Optimism? Is it the end for all right-minded depressives?

Alright cunts!
The weather's good, the beer's cold and I've got fuck all to do.  So why aren't I fucking bored like I am normally?

The answer is simple!

I spent yesterday in the company of a mate who can only be described as the eternal optimist - that is until he has been described as the eternal optimist and then, and only then, can I describe him as a fucking prat for being such!  I mean, optimism has it's place - which is normally in a darkish, candle-lit corner far, far away from me - and since it is also highly contagious and can spread without warning, I think that place should be isolated from the rest of us normal folk who just want to get on with being pissed off.  And especially if the optimist in question is also buggering happy - now that is just plain old taking the piss.  And I won't stand for it!

And now as a consequence of all his bloody happiness and optimism I have been forced to take dramatic action and to ban any such sentiments forthwith from my highly depressed and pissed off inner circle.

I can honestly say that I have never suffered from optimism, and I thank my unlucky stars for that.  The dictionary defines optimism as: a disposition to take a bright, hopeful view of things, and I am anything but fucking bright and hopeful, and furthermore I would suggest my fine fuckers, that I am more of a tarnished and resentful man than a fucking bright and hopeful one!  But that aside, the thing with optimists that really pisses me off is all that fucking unnecessary happiness.  And for what?

I'll tell you for what....... to fucking piss me off, that's for what!  Fucking optimistic cunts!  Line 'em up, shoot the fuckers and then say, 'show me the bright side of that ya cunts!' and see how many of them stick to their principles!

But, being the reasonable, affable fella that I am and that you all know so well, I wouldn't wish to persecute someone for what is after all a treatable condition.  The facts themselves are so blindingly obvious that I'm surprised more put upon depressives haven't stumbled on to them before.  Optimism is a disease, and I've discovered the perfect cure, the killer anti-dote to counteract the harsh, debilitating effects of this cruel and fucking annoying (for me anyway) disease that can afflict anyone of us at anytime.

Let's take it one step at a time, and for all you fucking slow-coaches out there who need to check the bleeding 'dicko' every time a word with more than 4 letters appears, here's one to confuse you even more - pentadelphous!

Alright, whilst the fucking dim-witters are struggling with that word, the rest of us can move on.  Here are the basic facts.

Optimists are:  happy, forward-thinking, positive people who tend to smile a lot and piss the rest of us off.  A lot!  It's not their fault understand, but these are the facts as they stand.  

The etiology of the disease can be varied, but in the main the first symptoms of optimism can be spotted in any individual who smiles a lot - always a bad sign, but one that can be rectified with the proper course of treatment!

Classic symptoms range from 'a sunny disposition' to 'raging positivity' and anywhere in between.  It is however, true to say that in some cases the symptoms can be ephemeral and hence, not so fucking annoying as those exhibited by the most dangerous sub-type, the eternal optimist.  And in my world dealing with eternal optimists goes like this..........

Pour cold water on whatever the happy fuckers suggest.  If you are unsure how to do this and you too have an annoying optimist who needs to be brought down a peg or three please read the following examples and then adapt your responses accordingly. 

As a matter of course don't worry about upsetting the optimist; this cannot happen.  The cunts are just too fucking happy by half and taking the piss out of the bugger for a time makes your life seem a whole lot better and their life .........well, their life?  ......who gives a fuck?..... they'll probably be happy again by the time the sun rises on the morrow, and that is perhaps the most annoyingly arse-splitting thing about them.  Even when their poor little delicate little hearts are breaking (and we're laughing like hyenas in the background) they still fucking smile.  The cunts!  

Don't they just deserve all the fucking hassle you can heap on them?  Exacta-mundo!!!

So....here we go.....

e.g.1. Optimist: "What a lovely day!"
          Realist: "Fuck off ya cunt!  Oh look, someone's slashed your tyres!  What low life mother-fucker did that?"

e.g.2. Optimist:  "I feel great today!"
          Realist:  "Well, you look like shit!  How d'ya feel now?"

e.g.3. Optimist: "Hey, that beautiful girl is giving me the eye!"
          Realist: "Give it the fuck back then.  And in future, stay away from those one-eyed birds, ya cunt!"

e.g.4. Optimist: "Isn't life wonderful?"
          Realist: "Fuck off ya cunt!  Oh dear, who's that with his tongue down your missus' throat?"

e.g.5. Optimist: "Ah well, tomorrow's another day!"
         Realist:  "Not for you ya cunt," and push the fucker under the nearest bus.

If they're still unreasonably happy after you've shat all over their jollies, then they deserve all the extra crap you can throw at them.

But I should warn you fuckers, because I know you'll want to go over the top, if the optimist is a friend (and I use that term loosely) or (heaven forbid) a partner, who for whatever reason you won't pitch into night whilst they're wearing just their skiddies, that de-optimising an optimist means taking the opportune moment and becoming the opportunistic de-optimiser imposing opposing options and oppressing their opprobrious behaviour in order to obviate the obvious opulence in what is, after all, an obscure and not at all obverse line of illogical, and not in any way, shape or form, a normalised odium.  Are you with me, Stan?

If not, then don't fret ........if your optimist does happen to get a bit fucking tearful, then (and only after you've dried the tears of laughter from your own face) just walk away and leave the fucker to it!  They'll bounce back!  The cunts!  And if they don't ....well, then you've got someone else to get fucking bored with!

Here endeth the lesson.

Laters cunts!

High brow humour with a twist -ed, broken neck.

A PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT FROM A RECORDING TAKEN DURING BORED SHITLESS'S RECENT TOUR OF TOP UNIVERSITIES AROUND THE GLOBE WHERE WE LECTURED ON "HOW TO WASTE YOUR DAY IN 6 EASY TO LEARN LESSONS."

And a fine good day to you all, my little wet farts. 

Today I'm feeling particularly fine and wholesome.  And in such a mood I can reasonably do no more or no less than impart the reason for my fine state and sleekness.  In truth, for any man of culture, reason and grace such as myself - don't say a fucking word, my blabber-mouthed friend, if you know what's good for you, alright cock? - there can only be one reason and one reason alone. 

Yes, yes.  You've guessed it - yes, you at the back!  Yes, you ya prat!  With your fucking hand up - Oh fuck!  I didn't want to cuss today!  'She' would be upset by such ungentlemanly behaviour - Oy, ya fucking dimshit!  You, the short arse little cunt ... standing next to the blond with, and pardon me for saying so Madam, the fantastic jugs and nipples like chapel hatpegs..... oh now you know who I mean, don't you?  Ya fucking arsehole!  So, you've guessed it right?  The answer is....go on!  SHOUT IT OUT!

AUDIENCE MEMBER RESPONDS - "YOU'VE COME OUT OF THE CLOSET."

What you saying?......Come 'ere ya little cunt, I'm gonna rip your fucking head off!  That's it!  Go on, fucking scarper you little git!  I've got your number ya fucking wanker!  Fucking closet indeed. 

Perish the very thought!

Anyone else?  With a sensible fucking answer, that is.

No-one?

Yes, yes.  You!  The geezer with the .....the bald head, next to the other geezer with a.... bald head.  Yes, yes, you ya cunt!  What's that?  That's not two men with bald heads, it's your wife's tits and you're proud of the fuckers?  Well......and so you fucking should be sir!  My word!  Anyway sir, what's your answer?  Why am I so fucking sleek?  And don't shout it out this time in case some one fucking hears, okay?  Yup, I know, I know, you're sure you're right, but just because there's that fucking slim fucking almost non-existent fucking chance that you're a cunt as well, just whisper it.  Okay?  Just whisper, okay?

AUDIENCE MEMBER RESPONDS - "You've realised you're a fat useless cunt and you're going to end it all."  

Get that fat cunt out of here before I fucking kill him!  Quickly, I'm trying hard to restrain myself in the face of such an effrontery!  And anyway, which of you other fuckers told him?  Ya bunch-a-cunts!  She would NOT be amused! 

Alright, ya bleeding idiots, last fucking chance.  Otherwise I kick the fucking lot of you into touch and don't write another fucking blog ever, ever, EVER again!  Now...... ya cunts.... which one of you raving homosexuals that remains has something half fucking decent to offer?  Eh?  Eh?  Not so quick now are you?  Eh?  Eh?  Okay.... yes, you!  The fucking mass murderer in the plaid jacket and equally shit fucking hat - Yes, you!  Ya fucking Sherlock Holmes reject!  Whaddya got for me?  Fucking shout it, whisper it, do whatever the fuck you like with it, just don't fucking forget!  This is the Last Chance Saloon.  No more blog!  No more Bored Shitless if, and that's IF you fuck up.  Nah!.......bring it big boy!  Dazzle me, ya cunt with your insight!  Why am I so fucking bored of saying I'm fucking sleek?  For fuck's sake, get on with it ya cunt!

AUDIENCE MEMBER RESPONDS - "Jenny Agutter.  From the railway children.  Jenny Agutter.  She of the mane like Black Beauty and the skin like fine porcelain.  I think that is the answer for your ....glee...the reason for your 'bonhomie' ......if I might be so bold ........is none other than .......Jenny Agutter.  Sir!"

Thank fuck for that!  Yes, of course it's Jenny fucking Agutter.  Any sane man knows that.  And I, am very definitely very fucking sane.  No question on that count!  Nope!  None whatsoever.  Sane!  Yup, sane as ....as a ... as a snake in winter, that's me.  Anyway, here she is.........

 ............Here's me Jenny!

Yes, wonderful Jenny who fulfilled many a boyhood fantasy........... though I was myself a, how shall we say?  A Jenny cum-lately?  Yes, I was of the more mature persuasion by the time my hand found a welcome home in my pockets whilst me-Jenny sat on the mantelpiece smiling down.  Ah!  Happy days!  From more innocent times.

Okay!  I think that's your fucking lot.  So fuck off ya cunts!


Nota Bollocks.  Everything in RED text in the above reconstituted transcript forms the official transcript from this particular lecture.  Everything in BLACK text was deleted.  For a copy of the transcript please write to:  Bored Shitless c/o The Fucking Nuthouse, Barking Mad, Pluto.  Please enclose a S.A.E. and 50 of whatever currency you have in your pocket.

Oh, anything in BLUE text I'm undecided about!

BS's Theory of Beerativity. A must for anyone interested in cutting edge science.

Alright cunts!
I've been too sapped of energy to write to you sad fuckers for a while.....it is as hot as a fucking bread oven here and I'm crisping over....so sitting on this fucking thing tapping on a bleedin' keyboard just ain't a goer, know wot I mean cunts?

That said....here I am with more boring crap to deaden your day.....Enjoy!

A little aside for you analytical fuckers (if they're are any....if there aren't then you won't have any fucking clue what I'm blabbing about so you might as well fuck off to the next paragraph NOW, you fucking dumbell) - I don't know what it is about irony exactly that makes it just so ..........so ........... fucking ironic, but you gotta love it, dontcha ?

Anyway, back in the Land of Boredom it's been so fucking boring here the only break from tedium comes first thing in the morning when I guess whether the fucking thermometer will reach 40 or 41 degrees.  After that it's all fucking downhill ......... so I just hide in the bloody fridge all day sheltering behind a six-pack. ......of beer, not muscles, ya cunt! 

Well .........at first that's true ....because physically speaking the six-pack isn't a constant entity and it changes magically when it becomes a five-pack, a four-pack and so on until its' a fucking zero-pack, which on these hot days happens rather quickly.  And me, being a rather scientific boffin fucking-brainbox-type (as I'm you've caught onto by now) thought that there must a theory to explain this, rather like Einstein came up with his Theory of Relativity which, for all you fucking dunces out there, explains beautifully how your relatives can piss you off relative to the degree or not of the relatedness they do or do not have to you.

Look it up, ya cunts!

So mine.....brace yourselves......is called Bored Shitless's Theory of Beerativity.

It works like this:

                                                  Bd = (RTD)2

 Where B = the number of six-packs you have in the fridge
             d = is the relative density of the beer, or if you don’t know that just put in how fucking strong or pissy it is
            R = is the degree of relatedness you have to the relative or mate you happen you to be boozing with.  *  **
            T = the degree of ones’ thirst. 

Please note it is vital that the degree of ones thirst be gauged correctly if you don’t want to fuck things up totally.  DO NOT…. I repeat….. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE A QUICK COUPLE BEFORE GAUGING THE DEGREE OF YOUR THIRST.  IT WILL AFFECT YOUR FINAL RESULT.
    
 And D = is the degree of Drunkenness you wish to obtain on the day in question.  The figure is based on a sliding scale between 1 and 10, with ‘1’ being just a little bit fucking tipsy (which I had to include for any fucking girls that might be reading this and saying to themselves “well, I don‘t know what that fucking bloke is on about!  I‘ve never been drunk in my fucking life!”  Ya right, you lying tarts!) and ‘10' being absolutely fucking, can’t stand up, can’t even fucking piss, bladdered.   You know, Friday night drunk!

For interests’ sake …. I’m usually somewhere between an '8 and a 9’.  On a normal day.

and finally,

       2 = well, what else would it equal?  2 of course, ya cunt! 

I put that in just in case the other figures were a bit out and the number that came out was insupportably fucking low, like 10 or 15 or something. 



*  If you drink by yourself a lot and not with other people, like I do, then you have to factor in a fucking Sadness coefficient which is equal to the number of days you drank alone in the last month, divided by the number of months you’ve been a sad old cunt.  Once you’ve got that number you need to multiply it by R coefficient of the last person you got fucking trolleyed with and you get a much more accurate figure.
**  If you want to try this at home yourself you can send $4.99 to me any fucking way you like, cos I’ll take it any fucking way it comes, and I’ll send YOU back by post a copy of my tables where you can obtain the correct coefficient factor, R, for the pisshead YOU tend to drink with most often.

The answer you get at the end is equal to the number of cans you need to drink that day in order to achieve your desired aim of Pissed-ness. 

Okay?  ....... now you see why I couldn't have a low number! 

Hah!  Not as dumb as I fucking write, eh?

So, my number for today is......... hang on a mo, ya fucking impatient cunt,  I'm getting there! .......... is 42.  A nice round number, .......well, maybe not round exactly,  ........but fucking chubby to the say the least, my fucking scientific blog reader!

Anyway, that's enough of that crap. 

Here's some more fucking shite photos.

 Here's some beer desperate to get into my fridge.  Look at the little fuckers, all standing to attention!
 May Every Beer Do Its' Duty!!

And here's some trophy ring pulls from beer cans that have done their duty with flying fucking colours and have gone to the great piss pot in the sky!

And here's me having a fag after another session of slaughtering beer soldiers.  Another platoon bits the dust!

 This was fucking lovely when I first got it.  Don't know what it was.

And another thirsty fucker!  I watered them both once or twice when I got them.  Then I got bored and they got ......well, dead really!  I don't waste money on things like this any more.  I realised one day how many beers I could have got with the money.

Here's the tree ......also dead ....that I piss up in the garden.

And this, my fucking reader, is a bastard scorpion that was in my bloody shower.  The cunt didn't even ask if he could use my fucking shampoo!  So I pissed on him then hit him with the hammer.  Twice.

And here he lies .......a dead fucking scorpion.  The cunt!

See you soon fuckers.

Summer love and all that crap!

Alright cunts!
And there's fuck all in here about summer fucking love, so if that's what you wanted then you're in the wrong fucking place, my dearie!  So fuck off!

I'm fucking bored so I'm here again talking to you nameless, faceless cunts cos my life's shit and I ain't got any fucking friends.  And I've lost the bloody kitchen knife after I threw it at another fucking fruit rat, the cunt.

I think the fucker's eaten it!

Probably a good thing mind, given that if I had the bloody knife I'd slash my fucking wrists.

Only I'd more than likely fuck that up as well!

Of course I could drink myself to death.  That'd be a lot more fun.  But fuck, it'd take a fuck load of beer.  And look.......

...............the fridge is already creaking at the beams for fucks' sake.  How do I keep it all cold?  It's a problem I admit, but not an insurmountable one.  Think'll have one whilst I'm here and ponder on that.

The picture's a bit shaky - I'm half pissed, ya cunt, what do you expect? - but if you put your fucking specks on and look closely you might be able to see two yoghurts.  I could take them out I suppose.... and put one more tinny in......not sure that'd do it though.  I have got two more cases on top of the fridge - for emergencies, you understand - but they wouldn't fit in the fucking picture - well, or in the fucking fridge come to that - so just take my word for it, ya cunt.  They're there!

But....hang on...I need another one!

Yeah.... the thing is, if I attempted this..... and I'm only saying IF, you know......so, if I attempted this the big problem might come when I'm too fucking pissed to walk to the fridge.  I normally fall asleep at that point - just saying for a point of fucking reference, ya cunt!  So, I guess I'd need a helper.

Now, I can think of one or two cunts who would jump at the chance of trying to help me drink myself to fucking death.  Thinking about it.....maybe one or two more than that even!

Shit fuck!  I know a whole lotta cunts.  I really do!

The hardest part of deciding which of the cunts is the least cuntish of all is thinking which of the fiddling fuckers won't just let me drink myself to sleep and then drink the rest of the fucking booze themselves.  Know what I mean?

And quite fucking honestly........which.........being honest for just a pissing moment here........I'm hardly ever.........fucking honest, that is.......but this time I am in earnest......believe me, ya cunt.........and in earnest means I'm being fucking honest you fucking dimwitted cunt, it doesn't mean that I'm IN Earnest.......as in, IN Earnest my cock-sucking boyfriend.........no fucking way Jose!  I ain't no fucking sausage muncher, ya cunt, and if you ever fucking slander me again like that, ya cunt, then I'll be round tout de fucking suite my love to sort you fucking out, ya cunt!

And that's all I've got to say on that, Forest!  Ya cunt!

Anyway, I'm fucking lost now thanks to you......interrupting my train of thought like that, ya cunt.  What ya fucking playing at? 

I need a beer.  Look at these shit fucking pictures while I get one.

Look...here's a fucking wasp dying in a bucket.  Fucking great, eh!

What a fucking sexy beast!  That's my mother fucking sexy midriff...oh yeah, I bet all you gay fuckers out there want to jerk off to that, don't you?

Oh yeah!

It is fucking sexy though.   And yes, ya cunt, I'm saying IT myself.

And that, my fucking friends, is my feet.  And yes.....I AM taking a fucking piss in my mates garden.

And I can hear you, ya bunch-a-fucking-cunts, sniggering about what a fucking cunt I am for pissing in my mates garden!

Me?  A fucking cunt?  Hark at you, calling the fucking kettle black, ya cunt.

So fucking what anyway?  He does it, so why can't I, ya cunt?

Don't fucking judge, my fucking judgmental friend, lest you be fucking judged, ya cunt...so it says in the fucking Bible.  Or if not in there then in fucking Shakespeare or some other cunts book some fucker or other said it, and now I'm fucking saying it, ya cunt!

So suck on that!  Ya cunt!

Anyway, I'm back from getting me beer now and I can see how fucking aggressive YOU are being whilst looking at my charming fucking family snaps, ya cunt.  And I'll tell you what.....I don't fucking like it!  Not one fucking itsy-fucking-bitchy-fucking-bit, ya cunt.

So, I'm fucking off now........you fucking readers have really pissed me off today.  I'm gonna think twice about talking to you fuckers again.  You're all a bunch-a-fucking-cunts.  So don't fucking read this again if you know what's fucking good for you.

Go on.....Fuck off!  Ya cunt!


P.S.  If any of you sad fuckers spotted the movie reference in there then take an extra fucking kick in the bollocks from your fucking Missus for being such a smart fucker.  Ya cunt!

Bored Shitless with the Olympics? Me too! And I don't have a TV!

Alright cunts!
I've been more bored shitless than usual the past few days and that is saying something.  And the reason for this slump - the funny thing is that I didn't know I could actually be MORE bored than I already was, but life is full of unpleasant surprises.  Whoopee!  Lucky fucking me! - in my boredom levels?

The fucking Olympics!  I don't even have a bleeding TV and I still can't escape those fleet-footed fuckers in lurid groin-grabbing lycra.  GET OUT OF MY LIFE, YA CUNTS!  I DON'T GIVE A FUCK THAT YOU CAN USE YOUR FUCKING OLYMPIAN COCK TO HIT A HOME RUN IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING QUEEN OR ANY-FUCKING-THING-ELSE. 

JUST FUCK OFF, YA CUNTS!

But they won't, will they, the buggers!  They're fucking persistent little fuckers.  It's like their lycra can grab onto my life as it grabs onto their fucking bollocks.  Do you know what I mean?

Tightly!  Too fucking tightly!

And who the fuck is Hussain Bolt anyway?  I don't fucking know..... and that other fucker, Michael Phillips, the guy with the fucking aqualung inside his body.  I wanna know what happened to all the other cunts in his races.  In the changing room beforehand maybe he goes round hypnotizing them, waving his bank book about in front of them......"Ooooeerr!  Look how much money I've got, ya cunts!"...and when they look, they get fucking zapped with some fucking tool bought from Paul McKenna's poxy website, "yeah that's right, you front crawling fuckers and butterfly stroking bastards, I've got fucking more money than you'll ever have, ya cunts!  Now go out there and do me fucking proud.  Lose, ya cunts!  AGAIN!"

And they do!  Only fucking explanation, if you ask me.  Ya cunt!

Look at this silly wanker!  That's my mate...I lose the word mate loosely...cos I really can't be associated with anyone who's arse is truly that fucking hairy!  Zoom in if you don't believe me, ya cunt!- so, that's my mate doing his Sumo bit!  But if you ask me it looks like he's taking a dump in that bucket!  Either that, or he's just finished and is peering into the bucket to see what creatures he gave birth to during the voiding of the bowels that surely preceded this fucking shit-awful picture! 

And in this picture it looks like a homesick turd has tried to crawl up leg and he's shaking it off!  Fucking hell, what a twat!  Actually, I've just noticed that I'm in this picture......I'm the one sitting in the back, fucking bored and shouting, "put ya fucking keks on, ya cunt!"

I would have kicked the fucker up the jacksee if I'd not been so worried about loosing me me flip-flops!  What a right....tit!??**!!  And this left tit's not half bad either!

So if you see me the street - unlikely, but if you do - then don't mention the fucking Olympics if you want to keep me fucking interested.  Ya bunch-a-cunts!

Now...fuck off and do summat with your life!

Unibrows, the Olympics, Sam Wise and Rats - what's the surreal connection?

Alright cunts!
You fucking bored?  I'm fucking bored....bored with the bloody Olympics and I don't even have a TV!  But I did see this geezer - in the picture - at my mates house and he gave me a fucking fright, I can tell you!  The most complete uni-brow I've ever seen!  Can't he afford some fucking tweezers or what?  Did he grow it for a joke or did he just wake up one day and notice he'd grown too tall for his 'tache?  It must be really hard to tell if he's frowning or not.  I'd be like, "You pissed at me or just wanting a snog?  Ya cunt!"

-

Otherwise my hectic schedule has been overflowing with invitations to speak, flashy fuck off dinners and bitches galore...NOT!   Nah!  Nuffin like!  Just bin fucking bored.  I caught this rat the other day which livened things up a bit, not least my stew!  It's been a long time since I've eaten some fresh meat so a nice bit of rat stew sorted me right out!

So cunts....a question?

Which of you gullible halfwits actually believed I would eat a rat?  A show of hands perhaps or are your hands busy down your shorts whilst you fantasize about Mr Uni-brow here?  Or is the picture below more to your style, ya wankers!

Well, I did actually catch a rat...but I didn't eat it ya cunts!  No, no ......it wasn't big enough!  Hah!  Now I'm training him up to do the fucking washing up!

Well, someone has to do it - I'm running out of plates!

Hey, look.....here's some hats and pair of boots that I don't wear.

Alright, alright!  Calm down ya fucking so-and-so's!  I know it's exciting stuff and if you can manage to keep your fucking Barnet on I might show you pictures of some more of my terribly fashionable haute couture stuff.  That I don't fucking wear.

Ever.

My philosophy of clothing attire is much more ....shall we say.....practical.  I wear something till it's fucked, then I throw it away.  Doing the washing is so fucking boring.  So I don't do it.  That's where that bloody rat will come in handy...once he's got the hang of the washing up!  The 4-legged cunt!  

Here's a poser for you, ya cunts!  I'm reading this book....Lord of the Fucking Rings...and I've been fucking shocked my bored fucking friend, I can tell you.  Can he go on or can he go, that Tolkien geezer?  He never shuts the fuck up!  If he's described something once he's done it a thousand fucking times - JUST GET ON WITH THE STORY, YA CUNT!  I digress..... and for those of you fuckers who are without a fucking dictionary...digressing doesn't involve putting my hands down my shorts...and neither should it involve the same for you.....so get 'em out!  NOW!  Ya cunt!

But anyway, here's the thing.... that fucking Hobbit bloke, Sam Wise Gangrene....he's supposed to be a fucking gardener, right?  Well, I wouldn't let him near my privet hedge, the fucking, short-arse cunt, because he's fucking unreliable and that is all there is to it.  So, my question is....while short-arse Sam is off with fucking Frodo fighting fucking goblins who the fuck is looking after his gardens?

Not very fucking smart for someone who's supposed to help save the world from fucking everlasting darkness!  The cunt! 

More wisdom for you sad fuckers soon.

Ya cunts!

My yellow flowery bits are sooo boring.

Alright cunts!
How fucking bored am I?  Bored fucking shitless!  I'll tell you how bored I am, shall I?  I'm this fucking bored......

There's this thing... a fucking cactus or something....and it's got this huge enormous cock of a flower....that is truly fucking enormous.....and it only happens once every bleeding century....but I'll tell you what!  It ain't half fucking boring.  It's been growing and fucking growing for bloody weeks now.  Then it grew these ..arms or fucking twigs or some cunt, I don't know.......  looked some bloody alien; abso-bloody-lutely ridiculous it looks......and then after weeks more of that, without the faintest hint of embarrassment, it went all yellow and flowery.  What's more, it's still fucking yellow and flowery!  Why's it taking so damn long?  What's the problem?  Get on with it ya cunt!  I bin watching you for bloody weeks and months and....you're just so fucking slow!  It's completely boring ya cunt.  I don't know how much more I can take........

Look at these if you don't believe me, ya cunt.

Here's the helmet of the big cocky thing.......

...and here's the arms!  Just fucking weird man!  It's like......"ooooowww!  I'm the bogey-man, cum to get ya!  Whooooaaaa!"  Fucking scary dude!  You got me!

Cunt!

And here's the yellow bits....though they don't really look yellow there, so.....

....I took this one!  It's fucking boring innit?

Fucking months it's been going on like that.  And every cunting day I sit there watching, getting pissed, smoking myself to fucking death, waiting for some-bloody-thing to happen!

And does it?

Does it fuck!  What sort of an attitude is that? 

"Oh, I guess I could...oh maybe, open a fucking flower today!  But then again......let's just think about it for a cunting while!" 

If I carried on like that, ya cunt, I'd never get to open my first beer of the day!  What the fuck are you doing?

Do you know, interested reader, that the cunt only opened 12 of those fucking yellow things yesterday!  Fucking 12, little, tiddly-fucking-widdly yellow bits!  It's fucking 6 meters high and it opened fucking 12.  In a whole day! 

See what I mean?  The very fucking definition of boredom!

Anyway, when I get bored of watching the fucking yellow bits open I press the gas pedal a bit and move onto counting fucking cracks in the floor tiles.  Of which there a fucking load.  When I can be bothered I'll show a picture.  But I always lose count at about fucking 70! 

Why 70? 

I don't know, ya cunt!  If I knew that don't ya think I'd skip 70 or fucking something.  It's about 70, not on 70!  And after I've lost count three or four times I'm pretty fucking knackered, so I take a fucking sleep.

Sweet dreams.  Ya cunt. 


P fucking S.  The bogey-man's coming!  Whoooaaa!  Ya cunt!

Living the high life.......

Alright cunts!
I'm still fucking alive.....more's the fucking pity!  No more life, no more fucking boredom!  And don't get on your fucking high horse and tell me "get orf your arse and do summat and you won't be bored, ya cunt!" because I'll just fucking say, "Do what, ya cunt?"  There's fuck all to do.  Except fucking cleaning and I'm not doing that.  I swept up earlier this year - in April I think, or May - and look at it now!  A fucking tip, that's what!  So what pray tell ya cunt, is the fucking point of cleaning up?  Nothing to say?  Exactly!  Because there fucking isn't a point!  Ya cunt!

Fuck!  I need a beer.  Hang on!  While I'm getting a cold one take a look at these not very interesting pictures.  They're crap!

This first one is my shirt.  I wore it last night!  Oh, and that's my hand.

Look!  Just so you know I'm not a lying cunt, here it is again, that fucking awful shirt!  It's really crap.  I think one of my Grand Ma's knitted it during the War.  It itches like a bastard!  Then....thinking about it...that might be the lice!

Oy!  Ya cunt!  Don't start fucking reading again yet!  I'm still getting me beer, ya cunt!  It's fucking long way to the fridge...so I had to stop and have one while I was there.  And have a chat to the dogs.  Do you know what they said? 

"Fuck, we're bored!"

Fuck we're bored!  The fucking dogs!  Cheeky bastards! 

I'm bored.  They're bored.  Everyone's fucking bored.  It's soooo depressing.  Makes me thirsty, don't know about you.  Here, have a look at this.

This is some food which is now, mostly, in my fridge.  I drank the wine.  Fucking horrible.

Here's one of my mates hungry dogs.

Alright cunts!  I'm back now.  Fuck me, you're slow!  While you've been looking at those fucking crap photos I've drunk 3 tinnies!  Fucking hurry it up!  I haven't got all day to spend on you cunts.  Pull ya finger out!

Now... and fucking keep up, ya cunt..... I'd better explain why my mates dog is hungry.  My mate invited me round to his for a little soiree!  Very genteel of him I thought.  The cunt.  Everyone turned up with beer and other booze and I brought a fucking tupperware.  Very nice of them I thought.  So I drank the fucking beer - not of all of it, but a fucking good portion, I made sure of that - and ate what I could.  It was fucking lovely.  And when my mate said, "Don't throw anything away, the dogs'll have it," up I popped. 

"Fuck the dogs.  I got me tupperware."

And that, ya fuckers, is how it is done!

Laters cunts!

Oh my giddy Aunt!

Alright cunts!

If there was award for the bloke with the worst luck in birthday parties.....it'd be mine!  Every time!

Yesterday was a day of fucking mayhem that belies belief.  You'd think having a few reprobate mates over for a birthday was a recipe for a good time?  This should be a rhetorical question, but in my case I feel compelled to answer - NO FUCKING WAY!  Instead it's a recipe for complete and utter fuck ups that lead to broken furniture, people who get so shit-faced they won't go home until you literally kick them up the fucking arse and finally for turning what, had in the first instance, been a good time into a debacle of the first fucking order!  So for me...it's not a rhetorical question at all!

Being horribly depressed (about that little thing called life) and the fact that I still seem to keep waking up each day when really all I want to do is fall a-fucking-sleep and stay a-fucking-sleep means that I rarely, if ever, see an 'up' side to anything.  The biggest up side of most days is seeing the bottom of the next can of beer.  That's the kind of 'up' side that I can generally relate to - at least in my waking hours. 

Which brings me onto a short digression - aren't nightmares supposed to happen when you're asleep?  And if there's even a hint of truth in that statement, then why do mine keep happening when I'm awake?  Answers on postcard please to:  Fruitcakes Anonymous, PO Box Up my Nose with a Rubber Hose, Hell on Earth 666

 Here's my feet looking distinctly the worse for wear!

And here's my hand about to guide a cold one into my ever-thirsty gob!  I think I had a fag in the other one!

The party was held at another mates place and was all going well till two of the guys hit that point of no return.....you know what I mean......that place where one minute you can still talk (reasonably) lucidly and stand without help, and the next minute you can't fucking talk, stand, do any-fucking-thing at all without making a complete balls-up of it!  For example, the simple act of sitting down becomes a battle of attrition with your disobedient legs, particularly if you weigh as much as fucking baby elephant and have the co-ordination of a newborn foal on acid with its' head stuck on back-to-front!  The result:  broken fucking furniture.  And what's more it wasn't even my fucking furniture.  Mines all fucked anyway so he could've broken away with impunity, but to start smashing up someone's house when they've been good enough to invite you round for a party is more than tad fucking off, know what I mean?  And then, as if to veneer and varnish the point, you show how 'I was just fucking sitting down' and 'not trying to break things' by doing the exact same fucking stupid-arse thing you've already done with the inevitable consequence of further breakages, and to top it all off, you do it a THIRD time whilst spouting out the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard, 'look, all I did was this....and it fucking broke!  Twice!  Oops!  Three times!'

The cunt!

After all that he took umbrage (such a lovely word) because everyone else was asking him why he was behaving like a cunt and he fucked off leaving pieces and splinters of furniture all over the pissing shop!  What the fuck!

Amazingly....the guy having the biggest fit about all this was shortly to become an even bigger problem than the first guy had ever been.  'He's a fucking animal.  No class!  Doesn't know how to behave!'  Sentiments that by this time everyone else was agreeing with....... so why was it that not half-an-hour later this guy wouldn't fuck off when he was asked to!

One mate ends the party...another wants it to carry on, even after it's all over...and me, all I want to do is drink myself unconscious to avoid the fucking shameful display of my so-called fucking friends and the scornful eyes of my soon-to-be friends no longer who will probably never hold another birthday party in their lives again!

Four hours we tried to kick the fucker out.  Three times he refused lifts saying he would walk home but when walking was, in the end, called for all he could do was fall over the dirty paella dish and fall head first into the ashes.  If only they'd still been hot we could've cremated the cunt there and then and no-one would ever have known!

Here's the paella being cooked.  The bricks and the stones proved to be major obstacles for the horribly pissed amongst us......which might be quite normal under most circumstances.....but to mistake them for a fucking bed is perhaps going one beer too far!

And here's the back of my sexy head! 

Eventually the cunt left.... leaving me to pick up the pieces, literally, and to contemplate the fact that if I'd been bored shitless before, now, following the stupidity of my dumb-ass ex-mates it was probably going to be a whole lot fucking worse and all because I had a fucking birthday party!  Shit!!  I just hope that I don't have to have another one.  Ever!

The problem with friends........

Alright cunts!

So I went out last night, as you know, and had a good time despite the fact that I'd have much rather been at home where I could be pissed off with life all on my own!   And now in the cold light of day I can see now that it was a fucking terrible decision.  I should never, ever have gone out because the inevitable happened!  It was like a bad dream........there I was, perfectly fucking happy in the depths of fucking despair, armed with a fridge full of beer and several hundred fags, I was looking forward to drowning my desperation under a tsunami of cheap alcohol.....and then people start organising my life and all of a sudden one night out has turned into a weekend in some fucking place I've never heard of, and that's not even the worst of it!  Apparently I'm driving every cunt there!  Why me?  Just leave me alone, ya cunts!

But they won't, will they?

You see, even a sad git like me has a few unlikely oafs that might loosely be described as 'friends' ....though when they start pulling my sad little life left, right and fucking centre just because 'you're such a cunt spending all your time at that fucking table,' and 'why don't you ever fucking clean up?' and other 'friendly' helpful hints like that!!....I start to take exception!

I don't fucking clean up because there's no fucking point.  You clean up and what's the first thing that happens?  It gets covered in shit again, that's what!  So why bother?  And that's a philosophy that's served me well for many a year!  Fuck you very much and goodnight!

And I like my fucking table!  You've seen it!  It's perfick for sad gits who just want to be miserable, doleful, bored and fucking pissed off most of the time!  That's why I like it!

And you've not even heard the worst of it yet!  Whilst I was busy figuring out how my weekend had taken a fucking dreadful turn for the worse, my nightmare rolled ever onwards and became a full-blown night terror!  Why, o'why, o'why did I ever open my big trap?  More to the point...when, o'when, o'when did I open my big trap?  I don't even remember imparting this particular scrap of data and can only surmise that I blabbed when I was caught unawares......in other words pissed out of my skull......and as a blood-curdling consequence my so-called 'friends' have now roped me into a fucking birthday party as well as the weekend away.  The cunts!  And it's my fucking birthday party!  I don't even remember telling the fuckers I had a birthday, though one or two of the dim-witted bastards might have figured it out sooner or later.  As it is, I blame the bitches....bitches always remember things like birthdays......the bitches!

So my weekend went from a scene of tranquility and total boredom to one of night's out, trips away and fucking parties all in the space of 10 awful fucking minutes.....and I didn't have a choice in any of it!  Every time I opened my gob to say 'no, ya cunts' some bastard stuck another San Miguel in the hole and the words never materialised!  Now I'm lumbered!

I wonder if I can fake a split toenail or something and get out of it all?

Mind you...... friends do have their advantageous side!  Sometimes!  For example....... being a lazy fucker I tend not wash things....clothes that is!  I do wash myself in the shower on days that have a 'N' in it...... why an 'N' I have no fucking clue, but it's there all the fucking same!  I digress..... so when my clothes get dirty I usually just throw the fuckers away or give them to the dogs to shred, so friends come in handy there because they tend to see me as some sort of fucking charity case and are always giving me their old rags....and I'll wear anything, I don't give a fuck!  Thus I can wear, soil, and discard with fucking impunity because there seems to be a never-ending supply of used threads!  But it just about ends there, the usefulness of my friends that is, because if they're not giving me old rags they're trying to cheer me up.  And I don't want to be 'cheered up' ........I'm happy being a miserable cunt!

And there it is!

Now fuck off and don't come back!  Ya cunt!

I'm busy doing nuffink.......

Alright cunts!

I've finally worked up the energy and the electricity on my shitty solar system to be able to write again.  Today the sun is out....it's bloody hot and to be fucking truthful all I really want to do is nothing at all.  Not that I've always been this....ummmm...ineffective....believe or not, I had a job once!  But now I just don't see the point of working...so I don't!  And anyway, I'm fucking good at doing nuffink!  And given anything like a choice on this....I'll do precisely that for every dullard day left in my sad, little, lonely, boring life!  And for those of you shouting 'get a job ya cunt,' I can reply using another well-known English catchphrase, 'On ya bike, ya cunt,' and if that one doesn't work on you then try this one for size....'fuck off!  Job!  Ya cunt!'

Hang on..... just going to the fridge!

I don't know exactly how hot it is, but that beer just disappeared down the hatch before I'd even made it back from the fridge to the seat of boredom at my table!  Oh well....time for another!

I went out yesterday.

As a statement of boring fact...that statement is right up there!  Not only is it wholly truthful...it's also boring as shit.  And that's the way I like it.  I'm not going to tell you where I went because it's none of your fucking business, ya nosy cunts!

I might be going out again tonight.  Hows about that for 'living it up'?  The last time I went out 2 nights in a row Edward Teeth was PM and blogging was just a word that sounded like it had something to do with fucking nose-picking!

How things change?  In those days I was young, carefree and almost married, whereas these days I'm old, stressed and almost divorced legally separated  (makes it sound like we were fucking conjoined twins or something).  There was a time when admitting things (such as being almost legally separated) would have thrown me into a cold sweat and about 2 cases of beer.  But I'm making progress cos now all it does is send me reaching for the beer.  The cold sweat has been replaced by a sort of mild, lukewarm perspiration which I put down the fact that I don't give a shit any more.  Also breaking out in a cold sweat in 40 degree temperatures is something of a fucking impossibility!  Thank fuck I don't move around very much because if I started sweating for real (as a result of something active.....like going food shopping, or having a huge shit) I might confuse that sweat for something completely different from what it is.  Let's face it, my impending death divorce legal separation occupies more of my time than it fucking deserves.  Even in death (she's not really dead...the fucking bitch.....but saying she is makes me feel a whole lot better about things) the fucking bitch still takes up more of my hectic day than is really needed.  I console myself with the thought that if I wasn't spending my time making effigies and sticking pins into them I would have very little to fill my fucking day!  Every cloud...and all that shit!

I was going to show you a couple more photos but I can't be fucked.

My lemon tree is dead.  My friend was right.  You are supposed to water the bastards.   I pissed on it a few times but I guess that wasn't enough.

I had a plum tree last year as well.  That fucking dried up like a prune as well.  I threw in the hole in the ground that used to be my swimming pool hoping there might be some water there to revive the fucker but all I did was succeed in breaking another tile.  That was my last attempt at gardening.  Too much like fucking work and what's more the fridge was way too far away for true comfort.  Nowadays I confine myself to just pissing on anything that looks like it's wilting!  That includes any mates who've had one too many!  The cunts!

I'm outta here...

Get a life, why can't you?

Alright cunts!

I'm fucking bored shitless.  Every fucking awful day is fucking mind-numbingly the same.  Get up.  Drink a beer, have a fag.  Take a shit.  Have another fag.  If the boredom hasn't got me by then and sent me crawling back to my scratcher, I think about eating something.  But I don't always do it.  I like the variety!  I like to surprise myself, you know?  The biggest fucking surprise surprise of all though is when I can actually muster the energy to go get something to eat!!  Now, that is a fucking surprise!

Anyway, after that I generally have another fag whilst thinking about where to sit with the next beer.  It's a fucking tough decision.  Out on the terrace in what might laughably be called my 'conservatory' - although I never call it that because I'm a fucking Red and proud of it and anything that sounds remotely fucking poncey or Tory-fied can fuck right off!  So - on my terrace, or my covered terrace if I'm feeling like I'm going up in the world (which is fucking never) or in my lounge is the big fuck-off decision of the morning!  Of every fucking morning! 

Let's look at the various pluses and minuses of the two locations so you can maybe begin to grasp the fucking banality of my fucking boring life.

1.  The Lounge
The lounge has the advantage - in the summer months anyway - of having electricity.  Well, not all the fucking time, but for at least a reasonable part of the day I have electricity in the lounge............... oh shitbags! and now I'm beginning to see just why I didn't write a fucking blog before..... fucking scabby arseholes!  Now I've gotta explain that little statement about my electric and I really can't be bothered.  So, you can fuck off, ya cunts!  Writing a blog is already too much work and I've only just fucking started.  Bloody hell, what have I let myself in for!?

I'm fucking bored already telling you about my day and I can bet - well, I can't actually bet because I ain't got any money, but I can bet metaphorically - that you're fucking bored too!  So I'm off for a fag and a beer.  I can't tell you when I'll be back because I don't give a shit about you, me or anyone fucking else so just fuck off ya cunts and don't read this again!

Ya cunts!


Here's a couple of pictures to keep you cunts happy till I break in to your life again.

This first one basically sums up my day.  Beer and fags.  Fucking beer and fags.  Then more beer and fags and just occasionally a bit of grub.  The one underneath is my table where I sit Bored Shitless most of the fucking time.

The next one here is some shit that was lying around in one corner of my terrace.

This next one is just fucking weird!  I think that's a bag of cereal sitting on a book sitting on a bucket full of yet more shit in another corner of my terrace.  What the fuck that's doing there I don't know.

For you foot fetishists....here's my sexy feet, you kinky fuckers.

My mate took that picture of my feet and here's his wife .....exfoliating....whatever the fuck that is!

This one below is a table covered in crap from 'who knows where' and 'from who knows when'....and basically, who gives a shit anyway?  It's also in my delightful terrace.

And this last one is my ash tray and beer bucket when I'm inside on my couch.  Fucking organised or what?