Life certainly has an interesting tapestry here in P’tit Moulin. This morning I was awakened at some ungodly hour—well, just before ten actually, but I am semi-nocturnal—by an excessively enthusiastic clangour (good word that) of my front door bell, of which more later.
Well, I threw on a pair of jeans and a T and went to see who had disturbed the peace in this manner, and there on my doorstep was a rather scruffy individual, definitely of the traditional French horny-handed persuasion. Behind him was a truck that looked, to my bleary and unaided vision, even older and more dilapidated than my Isuzu, and that’s saying something.
He must have recognised my absence of recognition. ‘Sir,’ he said (in French of course, I’m just trying to make it easy for you. Do keep up.) ‘Sir, the last time I passed you said you had some scrap.’
Well, so there you are. You find yourself with an attraction to ladyboys, traps. transsexuals, whatever. These are not your Western autogynephilic transvestites a la Bruce ‘Caitlyn’ Jenner.
We’re talking about sex crazy, man-obsessed homosexual males who live as women. They are wonderful, beautiful, so sexy that just watching a ladyboy walking down the street will get your dick hard. And they are the Ladyboy Trap. Yes. Those ones right there.
A long time ago, when I was a young lad, I had the acquaintance of a dog called Seumus.
Now Seumus was of, shall we say, indeterminate lineage. There seemed to be a fair bit of black Labrador in there, but it was mixed with some distinctly non-pedigree characteristics, including a tail that curled over his back. When Seumus was feeling full of himself, he carried this high and showed to the world his anal sphincter. I’m sure that’s not in the Labrador breed book.
Well, it’s been a fucker of a week, folks. I split up with my girlfriend. That train had already signalled its impending departure though. Also in the Philippines, the Half-Wit Prince has announced his intention to emulate Hitler and murder three million citizens. Hilary Clinton looks likely to be the next President of the Land of Fuckwit, which means we’ll probably celebrate the turn of the decade from a nuclear shelter. In the UK, Auntie Tess is now showing that she couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. In France, full denial has broken out as, after all, one must never offend the Islamic rapists and child-shaggers — in case they take the huff and murder another 100 or so innocent people. And in the latest US-inspired human tragedy, Syria, the body count rises. So I thought I’d do a piece about cursing and swearing.
Because cursing and swearing is something I feel like doing a lot of, right now.
The 19th of November being International Men’s Day — which you probably did not know — I thought I’d do a humorous little piece about freedom. Escaping the gynocracy and its would-be closed sex market, that is.
An essential part of the gynocracy’s closed sex market is that women must be the only permissible sex providers. But the fact is that men are not so fussy. In the dark, well, then — one cul is much like another, n’est-ce pas? So why can’t we have a free sex market? Why do women have to control it, especially in cultures where they have effectively given up motherhood?
Women have always tried to make male sex with other males taboo, in order to control men. After all, it would not do if a man refused his wife’s demands because he was getting his knob polished by that cute batang bakla from next door, you know. Women have to maintain power over men somehow. And shaming them for the way they have sex, well, that’s an easy one. It’s the go-to weapon and always has been.
Despite this, across the planet, especially where cis girls are strictly verboten, men pursue sex with other males, who look like girls and can be fucked.
In the little white-painted town of Santa Westminstera, havoc had broken out.
The town was ruled by two gangs of ruthless bandits. But both of these had begun fighting amongst themselves. The rule of the bosses had collapsed and anarchy reigned. Of the fabled heroes, Los Companeros de Mishcon de Reya, there was no sign.
In an adobe house in the main street huddled one of the last remaining families. Little Angelina was cuddling into her grandfather’s chest.
‘Oh papacito, what will become of us?’ she sobbed.
This is Sam being lots of beautiful stars and beating most of them. Just a bit of fun. This won’t be appearing on YouTube, they are really beginning to be an intolerable pain. If you’re only seeing a thumbnail, please use the links below.
Scientists all over the world are turning their attention to Scotland in the wake of a shock discovery that ‘archaic’ humans may be alive and well and living there.
The discovery came when one of them was filmed saying that they ‘were not evolved to make political decisions’.
Professor of Anthropology Farquhar Mc Farquharson of the University of Aberdeen explained: ‘All modern humans – Homo sapiens – have evolved highly sophisticated social behaviour including the ability to arrive at complex decisions within a formal political framework. The discovery of a population that lacks this ability, apparently living alongside more developed hominids, is very exciting.’
Now my brother was a bit of a character. I’m not talking about my wee brother, here, or the big one I suddenly discovered I had in 2004 that no bugger ever told me about before (aye, we’ll get to that.) I mean my other big brother Sandy, AKA Sye.
Now Sandy did things his own way. He ran a car breaking yard—and trust me, there is no more joyous place to spend your school hols than in a place like that—and he lived in a wee cottage in Arbroath, one of those sandstone ones. Sandy’s wife was called Toos and she was Dutch.
Sandy was always coming up with schemes and one of these was inspired by Toos, who told him that people in Holland raised rabbits for the pot.
A long time ago, when I lived in Arbroath in Scotland, my role before opening up the old Fleming Partners office was to do the school run. Our kids went to a small village school just outside the town itself and there was no bus.
On these runs I always tried to entertain the boys by talking about whatever came into my mind (and would not take more than 10 minutes.) So one day I explained why humans can see in colour and many animals can’t. This is because, I said, there are two types of vision receptor cells, rods and cones. Cones see colour and rods see brightness—monochrome, in other words. (I do know it’s a bit more complex than that, but these were primary kids.) Humans have both rods and cones, and many animals, like dogs, only have rods. So we see colour and they don’t.
This went fine and was met with all the usual approval that could be mustered from a 5-year old and an 8-year old.