Loose Cannon

Just in case you thought I've lost my sense of humour. Men will never cease to amuse me. And I will never be fair to them.

Be nice and click on the little heart to enlarge it

Sensitive to national security information held on terrorist suspects under control orders (house arrest etc)is to be revealed to them in the name of protecting their right to a fair trial.
Furthermore, they will be offered free pilot licences and State-subsidised pyrotechnic courses in order to secure their right to better themselves in life.

click on the turban to enlarge. Sorry, Brokendownangel, no naughty bits for you to play with this time

I am no longer celebrating Charles (the Darwin) who according to Boggart is a good for nothing satanist anyway while I am a born again saint so we don't see eye to eye anymore.

Fear not however as there are other reasons to celebrate with a glass of vodka-n-orange with a quaint little umbrella. I am now celebrating the 500th anniversary of Henry VIII ascension to throne, damn protestant though he was!

click on his head to enlarge

And to the third and last accent in my evolution series. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is as far as we can go. Nothing beyond.

click on the cock to enlarge

God gave women equal rights to the smaller half.
ABE's wisdom

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I am celebrating 150 anniversary of the publication of Charles Darwin's "On the origin of species". To my chagrin I have discovered certain discrepancies which demanded correction. I hope the old chap doesn't mind. And no, I am not a feminist. In fact, I like men so much that I recognised my duty to bring to their attention their inescapable demise without us, women.

click on the little dickie bird to enlarge

Grump, are you taking notes?

In the left corner, Gordon "Darth" Brown; in the right corner, David "Eco-Friendly" Cameron. Both contestants are commonly known as shite. What you need there is a woman with a frying pan. I've got a good frying pan, I do.

If you click on Darth's glowing stick, it will get bigger; you could also put on your spectacles

AM: The Insult
"Mummy, Bob the Builder has to find a missing turtle. I'm scared," Parasite tells me over breakfast.
Grump is sitting in his personal chair, eyes closed, looking resigned to life on this planet.
"Whoever would lose their turtle?!" I exclaim in horror. "Mummy would never lose her turtle!"
"Yet she lost her marbles," comes a grave voice from the personal chair.

PM: The Revenge
"Mummy, mummy, daddy fell off the stairs!" Parasite is brimming with excitment.
Grump looks even grumpier that his usual self, "Fell down the stairs... My shoulder, ouch..." He winces meanigfully.
"But you're still alive," I say, my face inscrutable.
"Must be disappointing..." Sulkiness ripples across his face.
"Oh no," I smile. "It'll save me the trouble of claiming insurance."

Revenge is sweet. It tastes of chocolate.

I fear we will have more cases of swine flu than we had of bird flu - simply because we have so many swines amongst us. Oh well, let's make the best of it!

click on you know what to enlarge it, and the rest of the picture

I am a fantasist: I write about things I don’t have. Like clever, imaginative sex. I have visions of it, alongside few other things so that I don’t appear a one-track-mind to my stranded reader. Yes, you can call me a visionary.

How about I told you how it really is? Would that annihilate the image I have of myself? Well, I can always delete it later. So this is how it really goes.

I am twisting my body into a knot to be able to see the extent of my bottom in my wardrobe door mirror. I can see either cheek at any given time (and that scares the living daylight out of me already) but I still cannot embrace the whole picture. I worry myself into a shrivelled prune, yet my bum seems to be as wholesome as ever. Downstairs, Manchester United are beating the Spurs, making Grump curse the womb that has brought him to this wretched world.

I try on the dress I wore when I was …. erm…different. The boobies fill in the top confines adequately but my thighs are heaving for breath – they are being suffocated, smothered, squashed like a lemon in a juice maker. I no longer am size 10. My thighs refuse to belong with the rest of me.

Resigned, I bounce down the stairs. Grump is telling the Referee that he is a f£$”^*^ C”$£$$£ and can shove his f£%£&* penalty up his arse. On that note, I consider a second opinion about the size of my own arse may be beneficial to my faltering mood. I lift my nightie (the cotton one, knee-length, sexless, with long sleeves and a picture of puppy watching over a bone). I direct my behind at Grump and ask, “Does my bum look bigger to you since last year? Be honest.”

There is a roar and a sudden commotion behind me.
“Give me that piece of rump!!!!” bellows Grump and launches himself at my person.

I don’t need another cue. My arse is big but there is also an imminent and direct threat to my personal space and bodily sovereignty. I drop my nightie’s hem and flee up the stairs in sheer panic.

Heavy steps follow, accompanied by primeval grunts. With unrivalled agility, a Neanderthal mass of hairy chest knocks me down to a horizontal position on our marital bed. The puppy is about to have his fucking bone, with or without me!

That should teach me to keep my arse to myself.

By the way,does my bum look disproportionately big comparing to the rest of me?