Nominative determinism at it's funniest

So now, over in the US of States, Congressman Anthony Weiner has gotten himself in a pickle after sending pictures of his wiener to several women over the Twitters. He meant to send them privately of course via a direct message, but instead sent them to the whole world.

He then denied it, he said he could not say "in certitude" that the penis was in fact his and claimed his Twitter account had been hacked. Obviously the media were confused by this. How could he not know for sure if such a picture was indeed his todger?

Does he send so many lurid pictures out on many social networking platforms that he can't say for sure if it was his? Is that what he's saying? Cause that's worse than just admitting it. Or is he simply not able to identify his own junk?

This was of course all nonsense and eventually he was forced to concede these were indeed his boys. Luckily for him he's a Democrat and was therefore not subjected to as much ridicule as a Republican would have been.

One wonders however, how does this happen so often to high profile politicians? With their careers and reputations and marriages at stake how do so many politicians manage to get themselves embroiled in so many sex scandals.

And not scandals which take a grotty tabloid months of surveillance to uncover by rooting about in bins and sewers for spoiled prophylactics that are then analysed for juices not belonging to the spousal naughty bits - more often than not it's this sort of thing. Mucky pictures being sent without due care and attention, or being caught in a lavatory offering up oral sex to all and sundry.

How are these people able to let their guards down, to literally expose themselves in such a casual manner?

For the same reason that when the every day man on the street's wife finds his mucky bongo DVD it's not hidden under the sofa, it's in the actual DVD player. She goes to pop Notting Hill in the player and there in the tray she finds Sluts, fucked by horses and other animals III.

It is all the work of the mischievous Goddess of Nookie. When you're all randied up with eyes glazed over and most of the blood flow is towards the penis you are never able to think straight. Blood flow to the brain is at its absolute minimum just to keep the body functioning. All other resources are allocated to the pleasuring of oneself. Reflexes are subdued, awareness diminished, instincts relaxed and consequences dismissed.

Achieving a glorious ejaculation requires that all other brain functions must cease and this is why we are all at the mercy of the Goddess of Nookie at this time. And when it has been achieved the brain still does not begin to function efficiently again for at least ten minutes, by which time you have gotten dressed, wiped up and completely forgotten about the DVD, or are now panicking like fuck cause of what you just did to a lorry driver at a service station on the way to the Liberal Democrats conference.

Anything can and will happen in this vulnerable condition and we should not be surprised when politicians and high profile types are caught with their pants down. Indeed we should pity them in fact. There but for the grace of the Goddess of Nookie, we go.

Amen.

Jocks in we don't give a monkey's about ridiculous English laws shocker

Aircrew cause turbulance

Flight crew of ailing Mexicana airlines have taken it upon themselves to pose for a calendar absolutely jam packed full of sauce to help supplement their wages. And why not? Bravo chicas bravo.

While the selfish bitches from British Airways over here strike because they're only getting 50% more wages than other airlines and don't give a shit about ruining people's holidays, Mexicana air crew simply expose themselves.

We can all learn something from this excellent example of taking responsibility for ones own life. We think everyone owes us a living in this country that's our problem. Just get your tits out and stop whining BA employees, that's what I always say.

If the shoe fits

There's an equation men can use to determine the ideal age of their partner...although I'm not sure if it applies to whoopsies as men and women mature at different ages and tend to sag at different times too don't they?

Anyway I digress, the equation for hetro-sexual males is to halve one's age and add one's shoe size. I can't accept this myself however. This could only work for me if I had clowns feet, as this would mean my ideal partner would be 25 and this just wouldn't work.

While it is true in fact that I found myself aroused by a young miss in her early 20's just this afternoon, when I look deep within me I find that I couldn't possibly spend more than two hours with such a typically delicate creature. So fragile emotionally she probably couldn't watch Titanic without crying and would sulk if I hadn't missed her when she'd only been gone twenty minutes to buy some milk and a copy of Hello.

Pert bouncers and a bottom like a couple of boiled eggs in a hankerchief are all well and good, but of course a real relationship requires a deeper attraction and an intimacy beyond that of just sweaty nookie.

Quite apart from the fact that most adults in their twenties in this day and age are educated to the standard of a moldy baguette, they also tend to be optimists with a zest and enthusiasm for life that has yet to be beaten out of them by the cruelness of destiny and the utter futility of life. Well I can't be doing with any of that.

If I were to come out of retirement from this sort of behaviour it would have to be with someone who has at least seen 30. Usually after three decades of exposure to the punishing misery of fate, sufficient cynicism about our way of life will have developed within them to understand how I have become such a miserable bastard and I would not be condemned to engage in that horrific schmaltzy verbal guff women of an earlier age hear on Dawson's Creek and Friends and insist on replicating having mistaken it for intelligent conversation.

Yes yes dear all very sexy, but if you're going to ask me where
our relationship is going I shall have to ask you to leave

No accounting for taste

A bunch of chaps at an Irish accountancy firm are in hot water for compiling a "top ten" of new female recruits on the basis of who might provide the best sport. Apparently it's not on according to a stuffy old package from some sort equality organisation who's obviously just jealous as she would have no chance of making the first team herself.

Well it's a sign of the times I suppose. These feminist types are everywhere, all short hair cuts and cardigans, buying their daughters tool boxes for Christmas instead of dolls houses and so on. It's enough to make you weep.

It's tricky to know what to make of this sort of thing, but I'll give it a go. Rather than pick a top ten, for now I'll just exclude the three who don't make the grade; for me they have to be numbers 2, 5 and 6 and I'll explain why if you'll indulge me:

Number 2 is far too orange - usually these fake tans are a sign of a poor complexion and this is usually brought about by eating too much cake...ergo, she'll be fat soon. So ta-tah number 2 run along if you can.

Number 5 looks far too prudish for my tastes. I shouldn't think she'd even give the fire a poke. No wonder accountancy appealed to her. And finally number 6 by gad what a monster! I have an almost phobic inability to adopt the firing position with any strumpet with hands bigger than a chimpanzees. Call me shallow, but it's how I am.

Oh and I think for the record number 11 would be my number 1 as it were. A spot of double-entry with that young filly would be just the ticket to keep the blood circulating on these cold Autumnal evenings what? Tally-ho.

Told you..I'm best

Exclusive my arse...excuse me News of the World, I broke this story about a week ago on this very blog.

If I could just direct you to this post: Another Premier League Scandal

Save your 50p or however much these comics cost these days, I've got all the news you need right here.

I've got another story currently being verified by my sources involving a certain bad tempered Scottish tennis player which makes for very interesting reading indeed and probably won't appear in the papers until the player himself has revealed all in a best selling ghost written autobiography entitled "Juice" or something and serialised in the Sun after his retirement. Makes Agassi look like a tee-totaller.

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