Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts

10 reasons why I block people on Twitter

Hello flowers,

I love Twitter for its immediacy, but sometimes that brings imbeciles into my life. Here are the reasons I LOVE blocking people.

Disclaimer: Work of humour. Kinda.
Disclaimer 2: Swears.
Disclaimer 3: Pre-menstrual, yo.

1. So homophobes, racists, sexists and other such tools don't cause me to mash my skull against a wall until the contents look like grey jam.

2. So people like this can't follow me.


He followed me, I checked his feed and decided that wasn't a person I wanted following me. He may have never asked me if I wanted to see his trouser sausage, but that kinda person ain't my bag. There are places where you can do that shit and Twitter really isn't one of them.

3. So people who profess themselves to be wisdom gurus don't cause me to have an aneurysm when I see their self-important arse expulsions. Newsflash: wisdom is something other people attribute to you. When you go around calling yourself wise you come across like a giant pulsating arseberry. Your words of wisdom are diarrhoea, my friend, and you're spraying it all over the world. When you're dead and someone says you're wise, you're wise. Until then you're a lemon. Unless of course you're Maya Angelou, then no normal rules apply. ;)

Source

4. So idiots who just retweet crap other people say don't piss me off again when I look to see why I'm not following them. If you have nothing to say for yourself why the hell should anyone follow you, least of all me, a person with the patience of a honey badger on the rag.

5. So teenage number-collecting eejits who tweet things like 'The person below smells' don't find themselves almost liberated of their virginity when I put my size 7 boot up their underpants area, metaphorically speaking, naturally. They're almost always number collectors as well, something which makes me curl my nose up as I've probably blocked more people than I've ever followed. (Oh God, this is probably so true.) What can I say? I have a trigger finger.

6. So creepy chubby chasers can't follow me. I don't like feeling like a fetish. The only man who gets to call me sexy without me feeling a little skeeved out is my husband. After many years of fine tuning my strange people antenna (I'm being polite) I can usually tell when someone is going to become problematic. There are ways of saying things - your hair looks nice, you look pretty - without turning the conversation sexual. If I see a guy has send loads of creeptastic tweets to other girls, I block.

7. When people who I follow back immediately send me a DM begging me to follow them on Youtube, donate to save their mum's pubic wig collection or any other such grasping bollocks. Oh do one, you're not that important love. Usually the more followers a person has the more likely they are to pull this crap. Block.

Source


8. When a musician from a music genre I hate follows me then spams me incessantly with requests to check out their acid jazz/rap/folk hybrid. Feck right off. I are metalllll.

9. When someone has 90 million followers and follows about 3 people back, but says in their profile they follow back. No, you follow then unfollow to bump up your numbers, you total and utter bottom feeder.

10. When someone loves the Tories with a passion and is loud and proud about it. Sorry, but if you think they're doing a beautiful job, we ain't evarrrrrrrrrrr going to get on. I would sooner let an escaped mass murderer give my lady place a shave with a straight razor. If you think the party who are going out of their way to kill off as many sick and disabled people as possible with their welfare reforms whilst chumming it up with billionaire tax evaders are the best thing since sliced bread, it's a sure fire bet we're not going to be bosom buddies. Le block.

So there's that. Tell me, what kind of people make you hit the block button? I went back and took our several swears. I feel better now. :)

Thanks for reading.


Things I won't be blogging about before Christmas

Hi flowers.

I wanted to do a post about things I won't be posting about before Christmas, because who in their right mind posts about things they're not going to post about?! I've always been a special snowflake.

Without further ado:

  1. I won't be posting about Lush, because approximately 327 people in my blog list do so every day. Have I missed the invite to the cult of Lush? I thought Scientology and Amway were harder to get rid of than shit from a blanket, but Lushites are everywhere. Yes, Lush is indeed bloody lovely, but the way some people talk about it everydamnday it's almost like they want to rub themselves into an orgasmic froth surrounded by endless bottles of Snow Fairy and Glogg.
  2. I won't be posting any gift guides because quite frankly if you don't know what to buy your inlaws and boring Gareth from accounts, how the hell am I supposed to? ;)
  3. I won't be doing any more Christmas dress posts because I've joined a naturist cult and shall be sporting a sprig of Mistletoe dangling out of my arse and a tinsel merkin on Christmas day.
  4. I won't be doing any Christmas make up posts because I sold my nose to pay for Christmas. True story. Latoya Jackson bought it.

I may however do some outfit posts embellished by Christmas trees popping out from under my armpits, a halo of Christmas lights plugged into the mains (no one lick me, you might get a free perm) and baubles for earrings.

What will and won't you be blogging about in the run up to Christmas?

Thanks for reading.


This post has been brought to you by extreme insomnia and my warped sense of humour.

A terrible affliction - satire.

Hello loves!

Start transmission.

I fear the end is near. I woke up this morning having DREAMED a One Direction song. It's not unusual (to be loved by anyone, da da da da da da da) for me to think in songs, and although I have barely any recall for my dreams the song I had in my head when I was sleeping normally stays with me all day.

God, I'm fucked.

It's not just the dream. I heard their new song on tv the other day and I liked it from the first line. From the first LINE. That never happens. Songs are usually like one eyed stinky dogs with halitosis - first they repel me, and when I hear the hook for the umpteenth time, then I notice the puppy dog eyes and declare to love it forever.

Songs don't usually imbed themselves in my cranium on the first listen. There must be something in the water. That Simon Cowell is poisoning us all with One Direction chemical warfare!

I've gone from being extremely unimpressed to not minding them. And oh God, they've all got tattoos and facial hair and everything! I'm sure I fancy at least two of them now.

SAVE YOURSELVES! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

You don't know oh oh, that's what makes you beautiful....

End transmission.

Doctor's notes.

Patient was found to have extreme viral Directionitis and was prescribed a dose of German speed metal and Jason Momoa images. She began to show signs of improvement almost instantly, although she did drool a little when viewing the images. There has been a rash of similar cases since One Direction's collective balls dropped. Patients of even such great age as this patient - in her 39th year - were unable to fight off this virulent strain of the virus, which predominantly affects younger females.

We are currently seeing an outbreak similar in scale to bird flu. It is extremely contagious and there is a theory One Direction are using dream warfare, a secret brain washing exercise devised by Simon Cowell, an evil genius with hair like a broom.

Should a detailed and personal prescription of cure not work, aversion therapy has been known to have some effect. Usually after 7 days of listening to One Direction on repeat for 8-12 hours a day the patient will be purged of his or her addiction.

*It's just satire, Directioners. No need to burn me at the stake.

Valentines Day - if I was single

Hello lovelies,

I did a post in last week's Tuesday Chat about Valentines Day.

Valentines Day is a very coupley thing, obviously. But it needn't be. If I was single I'd want to reclaim it for myself, either by having a sort of pamper evening on my own, or by having a fun girlie night out.

Because I'm a lazy bastard here is a humourous look at how a Valentines Day 'celebration' might go down in my casa.

This would be my list of things needed for the evening:

Bath oil
Body lotion
Fluffy dressing gown & slippers
Photos of Ryan Gosling
Copy of The Notebook on DVD
Selection of sex toys or a large tubular vegetable
Batteries
Lubricant
Ear plugs for the neighbours
Several bottles of wine, or vodka...fuck it, vodka
Chocolates
Pizza delivery menu

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6pm- Begin by having a long, luxurious bath filled with oils, so when I make mad passionate love to myself later on I will enjoy it more.
7.00 - Get out of bath looking like a septuagenarian's happy sack. Apply copious amounts of body lotion.
7.15 - Don dressing gown and slippers. Exhale contentedly.
7.20 - Begin the romance by staring at lots of photos of Ryan Gosling in Google Images.
7.30 - Check batteries.
7.31 - OoooOOOOooooOOOOhhhhhhhhh my teeth are vibrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrating!
7.35 - Now I know what Buddhist monks are on about when they talk about Zen. Exhale contentedly.
7.40 - Slap the DVD in the laptop. The TV is too far away and I need to see The Gosling up close and personal.
7.45 - Pour a large one.
7.50 - And another. Start singing 'You are the sunshine of my liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife!' and stroking Ryan's face.
7.55 - Eat so many Dairy Milk my teeth ache.
8.00 - Order pizza. They don't do Feat Meast pizzas any more but they tell me they do a Meat Feast, which is very similar. Then they start giggling. Fuckers.
8.05 - Vodka is my friend.
8.15 - Where's my fucking pizza?
8.16 - Ooh, shiny!
8.20 - WHERE IS MY FUCKING PIZZA?
8.45 - *woken up by doorbell* My eyes must've got a little bit tired.
8.46 - Answer door to pizza boy. Ashk him if he wants tah come in for a slice of something hot an' spishy.
8.47 - Pizza boy burns rubber in his haste to leave. Ahve never seen a scooter burn rubber before *hic*
8.48 - Notice one tit has fallen out of dressing gown and there's drool all over my face.
8.49 - PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
8.53 - I feel a bit sick.
8.55 - I shall overcome!
8.56 - Whasht's better than Meat Feast? Meat Feast with Dairy Milk! Whilst watching Ryan Gosling!
8.57 - I love chooooo Ryan Gosling. Why you so perfick? I don' need noooooo one else but choooooo!
9.00 - Ahm sho very tired shuddenly.
5.00 - Wake up with hangover from hell with pepperoni in my hair and cheese all over my face. Someone is using a pneumatic drill INSIDE MY HEAD. I SHALL NEVER DRINK AGAIN! Now I must go quench a lake. Baconnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

Since my husband is the most unromantic man in the history of mankind, this might actually BE my Valentines Day.

Single and ready to mingle? Tell me how you'll be spending Feb 14th!
Coupled up folks - are you doing something romantic?
Women like me, married to cave men - will you be joining me in a Gosling-fest?

Thanks for reading!

How an older lady does her make up

Hiya!

Today is one of those days where I hate my face, hate the make up I did and wish digital photography and the internet were in my life 10 years ago, when I was less old and ragged.

Let's start the clock at 9am, although that's a bold lie, as I'm never out of bed before 10 am when I can help it.

-------

09.00 - Sit at dressing table. Open curtains. Spy crusty seagull shit which has been on window for months. Mental note to find a window cleaner. Sometime.

09.01 - Pick up mirror. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Accidentally looked in magnifying side, now scarred for life.

09.02 - Wish I had gin to calm my nerves after seeing that. I don't even like gin.

09.03 - Turn mirror round the right way, swearing to score through the other side so I can't get a fright like that again. Ugh. Pores! My eyebrows need plucking.

Approximately 3 weeks later - Brows are plucked. Curse taking after my dark haired dad and not taking after my blonde mum, then remember it could be worse. My mum is 4 ft 8. No, she really is!

09.10 - Look at plucked visage which now resembles a weather-beaten Cornish seafarer.

09.11 - Curse not being this vain when I was 20.

09.12 - Rake through enormous drawers of make up looking for the wonder treatment which'll make me look 20. If only.

09.13 - Pick up eye shadow brushes, inspect for fluff. Contemplate cleaning, but think 'Stuff it, it'll do for one more go.'

09.14 - Slap on some eyelid primer and dollop on a randomly picked eyeshadow.

09.15 - Curse having hooded eyes. Apply 6 feet more eye shadow so people can see it when my eyes are open.

09.16 - IS THAT A HAIR SPROUTING FROM MY CHIN?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

09.17 - Yes it is. Mother Nature, you absolute twatbucket.

09.18 - Blend eye shadow in frenzied window-wiper motion while one solitary tear slips down my left cheek.

09.19 - Am I sure there's no gin?

09.20 - Apply mascara. Realise mascara is getting a bit dry. It's all right, I have another 6.

09.21 - Don't apply to bottom lashes. Alice Cooper look is soooo 1970.

09.22 - Fill in brows, thanking the sweet baby Jesus I stopped over plucking before I had Gary Glitter brows. Shudder.

09.23 Contemplate which of my 3 foundations will fill in the cracks. Wonder why Polyfilla don't go into cosmetics.

09.24 - Dob face liberally with foundation, hoping the slapping action will make me look plump-cheeked and youthful, not post-gin.

09.25 - Work it all in with a stipple brush. I seem to have misplaced my trowel.

09.26 - Poke self in eye with stipple brush. Solitary tear flows down right cheek. Alice Cooper's not such a bad look after all when both eyes match.

09.27 - Buff in with stiff bristled brush.

09.28 - My face tickles. Look in mirror, 27 thick black hairs shed from brush gives me a look into the future - how I will look when I'm 62 and those hairs from my chin have migrated North.

09.29 - Weep silently.

09.30 - Rake around in lipstick drawer for something that'll make my teeth look Simon Cowell-esque.

09.31 - Apply lipstick. Smile into mirror. Vow never to do it in public again.

09.32 - Ta da! Done.

09.33 - Take the long walk to the kitchen in search of gin. No gin. Eff you universe!

09.34 - Eat Tunnock's Teacakes I've been saving for my dad. Screw foil wrappers up in a futile rage, knowing it's only going to get worse with age.

09.35 - Online shopping. One litre of gin.

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If you did a time line like this, what would be on it?

Thanks for reading!