Blood

I have clearly smashed my bleeding, rotting face into the keyboard one time too many as I am having problems making my machine work on this site at the moment. Having no outlet for my anger I was forced to stamp on my fingers and grind them into dust. Thus I am writing this with my tongue. The taste of old blood is not entirely unpleasant.

A NASTY TASTE OF NOT A FIGMENT

Do you know the rock star Dave Grohl? Picture him in all his hairyness for a moment. Imagine him drumming in one of his many bands. Imagine him after two hours of heavy pounding in an LA music studio where the air conditioning has ruptured because a rodent got caught in the workings whilst trying to mate with a rotting mouse-shaped potato . You should be imagining a lot of sweat. Now imagine Mister Grohl removing his trousers and underwear and exposing his well-traveled flesh. Now imagine licking the hairy passage of flesh between his anus and his scrotum. A nice lengthy lick. Imagine the vile taste that would be in your mouth. Tried so hard to imagine it that you can actually, literally taste it in your mouth. Got it? Is it there? Well, that’s the taste I got in my mouth when I saw the use of verbs and pronouns on this website.

Colours 3/11    Use of Metaphor 88/106

Billy’s Internet

Due to the laws of unforgiving polemic b*stardry, Billy Mouth was separated from the internet for three days and was unable to scour the minds of the demented for inspiration or indeed episodes of blinding nausea. Safe to say my fingers are ready once more.

I’d also like to mention that this weekend saw witness to a scene where someone used the expression “so….totally mindblowing” in reference to the Matrix movies within earshot of me, I screamed, “SHUT UP! YOU AMMONIA LACED T*T!” in their gaping face and was promptly made to bleed from numerous parts of my head by hard shoes moving at tremendous speeds towards and through me.

JAKEBETT! Accepts The Wisdom Of Billy Mouth

I see JAKEBETT! finally took the advice of Billy Mouth and altered the look of his site. Why did he do this? Because JAKEBETT! knows that Billy Mouth knows more than JAKEBETT! knows.

And here at Bloodbus we have a kindred spirit.  Someone else who can see that the members of the human race are just sacks of bile dressed up in skin and shoes. Yet he is completely alien to me because he is able to take himself outside and experience their odour day in and day out. If I had to work with them as he does I’d have shot myself in the eye with a cyanide laced dart from u-bend blowpipe by now.

A Review Of The Use Of Numbers On tender[hooligan]

Do numbers matter to you? I mean they may not fill you with as much dread as the glorious letter Q or fill you with a deep sense of melancholy like a suicidal letter N, but they do matter. Without numbers how can I count the sorry days I’ve spent wasting oxygen on this rabid planet? Without numbers how can I tell you the amount of women that I’ve not been able to entice back to my bedroom with offers of numbers of cash? A world without numbers is like a knee without blood.

Numbers however do not matter to tender[hooligan]. Looking at this site it is obvious that tender[hooligan] feels about numbers the same way MikeTyson feels about a wacky student who tries to s**t in his boxing gloves right before a big fight.

These poor numbers are abused. They are apparently not worthy of sharing the colour black with their letter cousins. Instead they are forced to present themselves to the world in a washed out faded grey. It is like George Clooney asking his excited new girlfriend to attend the Oscars with him and then informing her that she can only go if she wears a false beard, a dress made of scrotum and some herring glued to her feet. It is a cruel presentation. If Einstein could see what was being done to his beautiful numbers I suspect he would stick his nose in a toaster and cook it to a crumbling black crisp.

With tears streaming down my face I try to find further evidence of crimes against numbers and I am reviled to find a case of the number 130000 being scored out and suffering the indignity of being replaced with a smaller number. That’s right. A number with a line struck right through it like a samurai sword impaling a once proud camel. Turning number against number. I am so numb that I literally cannot feel my own hair. I cannot watch any more and hurl myself to the floor. I have to crawl through the grime and empty bottles of vodka to unplug my laptop and wait patiently for the battery to die and thus end my witness to this torture.

Refreshingly Dishonest? Not David.

Not all honesty can be rewarded. The Glorious Mister Bamford is a case in point. I wonder how many of his perverted brethren lurk in this heinous hovel.

Also, a note for the future. I will not be adding links under the Reviewed section any longer. It is a waste of my time and you do not f*****g deserve the effort. I am undecided as to whether or not to become a reciprocal linking whore.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Please tell me why anyone would ever choose to use the word “that’s” as the penultimate word on a blog post. Why?! Why?! Why?! Today of all days. Why?! It is like going to a funeral dressed up as a gay swan.

The Great Global Warming Myth Debunked In A Few Words

Eco-economics is not a word one ever hopes to see when one clicks the magical/terrible “NEXT BLOG” button. To use it is a sin against both language and the very eyes in my head. It sounds even worse, as though it were coming from the mouth of a distressed stammering dolphin trying in vain to explain to a simpleton fisherman’s son that he is not just a big tuna and should be cut loose from the net immediately. We’ll let that go however and discuss this blog. We seem to be in some strange Tolkienesque fantasy world where the talk of global warming is given credence by odd little creatures with dirty feet (have you ever met a ‘Save The Earth Type’ with clean feet?).

Let me tell the author this: There was a day in 1896 (or thereabouts) that was hotter than any days that have happened recently. Do you see how I just defeated science there? It was hotter on a day back then ergo global warming is a myth. So-called scienctific evidence torn to shreds in seconds by an infallible argument. There is only one scientist and He is atop His great cloud in space, stroking His white beard, rewarding His children with some nice f*****g weather.

Bleeding And Needing Stitches

I don’t need to tell you why, do I? I don’t need to tell you why looking at this website here caused me to collapse and smash my head off the corner of a marble coffee table, do I? I don’t need to tell you that staggering around my house, naked, concussed, salivating, screaming and looking for a thread and needle with which to mend my ruptured head with felt better than looking at the aforementioned monstrosity, do I? If I do need to tell you these things then you are without salvation and may you fester in the squalor of your own ignorance you dirty f***s.

Oh, Bill Says, Does He?

I knew after a mere solitary second of reading Bill’s”review” of Aurora Borealis that I had to see this movie. Not because Bill had recommended it (I have no idea if he/she did or not, I fell asleep halfway through reading his/her foul prose) but because I knew after the choice of words he/she used in that opening sentence that this was a man/lady who was not capable of being correct about anything that required the use of a mind. The words he/she used were “For”, “many”, “so”, “people”, “is”, “the”, “dominant”, “family”, “factor”, “life” and ”in”. I have rearranged the insipid words obviously so as not to distress you but the more acute among you have probably figured it out (much to your pain and anguish, I am sure).

I wanted to see the movie so that I could write him/she a wonderful letter about how tragically mistaken every single one of her/his opinions were. I would have written it on the finest paper with my finest ink and used my finest quill.

Unfortunately, whilst inside the cinema complex, having already purchased my ticket, I overheard a young girl, who was eating a diseased hot-dog, express her love for the Pirates of the Caribbean series. I was so disgusted by this that I simply couldn’t help myself from vomiting over her arms and was promptly beaten to within an inch of my life by her neanderthal mother.

Still, if you need a view on it, simply invert every one of Bill’s rancid observations.