I don’t fucking know I’m just trying not to throw up. The Soap Pube Bandit has struck again. It bewilders me how anyone can lose this many pubes regularly. Does one of my house-mates have cancer? The bastard better fucking well die from it if they’re going to keep being such a filthy maggot. Surely you can see the pubes when you put the soap back in its dish! I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t my  soap. Buy your fucking own, you cunting great shit-smeared gorilla! I’d buy shower gel except I can’t find one with a lockable lid to prevent wasteful borrowers from using half the bottle in one day. How dirty can you possibly get? What the fuck needed that much lathering? No, no, don’t answer that!!! 

The shower is just a part of it. There’s the scum-tide rings in the bath, there’s the dribbly nob. Most houses have a dribbly nob. Someone who just can’t get all their piss in the toilet bowl. I’m not talking about the occasional incidence of a house-mate being too rat-arsed to aim straight, although that too is pretty offensive – How did you get piss there? Were you lying down? – I’m talking about the guy who lets the last dribble of piss land on the floor just in front of the bowl. He does it every single time and when do I become aware of it? At 3am when I drowsily stumble barefoot into the bathroom and awaken myself by stepping in someone else’s cold urine. WHAT THE CUNT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU 80 YEARS OLD??? DIE, YOU STINKING FUCKER, DIE!!! 

But it never ends, there’s the chalky layer of spat toothpaste speckled with beard stubble in the hand basin – what the fuck? Then, has someone been using my toothbrush? What sort of ballbag uses someone else’s toothbrush? Can’t you tell the difference between them? Aren’t the primary colours and variations in design and bristle pattern vivid enough distinctions? Excuse me, do you have Hepatitis C?

Quick fact: Hey, filth-mongers, you can get Hep C from sharing a toothbrush and there is NO cure for it!

Have you used my razor as well? It was brand new and now it’s duller than Peter Costello‘s autobiography. Let’s hope you don’t have HIV either, you cock-rotting fucktard! Yes, there are lots of things you can get from sharing razors and most people don’t demand blood tests from the people they share houses with but perhaps they should – when you think about it seriously the stakes are pretty damn high. So, how did you get HIV? Unprotected, anonymous bum sex? Oh no, I once shared a house with a complete cunt! 

The stand-off between pigs and bitches reaches fever pitch in the bathroom. This can be the room where the battle is lost or won. It’s personal and the stakes are very high, it will provoke many a lively discussion but if the players are stubborn and no-one gives it can be the deciding factor in people leaving a house. 

I fucking refuse to share my bathroom with pigs. I live on my own, I’m happy and clean and I don’t take my life in my hands every time I use the shitting bathroom!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #2

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2008 by Buck Frain

#2. Dishes Jenga

 

The aftermath of dishes berserker is clean but no less treacherous. Given the marathon effort of cleaning every dish in the house over two-plus hours, the idea of drying them all and putting them away is too much of a cruel and unusual punishment for most to consider. So the unusable kitchen filled with dirty dishes is now an unusable kitchen filled with precariously balanced clean ones. A new stand-off begins, it’s the game of Dishes Jenga.

 

Dishes Jenga is never spoken about but it invariably happens unless, of course, a bitch can be found. It takes its name from the Hasbro game which in turn takes its name from the Swahili word for build. The game is this: Any player may remove the dish(es) they need and use them as they see fit without putting the clean dishes away providing no-one else sees them with the dishes and most importantly, so long as the pile of dishes remains intact and no re-organisation of said dishes is required to remove the desired articles. This can be done because while the clean dish piles are undisturbed there is a fog of plausible deniability that shrouds the kitchen in mystery. Any player can quite believably claim:

Oh, I didn’t see them there.

Or

I haven’t used any dishes, I haven’t even been in the kitchen for days.

Or even

Fuck off, man, who the fuck are you?

 

Whilst everyone secretly knows that everyone else is playing the game, no-one is confronted with direct, incontrovertible evidence of the game’s existence, therefore it can continue unimpeded. As soon as someone creates evidence of the game’s existence they lose and must put all the dishes away. Such causes for losing the game are:

 

  • Getting caught using dishes while the pile remains – This will be met with patronising, even hostile responses from your house-mates as it indicates your extreme selfishness.
  • Disrupting the pile and sending an avalanche of dishes crashing to the floor – This is met with even more hostile responses as not only are you a conniving, selfish cunt-rag, but you just smashed a pile your house-mates’ crockery whilst attempting to scam your way out of a minimal gesture towards communal life.  

Usually the game is lost without any such drama. You’ll just be trying to get a knife out so you can butter a piece of toast when the plates shift and you know it’s all over. You replace the knife with surgical precision, quietly acknowledge defeat and spend half an hour putting the dishes away. That is unless you don’t really want the toast buttered, in which case you replace the knife, eat dry toast and leave the pile for someone else…you cunt! No-one ever wins Dishes Jenga – it only has losers.

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

If it wasn’t bad enough that I have had to endure the indignity of disability and the smug, well-humoured Hoh hoh, what have you done to yourself?s  that go along with it, I had a particularly malignant acquaintance capitalise on my misfortune in order to prove his bullshit neo-hippy thesis that my living alone makes me an elitist fuck and that I should get over my self-importance and live in a share-house like a real person, thus helping save the planet by being more economical with energy and water and, of course, breaking less crockery by having house-mates who’d do the dishes.

 

Peter,

Fuck you! You are a complete cunt! If I thought I could get away with it I would chop your head off and stuff it in your fucking worm farm, you patronising perma-culture-shit-freak. Everyone hates you, did you know that? Everyone at work also suspects you are a chronic masturbator because you always look vaguely sweaty and glassy eyed and you’re too anal to just be stoned at work. In addition, you know how you shagged Emma from accounts after the Christmas party? And how you bragged about it like a complete wank-stain? She told me and Shane that you couldn’t get it up, and that then you cried and said it was because you’d really fancied her for ages and you were just overwhelmed by the moment. Ha ha ha ha ha!!! She told us this the next night at the pub and since then we’ve been gradually shopping the tale around to everyone, that’s why the new girls always smile at you! Ah, you suck!

DON’T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN OR I’LL BURN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!!!

 

Sorry. Back to my point. Peter had made me really angry. How dare he suggest I go back to share-house life? I beat the nightmare of shared accommodation and I vowed never to go back. The more I thought about how much of a cunt Peter is and why I hate share-house living, the more reasons I found to stick to my guns. So for your entertainment, in no particular order I will share 11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

 

#1 Pigs, Bitches & Dishes Berserker.

 

OK, so that’s three shit things. I only really wanted to talk about dishes berserker but in order to do that it’s important that everyone understand the nature of pigs and bitches.

 

In a perfect world the inhabitants of a share-house would distribute household duties evenly between them, there would be no need of rosters, reminders, snide remarks or passive-aggressive notes. It would be an anarchic utopia where the people would organize themselves and live in equitable harmony. I imagine most people who have endured shared accommodation will have found that life is rarely so idyllic.

 

In my experience every share-house has a pig. This is the dirtiest person in the house and they will determine the dirt level the rest of the occupants have to endure unless a bitch can be found. A bitch is anyone who’s filth tolerance is lower than their resistance to becoming everyone else’s mum. They will end up cleaning up everyone else’s crap because they can’t stomach living in an open sewer. Pigs prey on this characteristic and wait it out until the bitch reveals themselves. They don’t necessarily enjoy living in filth, they just have an aversion to cleaning. The bitch mantle once earned is hard to shed.

 

If no bitch appears, sooner or later  the house runs out of dishes which presents a problem. In my experience this precipitates a discussion in which everyone eventually agrees to take turns at doing the dishes, whilst secretly hoping that a bitch can still be found. So a stand-off develops, the dishes pile up and no-one does them until there are no more and every surface of the kitchen is covered in dirty, smelly, crusted-up dishes, then the person whose turn it is relents and does dishes berserker*. That is, unless they’re on tour in Queensland for a month with their stupid band like a total cunt, in which case the remaining occupants have to fight it out amongst themselves.

 

I fucking hate doing the dishes. I don’t imagine there are too many people who truly love it but it’s one of many things that really shits me off. Unfortunately, I also really despise dirt. I make a strong distinction between dirt and mess. I don’t mind a place being a bit messy and other people’s things lying around as long as it’s not dirty (within reason, of course – don’t leave your rubber fist on the coffee table no matter how clean it is, that’s just wrong). Dirt is disgusting, but as much as I hate dirt, I’m fucked if I’ll just lie down and be bitch just because the cock-rotting fuck-pigs I live with have no sense of domestic hygiene. Dishes berserker is completely fucked and so are pigs and bitches.

 

*Dishes Berserker is so called because it is a truly epic undertaking. Where doing the dishes for anyone in a normal household takes 10-15 minutes, dishes berserker can cover the entire tracklist of three CDs and still leaves in its wake another, potentially more hazardous, problem.

Tumour Boy Vs. Spaz Hand

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

Until recently, I had a vaguely repugnant growth on my wrist. It was a hard lump, a nodule about the size of a pea. It had been there for a few years and was originally scar tissue from an ancient and very trivial injury that, instead of having the decency to fade away like Andrew Ridgeley, decided it wanted more of the limelight like Kate Ceberano and began to build itself into my conjoined twin. There was no real problem with it being there other than it wasn’t paying rent and it grossed people, most importantly women, out. So, on the tried-and-true principle that chicks dig scars more than benign fibrous tumours, I decided to have it lopped off.

 

A simple plan to be sure, went in for day surgery, surgeon cut it out – ugly fuckin’ thing, looked like a Cronenberg version of the ball that rattles ‘round in a referee’s whistle. Sadly, he wouldn’t let me keep it, I wanted to sell it on eBay – stitched it up with three little sutures and that was it.

 

I had an appointment with the surgeon a week later to have the stitches taken out. Hmm…fuck that, I thought. Why pay some over-educated git $50 to take out stitches? Anyone can take stitches out, I’ll take the bastards out myself. I sterilized the nail scissors and took out the stitches – easy. Feeling terribly proud of myself I leant back and stretched my hands out in front of me and pop!

 

Fuck! I’d ruptured the wound and now had a gaping hole in my wrist rapidly filling with thick gelatinous blood. Whoa! Strangely, it didn’t hurt but it did make me feel decidedly queasy. I locked up the house and made off to the nearest hospital’s emergency department.

 

There really is no-one like a doctor to making you feel like a twat. I had to ‘fess up to taking out my own stitches and toolishly popping the wound open. The doctor did his disapproving head-shake. Do they learn that in university? Bed-side manner 101 – patronising head-shakes and knowing sighs. Yes, I feel stupid already, my blood is coming out, now shut up and do your job! It turned out that the wound was unclean and needed to be debrided. Ah! No, not my fault! Get fucked! I kept it clean, I fuckin’ did everything I was supposed to, don’t even go there! The fucking stupid surgeon I originally saw fucked up the wound by putting in pissy superficial stitches on the surface of the wound so that beneath the skin it wasn’t held together at all. The wrist is a joint, it flexes, it needed stronger stitches, it wasn’t my cunting fault at all! But would anyone listen to that? Of course not. I took the stitches out myself so everything is my fault. Bah! It’s all cunts!

 

So after cleaning the wound out with a vigour usually reserved for removing baked-on scrambled eggs from old pans, he stitched it up with one hardcore suture and I was on my way with a new dressing and an appetite for codeine.

 

Out of hospital, off to the city. Getting off the tram, trying to avoid getting my throbbing wrist bumped by shit-licking, fuck-faced, spatially-unaware Joes Public who couldn’t wait for people to exit the tram before cramming themselves onto it, I lost my balance. Lurching forward, I reached for a handrail to stop my fall out of the tram, which I misjudged like a fuckstick, catching the back of my thumb on the handrail and following it with the bulk of my body weight. The thumb bent around underneath my hand until it gave a barely perceptible snapping sound. FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING CUNTING BASTARD!!! I cannot express quite how much it hurt. I’m unsure if I was swearing out loud or just muttering incoherently but I shambled around at the tram stop for a few minutes as the pain shot up my arm and my hand blew up into an udder with finger-teats.

 

Gradually, I relaxed enough to do some basic first-aidy tests to see how much mobility/strangth I had. They all hurt really really badly, the thumb was definitely cunted – I crossed the tram tracks and went back to hospital.

 

Same doctor, more humiliation, X-rays. He actually laughed at me and said: You’re not having a very good day, are you? Yes I am actually, sluthead, I normally spend my days with my head up a pig’s rectum and skewers in my testicles so today’s bitching! CUNT!!! No, I nodded and gave a courteous laugh – this guy could still hurt me.

 

The X-rays came back: the thumb was not broken, that’d be too easy – 4 to 6 weeks in plaster? Nah! I have a partial tear to a ligament which is painful but sounds really minor and wussy, and means I have to wear a cast for 8 weeks!

 

Brilliant! Just cunting well brilliant!!! I have to look after my right wrist – not too much lifting or movement there for a week or two and I have a cunting great nylon cast on my left hand and forearm for the next two months. I am domestic comedy. Watch Buck shower! Ha ha!!! See Buck wash the dishes. How many will he break today? Ah, he’s such a cunt!

 

Any sympathy votes I may have scored for the wrist have evaporated with the thumb, it’s too pitiful to be anything but fuckheadedness. I am just a loser now, a figure for ridicule and scorn. That may have never been any other way but the perception was never quite so focused on the truth as it is now. Fuck you, tumours! Fuck you, gravity! Fuck you, the medical profession! FUCK!!!

 

 

Desperately Seeking Cunty Fuck Fuck.

Posted in Tourist Attractions That Suck with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 5, 2008 by Buck Frain


I usually steer away from talking about my blog. It’s pretentious and self-referential and it breaks my fourth wall, revealing me as just another lonely twat with a nerd-box typing unread nothings into the ether of cyberspace in a vain attempt to stave off the suicidal meaninglessness of existence in an emotionally and morally bankrupt empire-in-decline at the twilight of my species.

 

Morning, bitches, how are YOU feeling today?

 

Enough self-pity – it’s winter and I’m sick a-cunting-gain so get fucked!

 

I’ve been stewing on this for a while but seeing as I’ve now had over 25,000 page views I figured I should share some of this stuff with you – the readers who made it happen. For those of you not from here, wordpress is a wonderful place and provides me with all sorts of interesting tools to see where my traffic is coming from. Sounds exciting, huh? I say traffic and you imagine lanes and lanes of speeding vehicles glinting in the sunlight as they cruise sleekly up information super-highways on their way to infinity but that’s not quite what it’s like, you should probably picture the occasional lonely, dented, curb-crawling sedan coughing its way around a dimly lit cul-de-sac before being chased away by armed, angry crack-whore-trannies – it’s closer to the truth.

 

However, returning to my point, I did have one, it wasn’t just the cold and flu tablets speaking – How people find me – I’m constantly amazed by the terms people type into search engines that lead them to me. It’s become something of an obsession now because so many of them either freak me out or make me laugh. I’ve no idea how search engines work but I get a real kick out of this so here’s some of my faves: 

 

  •  Kyle Sandilands is a cunt – yes he is. This fills me with joy every time it comes up, which is quite often.
  • Wank me, mum – oh dear. This wasn’t what you were looking for at all, was it? Did you zip the pants back up and read on or did you leave and go somewhere else? 
  • Pounding freak hardcore – Hmm…another disappointment, I fear. 
  • Sluthead – Brilliant! I never knew anyone other than my brother ever used this word.
  • Cut Scrotum – If you’ve cut the bag, what the cunt are you doing Googling it? Did I help or did you bleed out under yopur computer desk? Fuck it! Dial 000, people!
  • Fellatiophobia – I thought I invented that word but it’s out there. Is it a real phobia? I’ve no idea. Genius!
  • Cunty fuck fuck – I have no idea what prompts this as a search term but it is absolutely brilliant. I love that someone found me using this. What were you looking for? Were you disappointed? Did you ever return? I would love to hear the story of how cunty fuck fuck came to be typed into a search engine.

 

I feel I’ve firmly carved out a niche for myself at the bottom of that barrel that is the internet. If you type something dodgy into a search engine, sooner or later you’ll find me. This makes me happy. It’s where I belong. Whether you came here looking for a crafty 3G phone-wank or because you enjoy a good bitch about the injustices and annoyances of the world I welcome you. I hope you enjoy your stay, feel free to invite your friends. To the people who think I’m some kind of sicko, psycho and/or a menace to society: I laugh at your sad existence and hope someone shits in your letterbox.