The doctor

She duped the doctor at the dinner table,
as he dissected his brains on a plate;
A dull duodenum, insipidly able
to effect boredom, his discerning trait.

She nodded and yarred and picked at her Waldorf,
her taste for fine living drained out
he sapped all her humours, earth fire and water
and belched soporous wind from his mouth

She slid back her chair and walked out alone
her only companion despair.
And once he'd exhausted his self-centred drone
he realised she was no longer there.

Petulant Riskingham

'You are an awfully good swearer, I urge you to keep up the anger. Thank Christ for someone with ideas and a bit of spunk in them.'

Shall miss you sorely, someone.

Seems like every other cunting columnist is having a pop at Delia Smith for allegedly 'promoting' shopping at the suppermarket instead of extolling the various virtues of organic produce and all that nonsensical local and seasonal buying spam. While normally I wouldn't give a frying fuck about Delia, her critics, or such mind-numbing issues in general I do in this case because I feel that good old Delia is being flambeed for nothing except maybe making an extra buck.

Buying at the supermarket is the most practical option and I, like most, have no inclination to dash about London in a manic frenzy to get a slab of yellowfin from a specialist fishmonger, pudding from some trendy yoga cafe and other foodstuff essentials from scumbag extortionists disguised as greengrocers. One because I'd probably have to sell both my kidneys to afford it and two who's got time for that?
I suspect the trifling epicures that espouse this kibosh and get paid for it handsomely. But never mind and besides: you're only fooling yourselves, because even the 'locally sourced produce' can't be that local in London - essentially a concrete jungle - with not a single cheery-chicken farm or barley field in sight. No, not many mushrooms and parsnips sprouting by the roadside here either but perhaps all those liberal-minded, muesli-munching, organic-lifestyle-endorsing, fair-trade-buying, conscience-shaking, planet-saving, unctuous, do-gooding cunts know something I don't. Perhaps I'm ignorant and environmentally unfriendly and if so let it be known that I like it that way so go fuck yourselves you smarmy sanctimonious bastards oh and Delia, love, you're alright...still ain't gonna buy your cocking book though.

The beastly little mutt has been at the bottle again. Came home just moments ago with shit in his pelt and ale on his breath. Not sure what I should do perhaps should sheer the muttkin bare and toss him outside for the night.
Mind you those cunters at the RSPCA might think it cruel of me...oh fuck it I'll risk it.

Real beauty is external. With most of us there is nothing else worth looking for.

'Smoke drugs, be gay, fuck chicken or pray to God, this is your right as long as you do it in your own private corner.'

Thinking of migrating to another dimension - even if it means I might run in to Kate Nash - cos I am sick of London and its petty cuntish rules and regulations enforced by even pettier cuntbrain types sporting kolinsky style wighats eleven chins and folded-paper-tokens of bureaucracy under their arms. I had a run in with one such cunt this morning who fulminated at me in his eardrum-piercing ocarina voice because, get this, I dropped a fag end on the ground. Confounded by the spectacle before me I stood there counting pigeons and matted hairs sticking out of his nose occasionally distracting myself by rolling my eyes and crossing my arms as he continued with his fuckdyke persiflage which culminated with a fifty quid fine and some well-meaning gibberish about giving up fags to which I retorted by saying he should consider getting that lobotomy reversed then lit another cigarette and walked off in to the dispersing fog, the fine fluttering to the ground behind me.

'How I wish I could polish and caress your leathery surfaces and put things in you.'

I’VE BEEN TAGGED! For the first time ever!
Many air-supply-restricting hugs to Midorikaeru! Will definitely raise a glass and smoke a fag in your honour this eve!
And now...the deadly seven in no particular order.

1) My middle name is Dolly, but it's entirely made up.

2) While in my 'troubled' teens I threw a telly out my bedroom window. When questioned about it by my ma and pa I said: ’Because the voices in my head told me to do it!’

3) I once retaliated to an exe's misdeeds by peeing in his wine. The cunter said it was the best he ever tasted.

4) I’ve dabbled in arson...the burned to a crisp wood effect looked rather nice on the kitchen cabinets.

5) I’m known as ‘The miserable one’ at my bank and as a ‘ Rude little girl’ in my local Tesco’s.

6) I'd love to feature on The Simpsons either as Lisa's schizophrenic pet cat or Maggie's evil bayonet-wielding twin.

7) Most people think I want to be a writer. I don't . I want to work in a brewery.

I think the following seven should undergo this totally pointless yet highly cathartic exercise:

Mused
Neonmeatdreams
MisterTramp
StephenWithAP
Alec
DominicGee
Ranfuchs

Cinema

She slipped her suitor at the multiplex screening -
The Matrix starring Keanu Reeves -
she plucked her hand from his sweat-shop palm
tore the feathers from his peacock's tail.

Strode out, a smile, he didn't know he was bleeding
then came the hit, a bullet time-freeze;
his fresh-faced aroma is now the stink bomb,
this was a message embedded like Braille.

Don't lock her in like a lost little lamb,
don't even claim that you alone understand
Don't lick your lips and move in for a kiss
or she'll leave you. The pretext? A piss.

Petulant Riskingham

'Dear 10loves10 I love your posts and the content of your pants. Will you marry me?

Miss Perilbottom: Do you happen to know what type of cheese is used in cheesecake?

Mr Riskingham: Why milk–cheese of course.

I don't try to be unkind but it does happen occasionally. As a result I leave a trail of bitter and angry individuals along the way. And fair enough if they want to have a go, they're entitled to, however I would, very strongly, urge them to reevaluate what they are embarking on because maybe, just maybe, I might retaliate with pictures instead of words.

Oh and another thing, I cannot stand self-pitying, loutish, morons with minuscule length-challenged cocks so FUCK OFF.