Archive for Shame

Paw Paw Pocket Protection.

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

 So Nick D’arcy has been banned from the Beijing  Olympic Games once again. Thank fuck for that! The little fucker’s lucky his dad’s a fucking plastic surgeon or he wouldn’t be able to afford all the lawyers, and he’s appealing again. What do the poor violent athletes do? How do they cope? 

My joy at justice actually working was short-lived, however. I had a $2 bet with a co-worker that D’Arcy would be allowed to go. I was glad to lose the bet but I reached into my left trouser pocket where I keep my keys and coins and pulled out a handful of Oh fucking hell! Horror. Both mine and hers as I proffered a fist full of keys and coins clumped together thick with the lip-balm that had evidently suffered a packaging failure in the same pocket. Our eyes met and for a fraction of a second I think she actually believed I was being premeditatedly weird. I exited stage left to the bathroom with all appropriate haste and stealth. Please, don’t let The Wobblers see me with a fist full of lubricated keys!

 

In the bathroom I started using paper towel to soak up, wipe away the lip balm. Fuck! There was so much of it. One little tube of Lucas’ Paw Paw goes a fuck of a long way. After scraping all the excess grease of my hands, keys and change I had to wash them with soap to remove the rest of it. I recommend Lucas’ Paw Paw Ointment for its staying power. Three or four washes got them more or less clean, the keys still feel a little more moisturised than keys should. I looked in the mirror. Cunt, bollocks and shit! The pocket! I remembered I still had a pocket full of warm grease. I remembered it because I saw that it had fucking soaked through to make a vaguely cummy-looking grease stain on the front of my pants. I turned the pocket inside out and scraped as much lip balm as I could out of the fabric. The greasy stain I was stuck with. I couldn’t risk getting busted washing and drying my pants in the bathroom, not at work.

 

I returned to the phone room. I paid my debt with the cleanest coins seen outside the mint and went back to work. I’ve spent the rest of the day trying not to notice the faces of people as they notice my stain. Fuckin’ dirty pants-starers! Looks of disdain and disgust, I’m sure tales of my depravity and perversion will fill my foul workplace for months to come. IT’S NOT CUM, YOU FILTHY-MINDED BASTARDS!!! IT’S ON THE LEFT, HOW WOULD I CUM IN MY OWN POCKET??? IT’S LIP-BALM!!! IT FUCKIN’ BROKE OPEN IN MY CUNTING POCKET! YES, IT’S GROSS! I SHITTING WELL HATE IT TOO!!!

 

I should make clear this is not a sledge on a product and that I will continue to use the same lip-balm, it’s good. The truly fucking horrible  thought is that I might have to invest in a man bag to avert future such misadventures. A cunting man bag – ah, I might as well just cut off my own balls! It’s all cunts! I think I’m getting sick. I hate my life.

You’re fuckin’ BALD, bitch!

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 23, 2008 by Buck Frain

For fuck’s sake, if you’re bald, DEAL WITH IT! There is nothing more pathetic than a man with fake hair. Except maybe a man with a comb-over, but that’s a really tight call. Hairpieces and comb-overs are stupid. Really, really stupid and rather than making people feel better about themselves they really just serve to fuel fear and insecurity because even if you’ve got the best wig or comb-job in the world and everyone does a really good job to pretend they don’t notice it’s fake, you’ve still got to live with the terror of what would happen if they ever did notice. 

You’ve constantly got to have the hair around a rug trimmed to blend in, there’s re-colouring as you age, and the panic attacks caused be high wind, vigorous exercise or water. Do you really think that hot girl’s gonna go out with you a second time after tearing your toupee off in the throes of passion? Shit, man, you’ll be lucky if she stays to finish the job. My bet is she’ll scream loud enough your neighbours will call the cops and then she’ll leg it naked down the street, you fucking freak! Of course she may just laugh her arse off, rug in hand, you with tape on your scalp and a hard-on – that mood’s killed.

Don’t kid yourself that transplant technology is gonna save you either, cue ball. Even if the grafts take, your real hair still falls out around them so eventually you look like a recovering cancer patient and you can’t ever go back to shaving your head or you’ll reveal the big-arse scar on the back of your skull where they chopped all the graft skin out.

Any way you try to thatch that roof, insecurity is what’s unattractive. Look at the fuckwit in this ad. Hey that’s some pretty lush hair, right? If you look closely I think you’ll see he’s unable to touch it, he goes close but, ooh nah, there’s no running his hands through those thick locks. There’s something in his voice too, you can hear it, it’s like a little inner cry, a teary voice going: Nah, man, I’ve got hair now. You can’t call me baldy anymore ’cause I’ve GOT hair. Yeah! It’s REAL, man! It’s fuckin’ REAL! …is!…SHUT UP!…bastards. He’s not enjoying the confidence, six-pack or not, he’s a scared little bitch. He’s more of a baldy now than he’d be if he had the balls to cut his hair short and admit it. YOU’RE FUCKIN’ BALD, BALDY!!! BALDY, BALDY, BALD, BALD!!!