Cheeses of Nazareth

I have decided to take up voluntary work because I'm bored shitless. As I've mentioned before, I don't really need to work. I've got more than enough money to see out the rest of my days in relative luxury (though I'm too lazy and some might say miserable to go spend it all.....though if any female is interested... I'm always on the look out for a nice young lady to help me spend my cash. Fuck it - I'm not fussy, any sort of lady will do.....I'd even be willing to give some thought to any post-op tranny who showed an interest)......Sorry - I've lost my thread now and can't remember what the hell I was going to say. You see this has always been part of my problem...I'm completely obsessed with sex, mainly because I don't get any.
Oh yes - cheese. I have decided to offer my services to the local cheese shop (on a voluntary basis). Ok I'm lying - I'm actually there as part of my community service (I won't go into the details now but let's just say that the judge came to the conclusion that it would be a waste of time sending me to prison because I'd probably enjoy it too much - I've no idea why he thought this....plus the 'nonce' wing of the local jailhouse is at bursting point already....it seems that I am not alone in my 'night-time pursuits'). As you can see I've gone way 'off-topic' once more and got bogged down in trivial details. I started 'working' in the cheese shop last Thursday and already I've got myself into trouble with the manager. By the way the shop is called Williams Cheeses (not the most eye-catching name). It's a rather nice shop actually that sells all sorts of exotic cheeses from around the globe. However I don't really like the name at all. I said as much to the manager during my first day and asked him if he wasn't tired of local schoolkids making fun of the name......(the graffitti outside the shop was enough to confirm my point). Mr Williams more or less told me to 'fuck off and start opening the deliveries' which wasn't a very christian-like response (he and his wife are devoted bible enthusiasts). His wife (an equally unpleasant fundamentalist sort) looked at me as though I'd just pissed in the grotto at Lourdes when I suggested they call the shop 'Cheeses of Nazareth' (which I thought was a rather clever play on words but was completely lost on her)...I think she would've branded the word 'heretic' on my forehead with a red hot poker if there'd been one handy! Anyway the crux of the matter is, I've landed myself in yet more trouble with the law. Earlier on today I was shelving a rather pungent Dutch goat's milk cheese called Foondel Mee when I noticed a suspicious looking man lurking behind the Stinking Bishop display. I could've sworn I witnessed him shoving several chunks of the aforementioned down the front of his trousers...so sensing an opportunity to get back into Mr Williams good books I took it upon myself to square up to the thief and confront him about his actions. He naturally denied my allegations and started to threaten me, firstly with legal action and secondly with actual bodily harm. I was convinced he was bluffing and made a grab for his crotch in an effort to prove myself right (I did notice that he appeared to dress both to the left and to the right in his gentlemans area which is a dead giveaway) and shoved my hand down the front of his trousers. Unfortunately this had the effect of shifting the balancing point of us both into the wrong side of upright and as a result we both went crashing through the Stinking Bishop selection and into the shop window area. Outside a group of school children on an urban geography field trip were witness to the unfolding events (and in hindsight I can now see that it didn't look very good for either myself or the 'cheese thief'). My hand was still caught down the front of his trousers and the more I tried to remove it the worse my predicament became and due to his girth I was unable to do anything until Mr Thief stood up again. I'd just like to point out that I didn't find any stolen blocks of hard cheese in his underpants but what I did have in my hand seemed to have become rather engorged and was getting harder by the second. It was at this point that Mr & Mrs Williams came running out of the back room to see what all the commotion was about only to discover me lying on top of my would-be thief with my hand placed firmly down the front of his slacks performing what appeared to be some sort of lewd act that one normally does in the privacy of one's bedroom/kitchen/car etc. To add to my woes it turned out that my cheese lifter was actually my parole officer who had been in the shop checking up on me and making sure I was doing my community service. Why the fuck didn't he just say who he was in the first place? Oh and apparently he has some sort of groin condition that requires him to wear a truss and it was this that he was adjusting (not stealing cheese) when I happened to look over at him. I don't think I'll be back working in the shop tomorrow somehow...although my parole officer said he wouldn't take things any further on the understanding that I would 'take things further' next time we meet......(I'm not quite sure what he meant by that).
Until next time

I wish myself luck!

Snow business

Bloody hell it's freezing outside....I am still suffering from hypothermia after my new year's eve misfortunes. I don't really want to talk about it but I suppose I'd better. I'll give you the condensed version of events. On the morning of Dec 31st I recieved an anonymous invite to a new years eve party and having nothing better to do that evening I decided to investigate it further (I thought that perhaps there might've been some willing females out looking for some rampant sex and gentle raping). The venue was a disused church in the middle of nowhere (just outside Keady in Co.Armagh) and the theme of the party was 'your favourite political character'...so naturally I decided to go dressed as Iris Robinson (I think she's a wonderful, misunderstood genius and I only wish she'd come to me with her financial problems...I would've willingly given her £50,000 in return for some no-holds-barred restaurant themed sex). Anyway I arrived at the party weighed down with several large bottles of rohypnol based cocktails and some delightful finger food. The place was already packed by the time I got there and everything seemed to be going well..the music was loud and so were most of the guests..although I did notice that there was a distinct shortage of females on the premises. Most of the men there took very little notice of my outfit probably due to the fact that quite a few of them had come dressed as Lady Thatcher and Edwina Currie (which was a bit tacky to say the least). I danced my little legs off until just before midnight and as the bells rang in the new year a rather large bearded gentlemen (dressed as Emeline Pankhurst) grabbed me and shoved his tongue right down my throat (he'd been eating cheese & onion crisps - yuk!) and wished me a happy new year. Not wanting to offend him I gave into his demand for a slow smooch on the dancefloor (we danced to Move Closer by Phyllis Nelson) and he whispered sweet nothings into my ear for the next three minutes whilst he pressed his engorged crotch against my hipbone. He complimented me on my tasteful outfit and casually asked me who I'd come dressed as. When I answered, 'Iris Robinson...isn't she just wonderful...that Peter cunt doesn't deserve her', he immediately pushed me to one side and slapped my face. Then the music stopped and he started roaring all sorts of abuse at me. By this stage a bit of a crowd had gathered around us to see what the problem was. It turned out that none of them were fans of the lovely Iris either. All I could hear were all sorts of terms of abuse directed towards me and the word 'abomination' seemed to feature prominently. Next thing I knew I was being manhandled towards the front door by 8 of the fuckers (at least 3 Lady Thatchers, a couple of Edwinas and several Peter Tatchells). They threw me to the frozen ground, stripped me bollock naked (I paid a fortune for that Iris dress by the way) and threw my car keys into the field next door. To cut a long story short - I had to walk 27 miles home in the freezing cold and snow with nothing but an old pizza box to hide my delicate bits. My feet still haven't regained any feeling (I may have to face up to amputation if this continues) and my libido is now non existent. Why oh fucking why did I bother with that party. I should've stayed at home and masturbated to Jools Holland's Hootenanny as usual! And as if all that wasn't enough poor Iris has taken some sort of mental breakdown. I would go comfort her at once if I knew where the hell the DUP Gestapo were holding her! I bet that bitch Arlene Foster knows exactly where she is.....I have a good mind to 'pay her a visit' one of these nights. I hate those horrible tights she wears. I think I will enjoy strangling her with them....
Until next time

I wish myself luck!