Why are they fighting to get seats in Parliament? I say let the fat bastards stand.

All this election bollox....I'm sick of it. I wasn't allowed to go into my local polling station yesterday (I used the postal option) because it's a council owned leisure facility and the bastards have a restraining order against me ever since my unfortunate 'loose shorts-no underpants-sagging testicles' incident. It's not my fault that my ball sack has become somewhat dangly as I approach middle age and how the hell was I supposed to know that the yoga class I turned up for was exclusively for pregnant women? It's not as though I was at the front or anything...I slipped in discreetly at the back and was in the middle of doing some warm up stretching exercises when the vegetarian looking female instructor told the rest of the class to turn around and face the back of the room for their first yogic manoeuvre. There were one or two gasps from the assembled audience as I did a few open legged squats and my dangly bits slipped out for some air but on the whole it wasn't as bad as it could've been, I mean it's not as if any of them hadn't seen a well honed set of balls before though I have a feeling that my 'tea-bag & meat' themed joke might've been a bridge too far for the vegeterian woman.
Anyway - balls to the lot of them! Bloody hypocrites. They're talking about a well hung parliament and fresh members and things and if that's not sexual innuendo then I don't know what is.....Radical cuts beckon? Radical cunts more like. I'm off now to see a man about a house cleaner. Apparently there's a russian bloke operating out of the local library who has a large workforce of cheap & available 'cleaning staff'. Not that my house is unclean or anything. Ever since mother died I have kept the place shining (I follow her strict cleansing regime to the letter and even wear her old housecoat and pinney in order to get fully into character)...no I just fancy having an undernourished nubile easterner doing lots of bending over and things while I watch Loose Women on the telly (I usually masturbate during this programme so at least she'll have a few surfaces to clean afterwards). Apparently I am allowed to abuse the ugly looking ones for a small extra fee though I'll have to have a think about it before I sign anything.

As usual - I wish myself lots of luck!

Bye for now

Drop the dead donkey.....

I'm sorry I haven't been here in a while...I've been in mourning for a few weeks now. Poor old Fenella (my top bitch donkey or Equus africanus asinus to give her her full title) is no more. I'm not sure if she's actually dead, she's just fucked off somewhere with Big Trevor (a rampant 3 year old alpha male I bought as a treat for my harem of donkey bitches). Well I'm assuming that's what has happened. There was a bit of a commotion the day before she disappeared. I was down the field grooming her (not in a sick paedo type way), just some gentle brushwork and the occasional playful buttock fondle (I know she likes it when I do that). Anyway Fenella has always had a bit of a thing for me (must be my natural muskiness) and as a result of the aforementioned buttock fondling she started to get a bit frisky and began her usual donkey-man rape simulation which basically involves her using my body as a makeshift donkey dildo until she satisfies herself and goes back to her grazing. Up until this point Big Trevor hadn't really paid her or any of the others much attention (I actually thought he was a bit on the gay side if I'm honest and had a good mind to take him back to the bastard that sold him to me). However as soon as he saw us together he made a beeline for the two of us and was determined to interrupt our simulated coitus with a well aimed headbutt into Fenella's nether regions. He then more or less raped her on the spot and gave me a look that said 'back off motherbitch - this one's mine'. Poor Fenella, she looked quite distraught throughout her ordeal. As Big Trevor climaxed with all the donkey strength he could muster she just stared straight into my eyes and I'm convinced we shared one of those moments when, you know when you're sitting in a bar and you see a great looking woman but she's with some other bloke and she gives you a look that says, 'I fancy you but I'm with this plonker'...well it was a bit like that (not that I ever have got one of those looks in real life - usually it's more of a 'why the fuck are you staring at my tits - piss off or I'll get my boyfriend/husband to beat the shit out of you' type looks). Anyway I awoke next morning to find a broken fence and no sign of Fenella or Big Trevor anywhere. I reckon he's kidnapped her and is probably keeping her as his own private donkey sex slave in a field somewhere well away from civilization and public view. So she might as well be dead as far as I'm concerned. I doubt if I'll ever see her again. All I've got is some wonderful memories and lots of stains on my overalls. I suppose I really should pick myself up out of this depression I find myself in and go out and face the world once more. I haven't even interferred with myself since her disappearance, that's how bad I feel. Maybe I should go loiter around a public library or sports centre and cheer myself up a bit by stalking someone (though I can't even be bothered to do that). I'd go to the doctors and ask for some pick-me-ups but there's a restraining order against me which means I can't go anywhere near the place for at least twelve months. I think I'll give it another few days and then maybe head towards the coast and try some light flashing at the amusement arcades/parks/beaches - whatever's handiest.

Until then

I wish myself luck!

PS - Farmers and landowners - if you do happen to come across 2 donkeys (that's 'come' as in discover, not the rude meaning of the word) in one of your fields or outhouses (one alpha male and one sexually exhausted female) please let me know ASAP! There'll be a few quid in it for you.

I was sucking off this bird last night when I thought, "Wait a minute..."

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Funny how a self-examination for testicular cancer easily turns into a wank.

Ok - I'll have to keep this brief because I have go and sign in at my local police station very shortly. Basically I am currently under investigation by the serious crime unit on suspicion of manslaughter. Yes - the aforementioned Mr Pop Pain has died under rather mysterious circumstances. The randy old scrote was found dead the other morning in the living room of his house. Police were initially happy enough to declare an open verdict of death due to old age, however upon closer inspection at the coroners office they found a small test tube inserted into his arse that contained what later turned out to be partially frozen semen. Upon even closer examination (not sure how they do this bit but it involves a microscope and some clever people) they discovered that the contents of the test tube had originated somewhere deep within my man-parts i.e. it was MY semen! How it got there fuck knows but I could hazard a bloody good guess as to who put it there. Naturally this didn't sit well with the officer in charge and he immediately dragged me in for questioning. Three fucking days they kept me in there...I tried to explain about the Valentines Night shenannigans (see previous post for details) but they wouldn't believe me. I even showed them the scars on my torso and told them to ring the hospital to check out my story (which they did). Now they seem to think that it was some sort of revenge manslaughter on my part - they think that maybe I tried to scare the old bugger and perhaps took things a little too far......! The upshot is that I have to check in with the local fuzz (that's the police, not my pubes) every day because they don't have enough room in the local remand centre at the moment because it's full of defrocked priests and disgraced DUP councillors. Speaking of pubic hair and things, I was visiting the outpatients centre at the local hospital last week and I picked up one of those man leaflets that urge us to examine our private regions on a regular basis. Interesting reading. Sometimes I get a bit 'confused' and forget where I am and do 'silly' things. Anyway I experienced one such episode whilst there and gave myself an full examination whilst in the waiting area......Funny how a self-examination for testicular cancer easily turns into a wank (that's what I said to the security man). I am no longer welcome in the Craigavon area hospital. It's a good job I didn't try the prostate examination on page two of the leaflet!
Right - I'd better go down to the cop shop and sign my name in the book. The policewoman at reception is fucking gorgeous! I think I might ask her out when all this blows over.
As ever - I wish myself luck!

Richard.

ps -
I was flicking through my freeview to see what was on the tv yesterday. I
was appalled when I saw the programme Jade : A Year Without Her. I couldn't believe how badly they had spelt Hair.

Biblio-Therapy

Greetings donkey lovers everywhere! Let me begin by apologizing to you all for my recent absence from my blog. To cut a long story short, I've been in hospital AND a nursing home/nuthouse for some well intentioned aftercare therapy. I suppose I can't just leave you dangling in mid air and not tell you what happened. It all began in mid February, Valentines Day to be precise. It was during the last week of my community service. As you are aware I got chucked out of my last community service position (the cheese shop) and was subsequently relocated to what can only be described as a modern day chain gang facility in the fair town of Portadown. There's major town centre rebuilding going on there at the moment and my probabation officer thought a spell of hard manual labour would keep me occupied and out of trouble. Anyway, there I was, out in all weather digging away like a good'un and whistling at the local talent (there wasn't really much to whistle at by the way). During my luchbreak/unchaining period I happened to notice a poster in the front porch of the local library advertizing a St Valentines Day Knees Up at one of the local clubs. It looked exciting....'St Valentines Day Massacre: Cum If You Dare'. I made a mental note of the venue (and the spelling mistake) and made a date with myself to attend before being slapped around the head by our foreman (who's actually a woman so I didn't really mind) and told to stop loitering around the library entrance and get back to work.
Eventually the big night arrived. I wore my best itchy trousers, suede pumps, flowery shirt (I was feeling adventurous), got my hair trimmed, shaved my entire body and oiled myself up. I was ready for anything! I arrived at the venue (The Twisted Testicle) and was immediately struck dumb by the sight that awaited me. It was like something from the last days of Sodom & Gommorah (not sure how to spell that). Nevertheless, being the adventurist that I am I proceeded towards the bar and ordered a very large vodka & coke. I felt like a bit of a spare prick at a wedding because everyone else there seemed to have at least one (or more) partners with them doing all sorts of lewd acts to each other. I was deep in the middle of having second thoughts when I spied two ladies (sisters) at the bar, both of whom were giving me the eye so I sidled over to them and offered to buy them a drink (big mistake). The first one kneed me in the groin and forced me down onto my knees and told me I'd have to beg and grovel for the privilege of buying them drinks. Now I'm not really into the whole pain thing so I complied and began begging and pleading and generally flashing my cash around. Next thing I knew I was in a corner booth with one sister each side of me, each with a hand placed firmly on my groin. The darker of the two told me she'd been watching me for several days whilst I was digging up the road outside the library. She had the most immaculately set hair I've ever seen. Her sister looked exactly the same too. She introduced herself as 'Sister Pain 1'...'and this is Sister Pain 2'. After 5 minutes I realized that my drink had been spiked with rohypnol (I knew the symptoms well). They told me they had their own private den not far from the club and that they wanted to take me there and 'tear me to shreds'. I was in no fit state to argue so I complied (thought it might earn me some brownie points). They bunged me into the back of a taxi and immediately the two vixens began fellating me, much to the annoyance of the driver who was complaining about upholstery bills. I say fellate, actually it was more akin to two wild dogs fighting over a bone! We eventually arrived at Chez Pain where we were greeted at the door by who I assumed to be Mom & Pop Pain. He was well into his 80's and she looked like an older dehydrated version of the Sisters P. I wasn't expecting any of this at all and was actually quite relieved to see the parents. They invited me in for more drinks and seemed quite pleasant about the whole thing. It would've been around this point that I received the blow to the head which knocked me out cold. I came to about 5 minutes later only to discover that I'd been strapped to what looked like an operating table in a dimly lit basement, surrounded by camcorders and a large (quite impressive) array of medieval torture knik knaks. Old Mother P was the first to have her way with me. I was thankful for the rohypnol I'd taken earlier because it seemed to dull the pain. Jesus she was scary. Meanwhile Sisters 1 & 2 worked at me from both ends whilst they discussed their latest reading material. I felt as though I'd joined some sort of depraved book club/reading group. Pop Pain was capturing the whole thing on camera whilst vigorously wanking himself off like a man posessed, shouting out random quotes from the bible. The whole family joined in a chorous of ' Squeeze out the devil's cream' whilst using me as some sort of fourway masturbatory conduit. Then the original vixen-like sister with the immaculate hair began chanting 'stretch the heathen fucker' and began turning a wheel which I soon realized was working a crude rack-like device and proceeded to stretch me limb from limb. After hearing my arms and legs breaking I passed out. I remember nothing until I woke up in hospital several days later unable to move a muscle. It took me weeks of regressive therapy to recall what had happened on the night in question. My poor old body still isn't right. I haven't had a wank in ages (too many painful memories) and I'm seriously considering a life of total celibacy and avoiding all contact with the opposite sex. I think from now on I'll stick with my donkeys. At least they are gentle rapists! Oh and I am NEVER setting foot in Portadown again. They can march up and down the fucking Garvaghy Road or whatever the hell it is they do there until their hearts content. Just leave me out of it! I have applied to become a monk (you can do it online now) and lead a life of quiet reflection. I leave for the nearest island as soon as my legs have recovered.
As usual,
I wish myself luck!

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!