Fat Tuesday

Today was a roller coaster of emotions. I'm quite exhausted and I should think I'll have to sleep until probably Thursday now to recover. I was up early doors as Denis Wise would say. It was cold outside. A harsh cold, but I was even colder on the inside.

Only a few hours hence I had sat in tears and watched while Lex seduced Lana. I was so wrong about her. She is nothing but a tease. She doesn't deserve Clark anyway. He sacrificed so much for her. He just wanted Lana to be safe and she repays him by jumping straight onto the cock of the man who could destroy him forever. Oh that poor boy.


Well Lex will come to regret his betrayal. Not literally however as Lana is obviously a precious cock tease. The kind of girls you meet in Merca who are all tight buns and soft seductive voice, but would rather suck the venom from a rattle snake than an honest to goodness penis. Orphan bitch. I bet her parents jumped in front of those meteor rocks out of despair for spawning such a heartless wench.

Clark will be much happier with Lois. She definitely knows her way around a set of bollocks. He'll have much more fun with her. And Lex and Lana can live a life of misery and abstinence together. I'd rather live in a barn and have my arse licked three or four times a week than have billions of monies and not even be pulled off on my birthday, that's what I always say and you can quote me.


So yes, I was a mess emotionally as I set off for the big house to have my IV removed and perform a kind of oral sex on a lung function machine. I thought of Lana and how bad her score would have been. I was able to manage it without any wee leaking out and that was good enough for me. Something odd then occurred which hasn't happened to me since I was about 15, it was curious and not at all unpleasant, but I'm afraid the details are un-bloggable.

The rest of my day was spent eating Ploughman's cheese sammiches, napping and preparing myself for the inevitable frustrations from Barcelona. If I ever meet Nicklas Bendtner I'm going to spit in his face. He is everything I detest about Premier League footballers. An enormous ego and equally disproportionately inflated bank account yet no more than an average professional at best.

If you put him in a Sheffield Wednesday shirt without telling anyone, stuck an arbitrary English name on the back, Wilson for example, and gave him a run out at the weekend would anyone notice him? Would he stand out? He'd stand out, but only as the tall c*nt who can't finish.


I just don't understand why the Gods don't want me to be happy for longer than twenty minutes per calendar month. What have I done wrong? I never go out, how can I have angered them so much that I am punished so relentlessly? Is it cause I follow Richard Dawkins on Twitter? Is that what it is? Are the Gods' egos so fragile I'm not even allowed to read the tweets of atheists?

Please forgive me. I just want to have one day where you don't make me cry. Would it help if I burnt some animals? Email me. Let me know.