Warning, OUTRAGEOUS is a series of filth, swearing, insanity and gross images. The easily offended (and not so easily) and anyone under about 35 should stop reading right now!
I wish I had a fluffy little bunny with huge blue eyes and floppy ears. Then I could hurl it at a brick wall, scientifically proving once and for all that “cute” does not bounce. Millions of guniea pigs have found their way onto dinner plates using that exact methodology, which is where I got the idea from.
Next on the agenda is to disprove the statement “as safe as houses”. The petrol and matches are ready to go.
I’d be out if I were you.
I’ve never got on too well with small children.
I frighten them.
The number 8 is a comedy number. Know why? Because it’s the remaining fat lady of the two fat ladies after her never found a man who could look at her without sicking up his stomach juices, mars bar stealing, knob rotter of a mate, has croaked out her last fetid breath and slumped over in the bingo hall, crushing her cream horn and knocking over her banana milkshake, the gluttinous, lardy-arsed food prostitute.
The number 5, on the other hand, has no particular comedic connotations.
I think we’ve all learned something here today.
Two flies were walking up a window and when they reached the top, they about faced and walked back down again. May not sound like much of an achievement, but you bloody try it! Particularly after some sadistic bastard has pulled your wings off.
That saying about shagging like a rabbit is nonsense. I’ve found no evidence for my bunny’s love making prowess. Well, not since I snipped off his miniscule tadger with mum’s pinking sheers. I know you will think that was a cruel thing to do, but it was in the interests of science and I did give him an anaesthetic before commencing his delicate operation.
If you count clubbing him unconcious with a tin of pilchards.
I wonder what it would be like to give a corpse a good shagging. Easily satisfied, I suppose, and no danger of any gripes about your performance. Trouble is, two drawbacks that spring to mind, are the smell of rot and hey, no one to cook your breakfast next morning.
And the maggots trying to crawl up your bell end.
Matchbox cars should be done under the trades description act. I put my replica e-type jag in the road and let three 77 buses and an ice cream van run over it and it still wouldn’t fit in the matchbox. It was too wide!
How many people can say that they love their jobs?
Particularly after their employer has ripped out their tongues with pliers.
Haven’t these people heard of sign language?
Mary bought a bit of butter, but the bit of butter was bitter, so Mary bought another bit of butter to make the bitter butter better.
And it still tasted like shit.
Lungs suck! And they blow. And sometimes they fill up with water and kill you when you least expect it. And they don’t even taste good unless some fucker hides them inside pies, sausages or burgers, disguising their noisome flavour with minced chicken beaks and savoury cow’s arseholes.
And did you know that one lung spread out flat would cover an entire tennis court? Make it a bit slippy, though. I don’t see Wimbledon adopting lung surfaces any time soon. Not traditional enough for them, I suppose. Snobs.
Transsexuals are jammy bastards, aren’t they? Imagine being blessed with a knob and a pair of tits at the same time. What joy!
Mind you, it must be a bit frustrating not being able to give yourself “breast relief”.
Unless your dugs happen to be big floppy pendulous ones, of course.
Some people have all the luck.
When I was a young boy of eight, I knew this evil little swine called Tom who used to catch spiders, pull all their legs off and collect them in a matchbox. He had hundreds of them in there.
One day, Tom offered to show me his much-prized, though gruesome leg collection and as I leaned over to take a closer look, the rotten sod pretended to chuck them at me. Well, always having been completely shit scared of spiders, I panicked and jumped back, in the process accidentally smacking my sister in the face with my elbow and making about two pints of blood gush out of her nose.
So it wasn’t all bad news. Fat slag.
I wish I had a fluffy little bunny with huge blue eyes and floppy ears. Then I could put him in my freezer and keep him perfectly preserved.
Funny, furry, bunny lolly.
George Cooper, to aid his latest attempt at beating the world record for the longest snot trail, snorted an entire box of snuff.
Unfortunately for George, when it came, his sneeze was so explosive, he toppled out of his bedroom window and became impaled on the garden railings below.
His hanky wasn’t much use to him then.
Feeling totally stressed out, I decided a visit to my doctor was in order. Shaky and sweating profusely, I explained my situation to her, telling her why I was so depressed and upset. When I’d finished pouring my heart out to her ten minutes later, she nodded sympathetically and said: “you’ve got acute anxiety”.
“Nice of you to mention it, doctor,” I replied. “You’ve got a cute pair of suck-able jubblies and an arse end that makes me want to run home and buff my rod with a chamois leather until my eyes bleed.”
I didn’t really say that. I just sat there, shamefaced.
I rode a cable car in Deutschland
Walked around the Vatican in Rome
I had a shit in Paris
And then I fucked off home
I wish I had a fluffy bunny with huge blue eyes and floppy ears. Then I could jam a steel meat hook up its arse and hang it by the back door to keep the flies off my dinner. About time it made itself useful. Freeloading rodent.
Chicken and mushroom pie tonight! Yay!
I used to treat my wife like a veritable queen.
Off with her head! I would bellow. Off with her head!
I think it may have upset some of the other cinema goers, but the bitch deserved it.