Are you infected with the disease called love? Can you find it impossible dealing with being dumped, cheated on or worse? Trust me… love and death are exactly the same…

When I studied for my psychology degree I was given a whole list of bullshit subjects and the idea was to pick one and write a paper on it, and I chose love and death… it weren’t because I was a soppy git or anything it was because I felt the sting of both love and death just a year earlier and thought it would give me a head start. After six months of studying the old fashioned way (internet back then was just an idea on a paper) by using human guinea pigs and reading text books that you could beat a whale to death with, I came to a rather startling vision.



My Lecturer Dr Writhams hated me with a passion, yet at the same time he envied my ability to see the lighter and comical side of psychology which he later revealed when I passed. Okay so as far as me being a proper psychologist is as about as likely as me blasting my across the British Channel powered only by my farts, but it has given me unique ability into pissing people off which is a ton for fun.

What pisses me off though are phrases like “I love you with all my heart!”… bullshit! Love is a state of mind and the heart is just an organic sump pump. I found that love was more of a state of depression if anything, the whole idea of a sound mind is self survival and independence. Being in love is not a gift and it’s as healthy as a dog shite sandwich because you’re your sole happiness and existence relies 50/50 on another person. When you get dumped your ruthlessly starved of half your emotions and more importantly your happiness.

So what did I find out about death? Well the first thing is that it bears an emotional and frightening similarity to love, or at least the emotions after the death of a loved one. Having been on the rough end of both death and very recently love, it seems that both are almost exactly the same.

Believe it or not I found the death of a loved one easier to deal with for many reasons, I know it sounds incredibly morbid but it’s true. You see with death the whole situation lasts up until the funeral, once the funeral is over the mind heals slowly, with every day getting better than the day before. When your dumped by a loved one your up to your neck in anger, disbelief, heart break, betrayal and worst of all… hope!

Hope is the one thing that carries a broken heart painfully over shattered glass month after month, you watch your phone hoping for a text of regret, a phone call from your ex partner begging for you back. You lay awake praying to a faceless god that your ex will see sense and come running, you can’t eat, sleep, have fun or even be miserable properly and that’s all because of hope. I know because I’ve been through it twice in my life and no matter how many times it happens it still don’t get any better.

When someone dies there is no hope… when your dead your fucking dead… worm food… ash… that’s it. The mind doesn’t have that shred of hope torturing you day after day, month after month. Also death is a release for those who are terminally ill, I can’t think of anything worse than spending this life being wheeled down the street being the butt end of childish jokes, drinking through a straw and being force fed mushy peas… a hate mushy peas with a passion… it looks like frog shit!

I guess when it comes down to it I would rather suffer the cold hand of death than a broken heart and the last time I did even take an overdose… but then I thought about it… why let the bitch win? Why selfishly take myself away from my loved ones just because some cunt don’t appreciate my company? All the text books and lectures taught me fuck all compared to experience, psychology for me was where I wanted to be in life until I suffered first hand both love and death in the same year. That’s when I realized that no dick head can tell you how to feel, it’s just head of bad wiring that you gotta spend months untangling on your own.

Now I use both psychology and my experience in life to humor myself and others… if they take offense then there’s 75 billion other websites to look at… always remember… depression is anger without the enthusiasm… and love is nothing more than denying yourself emotional independence. Why do it?

One of the coolest things as a webmaster and blog owner is the feedback you get from you the loyal readers, and I do strive to reply to each one personally and I pretty much do. But yesterday my mail doubled and it’s not for the reasons you would think, being that I pride myself in being one of the most abused people on the internet with my views on things, my posts normally get me in a lot of trouble with some readers. But today appears to be different… when I opened my inbox this morning and found no abuse at all I was pleasantly surprised.

Okay so what’s all this fuss about? Now you would have thought that it would be over my post “A fear of flying? They started it!”… what with the recent events in the news and the poor people that went missing recently you would have thought the internet wingers would have spat a sprat. But before you start throwing your dummies out the pram it was solely directed to Airline companies and nothing else, but strangely I never got a single Email over that and I was expecting an instant garrotting.

“Who’s the hot tattooed dark haired slut?” as Kharkiv put it, “Oh wow! Who’s the bitch with the tats?” as said by Derrick Person of London, plus about thirty other Emails from testosterone fuelled, hard up and desperate mechanics from everywhere ranging from here in the UK to Istanbul. My personal favourite was from here in the UK from some guy known only as “G” saying…

“I am from Zimbabwe but I have moved to the England because life is good here. I hate your website as I found all of the references and it’s content questionable and extremely offensive, however I am enquiring about the young lady in your post with the tribal images, does she have a boyfriend or partner… if not can you see it possible to forward my details to her as I am looking for a good looking woman and a partner of good virtue that can be my new wife… many thank you good friend… G”

Now is it me or is this a cry to have some fingers rammed up one’s nostrils violently, the thing is I know a lot of people hate this site but what “G” doesn’t realize is that he’s read every single post BECAUSE he was offended by me.

The good news Mr “G” is that she don’t mind a bit of interracial, in fact she’s pretty damn good at it and trust me… I have about 5 gigs of evidence in a tactfully named folder on my desktop. The bad news is my rude and arrogant friend is that she is a porn star with the “virtue” of a Bosnian prostitute, so I take great pride in destroying your dreams of securing your meal ticket to your “good life here” by telling you with the greatest sympathy that she don’t fucking live here either… she’s American! So I’m afraid it’s back to standing in the corner of jumping Jacks and getting slapped by offended ladies for you my “good friend”

So who is she? Her name is Julia Bond and before you google her do bear in mind the only thing she models are fifteen inch cocks across her forehead, so if your at work I highly recommend you wait until you get home and when your wife is in bed with her teeth in a glass. Here’s a few details about her for those that enjoy pointless facts and bollocks…

Julia is Originally from Long Beach, California, where Bond entered the adult film industry. She has been nicknamed the "Box Cover Queen" in the industry for having appeared on numerous DVD covers during the summer of 2005. In July 2005, Bond attended a gala thrown by the Free Speech Coalition where she revealed that she wanted to have sex with Ron Jeremy. On the May 18, 2005 episode of Jay Walking on The Tonight Show, Bond was interviewed by Jay Leno and asked whether or not she had ever posed nude; as her response Bond displayed an adult magazine for which she had been the centrefold. In 2005 she collaborated with DJ Bijal to release a pornography-enhanced mix tape dubbed Sex Sells. She appeared on The Jerry Springer Show on July 26, 2006, and revealed to her mother that she made "45 to 50" smut movies in one year. In February 2007 through her personal website and MySpace page, Julia Bond recruited fans to appear on the The Jerry Springer Show, where they would have a chance to meet her. She performed her first anal sex scene on the website Frat House Fuck Fest. She also performs ass sex in Elegant Angel's Big Wet Asses 11 and Jules Jordan Video's Buttworx and recently did anal in the "Big Wet Butts" website. She is currently seeing actor Adam Currie.

Here’s a link to some of her stuff… but be warned… it aint pretty rough…

I’m not the best flyer in the world and especially now after I sat a twelve hour flight with a turd in me boxers after hitting “slight turbulence” on the way home from Florida. But I do fly regardless and I must say I don’t look forward to it and most of the time I would sooner staple my ass cheeks to a Dodge Viper. I don’t wanna know what I’m eating on the flight, nor drinking, watching, sitting and shit. I don’t care about duty free, reclining seats, bargains or what the in-flight movie is. All I wanna know is three things…

1. Will the plane take off?

2. Will the plane stay in the air?

3. Will we land where they said we will land?

The language they use is surreptitiously patronizing too, planes are never late… they are delayed! Why can’t they just be honest and say “sorry guys, but the plane is late… so please feel free to sleep on the shite metal seats in the waiting area… oh… and cheers for your cash!” Another poor choice of wording is “terminal” Now my ass already drinks the toilet water at the mere thought of flying, so why use the word terminal… why not area? District? Zone? Or even Sector… Terminal for fucks sake… cancer is terminal, AIDS is terminal, watching Richard and Judy is terminal… flying off on holiday shouldn’t be!

Why do they always tell you what could go wrong once your strapped in and squashed next to the window by a forty stone dinner lady? They never say a goosing word when your buying your ticket, they wait until your strapped in then they talk about the possible “emergencies” you could suffer. Now when I’m on a plane the word “emergency” is a tad flippant to me… CRASH!… is a much better word as I should imagine if there were an emergency it world last all of about three seconds, as I should suspect that’s how long it takes for 350 tons of metal to drop out of the sky.

“If we put down on water…” they say as they show us how to use a sodding life jacket. “put down” again replaces the word crash deviously and pointlessly. You “put down” a cup of coffee, you “put down” a television remote… you can’t put down a sodding Boeing 747! If you try and put down a bloody plane from 5000 feet the fucking thing will bury itself into the ground quicker than an Beaver with a rocket strapped to it’s scrotum.

The flight safety card makes me laugh too and for those who aint seen one I’ve supplied one for ya to laugh at. Now you’ll notice that the crap pilot has managed to “put down” on the nicest and flattest piece of the brightest blue ocean that exists anywhere in the world. Have you noticed how the 350 ton plane floats effortlessly on the surface? I don’t need to say anything like for that… if the missus can sink a metro in a lake then that fucking pilot cant keep a Boeing 747 afloat in the Indian Ocean. There is one thing missing on that flight card… little black fins!

If you land in the middle of the ocean after a crash, there’s gonna be people covered in shit, sweat, tears and more importantly BLOOD! If you get on a plane and the flight card has fins on it then chances are I was there long before you! But have no fear… if you do crash in the ocean your life jacket has… wait for it… a WHISTLE! Praise the lord Jesus fucking Christ I’m so glad, a whistle to blow while surrounded by three hundred screaming and crying surviving passengers, four hundred sharks with more teeth than the entire Brady Bunch and waves a mile high capable of flattening buildings… but don’t fear… you have a whistle.

The one thing that survives a crash is the black box… it’s bomb proof, fire proof, water proof and pretty much everything proof… so why don’t they put some fucking wings on it and let us sit in the bloody thing!

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!

One thing that really twists my sack are the pits of despair and revulsion of the supermarket. Being quite clued up on the mentality of the chain of thought within people I can see the supermarket’s attempts on controlling us and when it comes to getting brain washed by them… trust me… I fall for it just as much as you do and this one particular time I was manipulated so bad a packet of bacon cost me twenty quid.

When I lived in the hell of Brocklesmead I was lucky to a certain extent because I literally had everything I needed on my doorstep, including a supermarket. So one day after a particular potent smoking session I had the fattest munchies and went to make a sandwich but when I went to the kitchen all I had was bread, so off I trotted to the supermarket dreaming about a bacon sarnie… which was all I wanted.

So I stroll into the supermarket and headed for the bacon and as sure as a bear shitting in the woods there was the bacon and I was happy. But then they start fucking with me because right next to that are the sausages, so I’m thinking ok cool, a bacon and sausage sandwich sounds good but it’s missing something… eggs! so off I doodle and get some eggs, then not soon after I’ve got a fucking basket and I’m filling the bastard up with beans, frozen ships, pigs in blankets, black pudding and the bloody basket is getting bigger and bigger until I’ve pretty much got everything I need to fill my arteries up with globules of fat and kill me with cholesterol.

Another thing that grips me is the way they manipulate your shopping routines, in effect forcing you to buy shit that aint on your shopping list. When you go to the same shop time and time again you learn where everything is therefore shopping becomes quick and simple. Well these cunts don’t like that so what they do is move all the bastard shit around so that you spend hours looking for what you bloody want and you find yourself in parts of the bloody country that you didn’t even know existed and in the process your filling your basket up with shit that aint even on your damn list.

Another thing I hate is why they can’t give you a fucking plastic bag that you can open with minimum effort, whether it be the big bags at the checkout or the little bags you use to buy a single bloody onion. You end up licking your fingers and looking a total Pratt for hours as you try to find the end with the opening in. I find myself watching people and laughing as they fight to get the bags open as the cashier is throwing packets of ham and bottles of milk down the belt at them, and the poor sod fighting with the bags ends up having a nervous breakdown as cashier relentlessly launches more and more items down the runway with an angry queue behind her all tapping their feet and spitting at her as she struggles with the bags.

What is it with women that have to pay the exact amount with the right change? Sarah is one of the worst for this and really bothers me no end because those few extra minutes she spends rustling through her purse with a million bloody pockets in could be better spent escaping out of the supermarket and back to reality. She’ll rustle through tons of change and old receipts from two years ago, pulling out gym membership cards and coupons trying to find the mysterious penny that she knows is in there somewhere. I’m pointing to a bloody twenty pound note that she has safely ensconced in the front of her purse that’s more than enough to pay and she starts moaning that she don’t want anymore change… I mean fuck… the giving away of the change is what she loves the most so why not get some more back for next time?

You know those special cashier areas that are especially for people with ten items or less? How many of you have stood there policing the rule? I’m always sodding doing it! I stand there sneakily counting the other customers baskets of shit, throwing daggers at anyone that has one item more than they should and proper getting pissed off by it. I really do get annoyed and I can feel my collar burning as the cheek of a little old lady as she tries to cheat me by squeezing through with eleven items.

I just guess I’m not cut out for shopping, these days Sarah leaves me behind, but one things for sure… I might start shopping online in future.

One of the most bizarre places in the world is Florida at 3.00am, it’s quiet except for the sound of Crickets and other insects you normally hear only in Summer bay, scorching heat that you normally only feel on mid summers day in England. There isn’t much in the way of nightlife since we were staying literally in the middle of Suburbia hell, complete with mail boxes, white holiday homes, big American 4 wheel drive motors and proper authentic trash cans.

Surprisingly though it’s the little things you notice, subtle differences in the oddest things like the grass for example. The first thing with the grass there is that it’s perfect, vast lawns and patches of perfectly cut and faultlessly green grass… no dog shit or litter, no news papers or condoms… just like the all the big white holiday homes that stood around us like giants of convenience… picture perfect! Another thing about the grass that puzzled me is that it crunched like snow when you illegally walk on it, bending down to look to make sure I aint decapitated a bloody hedgehog or something I was shocked to find it was thick like plastic… it felt fake.

Walking into the apartment was pure heaven after walking in from the 3am darkness at 29 degrees into an apartment that’s air con frosty, being a thoroughbred Brit I love the cold. I never even bothered looking around at the décor seeing as my eyes were rioting against me, my brain on stand by and our tempers on edge as they squabbled about who’s fault it was that we got lost even with a Sat nav. Dragging our suitcases through and taking a bloody good shit, me and Sarah crawled our way into a big fat double bed and fell asleep after eighteen long ours of traveling educed boredom and terminal loafing.

Just six hours later we were awake again, feeling cheated of some much needed sleep I scratched the bollocks and staggered into the on suite bathroom, greeting me was a six hour brown hat stand in the bottom of the toilet I was too tired to flush earlier. Now I was getting ready for something special, I don’t know why but expected the toilets to flush differently and grabbed the chain and watched expecting something tremendous.

I wasn’t wrong and the toilets flushed totally brilliantly, our toilets work on the principle on the water from the system pushing our ass deposits through a system of tubes… but get this… their toilets work buy the bottom opening somewhere just out of sight and the water along with the Richards and whatever else you chuck in there vanishing straight into the sewer below. It meant that no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t block the bastard. I put on over two stone just trying to bake a crap big enough to fuck their system and I walked away two weeks later fat and defeated.

The best thing about family holidays is that you get serious conflicts of interest, especially when you have two kids with ya as well, so when it came to deciding what we were gonna do with the day ahead I used to amuse myself by sitting back and watching world war three from the comfort of my big American armchair.

Now if it were just me and Sarah then it would be simple, sex and shopping, shopping and sex, shopping and shopping then shopping and shopping… actually we probably wouldn’t get time to do the sex bit as we only had two weeks and she had my debit card and a lot of shopping to do. Sarah in fact had to buy a whole new suitcase for the crap she bought herself and I came back with two appallingly tacky t-shirts, so it was well worth the over time when I came back to top my account up.

Disney Land? Next post coming when I can bummed to write it…