One of the many things that women just don’t understand and that’s that us men are doomed from the birth, we have been selfishly born with a second conscience and we share our mortal bodies with another egotistical and more powerful entity… the penis! Despite us being rumored to be able to control the ugly beast from down under, in reality it’s much harder (no pun intended) than it’s commonly claimed by our women.

As soon as we awake in the morning the bloody thing stares up into our nostrils like the spear of destiny until we take him for a piss. It’s the first thing we scratch and it’s the only true friend a guy is garunteed to have by his side through thick and thin. On the flip side however it gets us into heaps of trouble, it doesn’t have complete control over us obviously, but theres definitely some scart leads linking us together somewhere.

Because of my boy I’ve woke up next to hung over walrus’s, slept with chicks that have boyfriends the size dinosaur shits, been caught wanking at work in the toilets and been rumbled by teachers sneaking around the girls dorms on school trips. He is in no better use of the term… TROUBLE! Even now at the grand old age of 33 the fucker lands me in it with the trouble and strife… romantic dinners, night time cuddles and quality time gets gate crashed by the obtuse and ignorant bastard.

He even turns sex into a game of death for the women, completely ruining the job he’s perfectly built for, it’s litterally impossible for the little minger to lose weight. I could diet for months and lose four stone every where except there, he’s like a little plug in pest that won’t fuck off until I get my mid life crisis. All I hear are screams of “it’s too tight” “it hurts my stomach” “it’s uncomfortable” and other clichés of maybe an overly tight woman. I mean for fucks sake the little tyke aint porn star big or nothing, he’s just a fat fucker that obviously far too over zealous. As soon as the women agree to sex he hacks into my mind making me take back seat, sometimes I swear I’ve heard it say “Watch and learn! Watch and fucking learn!”

Another thing about the pocket pest is the fact that he is deliberately awkward, he tries his best to really get on your nerves by trying to embarrass you as much as possible or failing to engage when you really need him to. The classic case is when your sitting on your own or just about to get in the bath and the fucker is all proud, not erect but a good solid size that makes you proud of him… I’m sure you know that feeling guys.

Now why can’t the little fucker do that when we are getting changed in a public changing room or when your date pulls him out for the first time? Oh no, he would rather pull a fat one on when I’m sitting on a bus, or when I’m at the gym or playing squash. Why don’t cock’s work when your drunk? What’s the point? The one bloody time he’s guaranteed to get action with any form of woman, no matter how rough or frightfully rank she may, the little annoyance is permanently out to lunch, if your lucky he’ll pop back for a couple of strokes but it aint long before he’s nobbed off again.

What I don’t understand is that why if they have such a pivotal role is sex, why are they created so damn ugly? They are as attractive as a shrunken pensioner’s leg, an organic foul looking roll on deodorant with attitude. How women stick them down their throat is far beyond me and despite how wonderful it actually is, I would rather have my head sewn to the underside of Alladin’s magic carpet than put a cock in my mouth.

I guess I’m doomed to suffer with my cock to the day I die, it’s one of them cases where you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them. As much as he is a bane on my life life I would certainly be lost without him and if he ever did fall off or stopped working, I would have to take the pills and end it… when the sex is taken out of life all you are left with is work… fuck that!

Okay so you know my name and all the rest of the nonsense, but if your still lost you can view my profile here. I have an odd habit for seeing all those little niggles that come from being a human on this rather torturous existence we all claw our way through. Some say I'm over pessimistic and others say I'm a right miserable old git, but what people fail to realise is that it takes an extreme sense of humour to spot these bizarre things in the first place.

Me and the missus have this thing, we sit in a car park in a car obviously and make a game out of what we call "wrongun watching". Basically what we look for are people that act naturally, you see they don't know we are watching and they are misguided into thinking they are alone. It may sound like a totally odd version of train spotting, but trust me... it's as funny as hell.

We've seen it all, people scratching their asses then sniffing their finger, picking their noses and eating it, dancing to their iPods crazily and shit loads more. You see people when they are alone are literally the people they really are, and that's what I like... I like people unmasked and unashamed of what they are.

That's why my rather bizarre outlook on life is the way it is, we are constantly hiding behind manners, tidiness and an appearance that's chosen for us by what we are told looks handsome and beautiful by the media.

Take Victoria Beckham for example, we are told she's fit and gorgeous because she wears snazzy clothes, designer labels and hand bags made out of orphaned babies; yet we assume that she is sexy because of where she is in life and that she's on TV and in the media. But in all honesty she looks like a blow dried corpse.

I'm beginning to wonder if she even exists, maybe she's some bizarre wax model that her daft coloring book eating husband, created to accompany him to photo shoots and shit. He dresses it up, sprays her make up on with a water pistol and says to the press "hey guys, take pics of me and me bird!".

I've never seen her in real life, and to be honest I will die happy knowing that I've never shared the same slab of pavement as her. But the reason I think she doesn't exist is the photo evidence that's shoved in our faces every time we open a news paper... every fucking photo of Hound dog Thicktoria Beckham is exactly the same as the thousands before it. What more evidence do you need?!

That my friends is what this blog is about, it's a tool to stop me winging and raving at my missus... an outlet of rage and frustration at that fact that there's far less deserving people out there with more money and better lives... I'm pretty happy with what I got... my woman especially... but she deserves her own post that I will write another time... so until I can be arsed to write another post... I bid you farewell... and as Frasier says "I wish you good mental health"

Scott