AKA N.A.S.A.

This was an introduction I posted on this ‘Political/Feminist’ newsgroup. The reason I was visiting a ‘Political/Feminist’ newgroup in the first place was to gather research for a book I was co-writing with an Australian pornographer.

Anyway, in the interests of context and shit, I just thought I’d add that. The book (which comprised of the dirty Aussie and me bursting into various bizarre newsgroups and trying to wind everyone up, for comedic effect) unsurprisingly remains unpublished. The Australian cunt event has the bare faced nerve to post comments on here, so watch out for him – he’s an evil carousing shyster bastard. And a pornographer for Christs holy sakes.

Roland Emmerich was the only man that could have directed ‘Independence Day’, likewise only Kubric could have made ‘Clockwork Orange’ and Sellers was the only man capable of pulling off ‘Dr. Strangelove’.

But if they made a movie about my cock, there would be only one team of professionals worthy of helming the massive project – N.A.S.A.

The scale would be enormous. Lucas’s THX sound would not suffice, because the deep thrombing sub-bass level bass deep noises my shlong makes would take a new advance in delivery only a team of approximately
340,000 Harvard trained scientists could muster.

The visuals, of course, would be presented digitally, no finer definition would deliver the full levels of colour and vibrancy expected by an eager public awaiting visual presentation of such a monolithic slice of shaft.

Puny Meg-naplex 3300 screens would have to be significantly rescaled to contain the full breadths of my pulsating member, anomorphic enhancement would be impossible. It would have to be presented in true scale – and this in itself would present a delivery problem on a scale with the virgin birth of Christ.

The narration would call for a voice on the level of James Earl Jones – James could deftly explain the nuances of my cock to a frightened audience, explaining the history of a shaft so significant that it defies the Gausian curve and makes play with prior theories of physics and geography – yes geography!

The news coverage would be global, the premier attended by royalty, presidents and leaders from all nations. There would be visits by beings from other planets – initially questioning the time delay in their satellite transmissions from Earth – but later realising that the problems were due to a tear in the fabric of time from my morning wood.

Box office chaos would bankrupt many smaller countries- causing massive bans and censorship leading to widespread world wars, famine and poverty, as the 3rd world saved up to buy tickets to see my cock on screen.

But, at the end of it all, standing in the smoking ruins of the planet, all peoples would come together in the shadow and feel a sense of pride and hope at winessing one of the miracles of the universe gliding across their skylines. All hail the collosal serpent. The tattoo on it’s monster head reads…

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom… know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.”

William Blake

Thoughts on tourists, by someone who hasn’t been away in eight years.

“If it’s tourist season, then why can’t we shoot them?” Steven Wright

People think that the countryside is a peaceful, natural and unspoilt idyll, where gentle folk go about their daily business, gathering damsons to make jam using secret family recipes and tending to their animals on windswept hillsides.
Most people visit the countryside on family breaks, taking nice walking holidays or maybe indulging in a little sight-seeing followed by some real-ale in an oak-beamed pub.

So country people work hard, and put up with ugly winters, working through the freezing cold and biting rain. Then the sun pops out, and brings with it tourists.

With this in mind, I have taken the trouble to write a simple guide for those of you thinking of a country holiday this summer. Think of it as a ‘Ten Commandments’, a fun summer guide, which, should you follow it carefully, will ensure that you maintain good relations with witless country folk. Here we go then.

1. Stay the fuck out of my face you cock-chugging bastards.

2. Leave your fucking SUV’s at home, on the drive. We all know they’re on Hire Purchase. That isn’t a status symbol, it’s a shiny black sign screaming ‘PRICK!’
If you aspire to look like Tony motherfucking Soprano then what the old-womans cunt are you doing on a camping holiday in the countryside?

3. Keep your fucking kids under control you urban razord blade savage fucking scum. ‘Tis not nice when they rampage around our supermarkets like they’re at the special needs play centre. Pop into ‘Pet World’ on the way over here and buy the little shits some muzzles. Put them on leads for fucks sakes. If you’re going shopping leave them back at the tent with grandma savage and daughter Beyonce fucking savage.

4. Eat out you cheap fucking scum. You’re on holiday, spend some of your bastard money here. Stay the fuck out of Tesco. Go to some local greengrocers, explore the place you car-bound fat fucks. Go for a walk somewhere. Don’t turn our supermarkets into a Roman chariot race.

5. Stop asking me for directions – you know I’m only going to send you the wrong way.

6. Our road signs mean the same as your city ones. Do you understand that you cock-jockeys ? Follow them. Stop treating this place like the Paris fucking Dakar rally. Just because a country lane looks quiet doesn’t mean you can shoot down it at 60, in the middle of the bastard road in your BMW X3 or whatever the fuck you’re paying 29.9% interest for this month you prick.

7. Don’t go mountaineering in flip-flops, and stay the hell away from the hills in bad weather. Paying Mountain Rescue geeks to peel you fuckers off the bottoms of our valleys is costing our local economy a fortune.

8. Avoid making constant inbreeding jokes when your own families look like the cast of ‘The Hills Have Eyes’ in shell-suits.

9. Wetsuits are not suitable attire for a bar. I don’t care how close it is to the sea. Combine this with sunglasses on the forehead and bleached surfer hair and you risk serious injury at the hands of the local populace.

10. You can get some real bargains in Spain, and it’s full of pubs, and they do chips and everything. Think about it – you know it makes sense!

I have run this by my local tourist information centre and they are working on the posters as you read this. Big font I told them. Big fucking font. Goo goo gag a.

Nurse!