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!
When the fabulous American crooner, Frank Sinatra, finally breathed his last breath in hospital, after his long battle with both ill-health and being too old to stop his singing being a bit shit and all the life-sustaining machines had been turned off, one of his band of dedicated nurses hung a sign on the end of his bed which read:
She never did like the mafia-run, blue-eyed fuckpot. Probably because she was the one who brought his medication every day, spending a lot of her own time by his bedside, cheering him up by giving him crafty hand jobs under the crisp white sheets and still he didn’t put her in his will as she had been hoping all along. Tight gangster.
If she had known her hoped-for windfall wasn’t going to be forthcoming, I expect she would have injected some lavender bleach into the dying singer’s drip feed, got it over with a bit quicker and used her free afternoons to go on picnics with some other old rich geezer with death knocking loudly at his door.
I feel an I-deserve-some-of-wiggy’s-cash lawsuit coming on.
I’ve got a mate called Dick Wrencher.
I’m not sure about him.
If a picture paints a thousand words, what does five gallons of magnolia emulsion from Homebase have to say for itself?
Nothing very interesting, I expect.
I wish I had a barrel of tar and a sack of feathers, all sticky and fluffy. Then I could tar and feather my pet bunny, pretend he was a fat duck and hurl him with great force through a closed window.
My little sister, Mindy, would very likely get the same treatment if she didn’t stop crying and mum and dad were still out at the bingo. She ate my Kit Kat two years ago and I’ve been biding my time. Rabbit revenge, best served cold…
It’s great living at the top of a tower block.
What your dog is thinking when you have guests at your house:
“You keep telling anyone who will listen that I’m just like one of the family, but I don’t see no other cunt being hit on the nose with rolled up newspapers, or shitting in the garden in the pouring rain. Well, apart from that time your kids had a party while you were away at your gran‘s funeral. If you ever discover what they buried out there, a bit of dog piss on the kitchen lino will be the last of your worries. Next time I get whacked with the Sunday Mirror, I might just go and do a bit of digging.”
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Next door fucking your sister. Now just drink the poison and get off my back you clingy bitch.
(Excerpt from the little known first draft of the star-crossed lovers).
I wish I had a fluffy bunny, with huge blue eyes and floppy ears. Then I could rip its innards out and give it to mum as a nightdress case. As soon as it went stiff enough, of course.
Christmas is a coming, the geese are getting fat, yank out bunny’s entrails, give ’em to the cat.
I was watching the news the other night about some awful disaster, when I became transfixed by the image of a young, half-starved boy. He was trudging through a huge snow drift, whipped by howling arctic winds, every step obviously costing him a great effort. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket and little else, his feet were protected against the freezing temperatures by only a skimpy pair of socks and thin, open-toed sandals, more appropriate for a desert than an icy wasteland.
I was absolutely horrified. I’d never seen anything quite so terrible, or so pathetic. I ask you, socks with sandals! Didn’t his fucking parents ever teach him any fashion sense?