The Tory government is getting out of hand. People deserve to be paid for work they do, and even minimum wage is taking the piss.
It's not poor people's fault this country is going to shit.
Read more about it here.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
My Night In/Out With a Bag of Reefer
A few nights ago was a friend's birthday, and I'd bought a big bag of reefer for us to smoke together.
I didn't have her address so I posted up on her facebook asking for her address but she never got back to me. I sipped vodka in my livingroom and skinned up some reefers for us to smoke together.
I got this crazy idea in my head that I could easily find her house as Belfast isn't very big (it's not that big!)
So I skinned up some reefers for the journey and took off out smoking one. I had it hanging out of the side of my mouth and I wasn't wearing a tee-shirt.
The peelers stopped me and I just took the reefer out of my mouth, stubbed it out on the wall and stuck it in my pocket.
The peelers wanted to know why I was naked from the waist up.
I told them I wasn't naked and pointed to the sunglasses I was wearing on my face.
The peelers said they were about to ask about them too.
I started humming that 'moves like jagger,' song and shuffling about on my feet.
The peelers asked me if I was high. I told them I wasn't. I was just excited because I was going to pick up my laundry from my friend who washes my clothes for me.
The police said that explained a few things.
I asked them if they knew her address because I'd smoked too much reefer to work it out.
I was also too wasted to beat the peelers up if they'd started a tussle.
The peelers thought I was joking and told me to be on my way.
I told them I'd go where I wanted, and started to sing 'Moves Like Jagger,' out loud, while dancing around.
That was the end of that. I didn't find my friend's house and went home to smoke the bag of reefer by myself. It was a nice evening.
I didn't have her address so I posted up on her facebook asking for her address but she never got back to me. I sipped vodka in my livingroom and skinned up some reefers for us to smoke together.
I got this crazy idea in my head that I could easily find her house as Belfast isn't very big (it's not that big!)
So I skinned up some reefers for the journey and took off out smoking one. I had it hanging out of the side of my mouth and I wasn't wearing a tee-shirt.
The peelers stopped me and I just took the reefer out of my mouth, stubbed it out on the wall and stuck it in my pocket.
The peelers wanted to know why I was naked from the waist up.
I told them I wasn't naked and pointed to the sunglasses I was wearing on my face.
The peelers said they were about to ask about them too.
I started humming that 'moves like jagger,' song and shuffling about on my feet.
The peelers asked me if I was high. I told them I wasn't. I was just excited because I was going to pick up my laundry from my friend who washes my clothes for me.
The police said that explained a few things.
I asked them if they knew her address because I'd smoked too much reefer to work it out.
I was also too wasted to beat the peelers up if they'd started a tussle.
The peelers thought I was joking and told me to be on my way.
I told them I'd go where I wanted, and started to sing 'Moves Like Jagger,' out loud, while dancing around.
That was the end of that. I didn't find my friend's house and went home to smoke the bag of reefer by myself. It was a nice evening.
Monday, 6 February 2012
Hip Dad talking to his Son about Pussy
One of the worst things a dad can say to his son is (at any age):
'Did you get some pussy?'
Just because if you are a dad whose son is getting pussy, you're probably old enough for your pubes to be falling out in grey joyless clumps. And you probably fumble your withered balls in front of the bathroom mirror and try to keep from crying.
My dad never said this to me (just for the record).
Speaking of records and cats (pussys):
'Did you get some pussy?'
Just because if you are a dad whose son is getting pussy, you're probably old enough for your pubes to be falling out in grey joyless clumps. And you probably fumble your withered balls in front of the bathroom mirror and try to keep from crying.
My dad never said this to me (just for the record).
Speaking of records and cats (pussys):
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)