A Huckleberry and a Finn

Hello all, long time no see. Of course, it’s hard to see out of a glass eye. Frightful story that. I was in Hamburg frittering my way through the sights and sounds of a quite marvellous place to take a family on holiday and remarkably fell into a place of sexual fantasy and fantastical dream fulfilment. I hired half an hour with a charming chap by the name of Ullrich. I called him Jan because he dressed in Pink. Not the pop singer. Although, to be fair she looks like she’d make a lovely jacket. Anyway, all was good, I was happily sucking off Jan until he unloaded a wad of his sceptic spunk right into my left eye. His German filth blasted away my retina like Sauerkraut will blast a way through your butt hole. Suffice to say I killed him. Fucking fag.

I recently spent some time in Finland. A nation of utter munters. Or so the travel guide told me. Imagine my surprise when I rocked up at the nearest graveyard and found that I was the only one keen drinking one of my five a day. You have no idea how hard it is to munt with just one person... In the end I resorted to an complicated system of pulleys and levers to smash “Anthea Turner”’s gravestone upon her decaying chest and showered in the delicious sprinkling of cooling juices. Heaven. Which is more than we can say for the other Anthea Turner who is clearly heading head first to hell; I look forward to fucking the shit out of her when I get there.

Finland is a cold place, a lonely place. In a nation of only 5.4 million people the chances of finding a like minded individual is limited. I nearly found the Fin-ished article in Lahti, but he was wearing Ugg boots. For those who do not know me I have an utter, incontrollable loathing towards these hideous shoes. I really can’t understand the appeal – they are just a fucking piece of shit. So I raped the fuck out of this darling Finn and dangled my Huckleberries into his butthole. After smearing them over his Uncle’s sweaty chest. He remembered the taste. I saved my real ire for the boots themselves and took a great, big shitty, spunky, corny and slightly cancerous mud monkey right in the right foot. Why the right foot? It looked at me funny.

Whilst in Finland and cruising for some icy mall ass I saw what must of been the most obvious Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland follower I’ve ever seen. Ringo Starr. In my opinion Ringo is no star, I think his talent is somewhat Stark-ey. Any scrotum who has the nerve to build a singing career in a Scouse accent is clearly a cunt. Wait, he did something before that solo career didn’t he? Was probably shit.

Anyway, my meeting with Ringo Starr was somewhat fortunate. I was actually on the hunt for Pingu, but I’m dyslectic and was in the wrong country. Pingu is Swiss if you were wondering, but I wasn’t, I was on a roll. Quite apart from not being an anthropomorphic penguin Ringo Starr is an utter ballbag. Therefore I did what any self respecting munt, rape and racism enthusiast would do and kidnapped him.

(It’s going to get a bit darker here kids... perhaps best to stop reading)

So me and this black fucker bundled old Ringo into the back of our Land Rover and discovered that we had a real knack for offroading. I will admit that it perhaps wasn’t the most comfortable ride for Ringo, what with those rusty, diamond encrusted phallic instruments rammed halfway down his bellend, but I think those cries were of ecstasy. Brian Harvey take note. If my name were Leah, I would have had Bets on me topping myself too. Stupid name.

If you were wondering where the black guy (let’s call him Rudiger) has been for this whole story I can tell you. He was in the shadows. The crack about Ringo and Pingu made him smile, and bang. We can all see him. I think the spunk makes his teeth whiter.

So there’s Ringo, Rudiger and myself toppling down an ice gorge in deepest, darkest (Rudiger had stopped smiling by now) Finland when the shit really hit the fan. Ringo, in a vain attempt at escape had taken a steamy bog ness monster and threw it into the air-con. You’d have thought we were all Finn-ished, but Rudiger and I, in a moment of pure Colin McRae magic, pulled the handbreak (next to the cock, if you were wondering) and stopped dead on the glacier.

We were set aback by its majesty. The cool, icy wind send chills down my spine as I gazed at the beauty all around me. The sun glinted and shed light where once there was none (Rudiger again) and then I saw the final gift she had to give. A dogging site. I hounded up to what looked like a potential barnstorming evening only to find out that it was actually a dogging site (www.letsgodogging.com) and I had smashed my way out of this plane of existence and into the slightly less realistic world of the Internet.

So, now I’m in your computer as well as your dreams. Do you know what that means? That’s right, I’m your God. And you’re all fucked.

Peace out from Silicon Valley (I’m dictating this whilst getting a titwank off some Californian whore... said her name was Lindsay Lohan. Rings a bell right? Yeah, it’s mine)

Tommy.com

Bum Oil, Rachel Hunter, The Tooth Fairy and Prison.

The more astute among you would have noticed that I have not updated this blog for quite some time. There are a multitude of reasons that explain this severe slackness, but I’m not going to tell you.

So suck on that.

After my rant against both cruises and ladies of the night in my last entry I attracted criticism from all sides; Pimps wanted a piece of my pasty ass, P&O came round to my bedsit with scaffolding poles, and my planned trip on the QE2 is right down the shitter. Now I’ll never see Dubai.

Dubai, that reminds me. What the fuck is the point in getting caught in the act of carnal mating and going to prison over there: (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/middleeast/dubai/3269149/Dubai-couple-face-longer-sentence-for-fornicating-on-beach.html ) Now, I’m all for sandy shenanigans, but if you were really looking to piss off the locals I think you could push the boat out a little:

• Fuck a dog on the beach.
  
• Make a cock out of sand, and sit on it whilst moaning in sheer ecstasy as you have a hand sandy. (see what I did there? Fuck me I’m good.)
  
• Get your cock, smash it in an Arabs face. Preferably right through that looking peeping hole that they all have in their fancy dresses. I’m sorry, but those things are just to hide their calloused faces. I mean really, if you were hot, no matter what religion you subscribe to, the least you do is show your face so I could jack it. C’Mon. You know it makes sense.
  
• Take a shit on their precious sand... if caught I think you could explain it as ‘Bum Oil’. You might even get to be a member of OPEC.
  

And one further thing on the Dubai matter. If you were the guy, wouldn’t you feel a little cheated that you’re banged up for fucking an ugly whore with a cleft in her chin? Perhaps she did anal.

Back to my issues with pimps. Usually they are not my favourite people – they are black after all and I fucking hate hummers; unless of course they are being given by an Asian ladyboy, way more fun. My issues with Pimps go further than their skin colour and their choice of transportation. I fucking hate they way they speak like they are all Snoop Dogg. I don’t understand why you would aspire to sound like that infantile little shit. I’m going to go out to the States and give them English lessons, see if I can get them to understand words of more than one syllable. I might even get them to spell ‘realised’ without a z. Fucking yanks.

Speaking of fucking yanks, I met Rachel Hunter yesterday. Now those of you who have read the previous entries in this little journey of mine would’ve noticed that I’m partial to man love, but my word, you give me a slut like Rachel Hunter and Icepick can fuck right off.

The only problem with Rachel Hunter, apart from the lingering presence of Rod Stewart is that she is a little slack round the bumhole. I was pounding the fuck out her and not only did she wake up, she politely informed me that she couldn’t feel it. I felt it alright. I felt her shit and pushed it right back up there. In fact, after I used the umbrella I think I managed to get it up to her throat. So if you meet the lovely Rachel soon, and her breath smells a bit off, and she starts talking shit; Blame me.

After the slight disappointment that was Ms. Hunter I still felt the need to seek some sexual satisfaction. It is with heavy heart that I must take the blame for the abuse of her children, Renee and Liam. Although I must say that I think their education could do with some improvement. I mentioned to them that I was the tooth fairy (a pale, fat, English version) and that I had a slightly different approach to getting my prize then what they had read. The gullible fuckers were almost happy that I was pounding them until their teeth fell out. For those of you who are wondering at what point teeth do fall out (you sick, sick cunts) it’s just before the Child Protection Agency busts in through the doors.

As you may have guessed I’m in prison for that little offence. I was hoping for some more public recognition but some eloquent black guy got in the White House. I was astounded until I realised where he actually came from – the White mother. It’s painfully obvious that the right side of him is where he gets his brains from. A clever white guy with a monstrous black cock. A formidable presence I’d wager.

The next time Raymond the Bastard lets me use his laptop I’ll update you with my adventures in this cemented hell hole. Although I must point out that it isn’t as bad as the Shawshank Redemption makes it out to be. I’ve already fucked Morgan Freeman – which I think is a healthy return for my first day. That’s what you get for calling me a fish you cunt.

Love,

Thomas.

 

June 14th Virgin Islands.
Can anybody remember when Street Ladies were of the honourable sort? Of course you can’t, they’re whores for God’s sake. Honourable activities like bowls, shit kicking and necrophilia are alien to them. So when one steals your money, shits in your new Burberry hat and wipes vaginal discharge over your Cleveland steamed face you should not be surprised. Especially after paying them with sea shells.
So hookers then – walking cunt dispensers, fruit machines without the handle but with extra lights and my favourite pastime. Or at least they were. They are now relegated to 3rd place after Fishplugging (see previous post) and ‘Icepick’. Let me introduce you:



Those of you with prior knowledge of my oral offenses and bum tickling tendencies will know of my love, my feverish search, my willingness to go to all (bell)ends for new arseholes and Icepick here, he defies words. Well he would, but I, Tommy H Shortdick (BA Hons. Rib Tickling, Funpot Gargling AUS Distinction) am a fucking wordsmith. Look at him, the proud strut even when standing still, that tattoo on his tit, the Beckham-esq fuck you to all the uglies. He stands proud, like a Lion on the Kenyan Plains before a hunter sticks a cattle prod up his shithole. Funnily enough that is what happened to Icepick here when he mistakenly tripped over a sparkling blue teddy bear that was washed up by some careless fucking girl, probably on a fucking cruise with a bunch of Old cunts just trying to die. I mean if you want to die why not stuff an arsenic laced biro up your nose and fucking sniff? That’s Rock n’ Roll man, not a fucking P&O cruise. Jesus Fucking Christ. Cruises. What a fucking piece of shit.
Anyway, Icepick falls over and I pounce. I leap upon my pray like an enraged albino mongoose, struggling against the power of a stricken beaver. We fight like two classically trained actors in a Shakespearian battle, masterfully orchestrated, but with the astounding addition of two phallic members.

The diaries of Thomas H Shortdick esq. Verses 1-3, Macau to Portsmouth. A journey of two fish, a wank and a handsome sailor, callsign 'Icepick'

June 6^th. Arrived in Macau. It is a fucking desert, like Las Vegas but with less Barbara Streisand. There are some fruit machines but they are hookers. Fucking shit, and they over charge. I paid one twenty rupees – fucking dumb bitch accepted Indian currency (I had some left over from Bombay after I paid for my shopping with clean water, what a fucking result that was) for a handjob and all she did was paint my nails. Fucking anti climax. I’m getting used to that after the escapade in Berlin with Uta but the less written about that the better.

Macau, lots of fishermen here so I thought I’d make hay and get some bum tickling action in. It was a clear evening, the moons shadow glistened against the calming waters in the bay, I was gazing at Orions belt from the marina, the surrounding stars seem to glisten all the more as he took it off and bore his throbbing member to the world. I could not help but reach down and give it a little tinkle. He was gentle. Like a whisper in the wind, slowing blowing my hair past my ears, tickling my lobes with desire and lust. I hadn’t felt so alive since when I left the confines of my dear departed mums hairy clunge. To be honest though the last time I went back there she was a bit crusty, a bit cold. I guess being buried for 10 years does much to diminish her sex drive. Lobbing off one of her mangy tits probably did little to enhance the situation. Back to the anal bliss that was the sodomy with Orion though. Whilst he tore against my reamed cornhole I was taken aback to when I was little and Uncle Harold had first slipped me one, the feelings of wonder and awe came back to me at once. I was the young schoolboy in the woods, trousers round my ankles, blood pouring down my thighs only this time I didn’t have to explain to parents how I tripped, this time I had fallen, fallen in love.

June 10^th. Had a wank. Drank the jizz. I felt like one of those old chicks who drink their piss in order to stay young. I thought the jizz might cure the problems I was having with singing Ave Maria. It didn't and I'm still shit. Still, fucking brilliant wank.

June 11th. Fishing is fucking boring. I mean you shit, sorry, sit there all fucking day waiting for someone to nibble on your line and then reel it in. It's like going to a shitty nightclub populated with old fanny and wisened arsecrack waiting to get some action. The smell is similar too. However in spite of this gloom and despair I have happened upon a most wonderous pursuit. I am proud to be the inventor of fishplugging. Remember what the gayers did in them times of yore with Hamsters, corn and buttholes? Well this is the same, without the corn.

You get a fish - I'm partial to a bit of Rainbow Sea Beam Bass Calimari Rex Harris Spinner Minnow myself, and stuff it up your funbox. It wriggles around like a worm in the morning mist, trying in a desperate lost cause attempt to escape the clutches of a ravenous pigeon, who, like his pigeon brethern is sick to death of fucking bread and looking for some wormy goodness. Anyway, the fish wriggles around like an immigrant in the small confines of a Polish lorrys exhaust pipe, it blows away both the dust and the shackles of tempatation as you ride wave after wave of exhaustive orgasmic pleasure. I'm telling you all, it is fucking brilliant.

June 12th - My first meeting with Icepick. More to follow!