Please give a crap…

Posted on Feb 24, 2017 by headinablender

This is a public service announcement.

Diabetes is on the rise in America and something needs to be done about it.

For just the price of one hot steaming poo a day, we can help find the cure for this debilitating disease.

That’s right, just one heavy, corn infused bum dumpling and we can take a stand (or squat) against diabetes.

We hope that, one day, we can shit our way to finding a remedy against this insulin deficiency once and for all.

So, please read our book and create food that will enable you to birth the most substantial, eye watering, bung stretching turds you’ve ever experienced.

Let’s end this sugared tyranny by standing together.

Or squatting.

Yes, squatting makes more sense.

This book is a crock of shit.

Posted on Jan 30, 2017 by headinablender

As I’ve said countless times, there are words here in America that don’t mean the same things as they do back in England.

For example, the word ‘Fanny‘ means ‘Bum‘ here in America, whereas in England it means ‘Vagina‘.

Say “Fanny Pack” in front of ANY Brit and watch them grin, ear to ear. To me, a packed fanny is something completely different, and usually the result of a good night.

And going off that, the word ‘Bum‘ in America means a homeless person, whereas in England we use the word ‘Tramp‘, which means ‘Slut‘ in the U.S.

It all gets a bit confusing,

Anyway, I saw this in a supermarket yesterday:

Isn’t this what we all do, eventually?

Once I’d stopped laughing and shaking enough to take this photo, I wondered if maybe the word ‘Dump‘ isn’t used as an alternative to ‘Poo‘, both as a verb and a noun.

Nope.

The word ‘Dump‘ means the same in America as it does in England, so I can only assume – considering the full title – that this is a book of recipes than can be ‘dumped’ into a slow cooker (crock pot) and left to cook…with ‘5 Ingredients or Less!’

Either that, or it’s a book of recipes that make you shit yourself.

It’s a crap shoot.

Shit down and shut up

Posted on Aug 12, 2014 by headinablender

My wife and I were in a mall in Vegas shortly after breakfast and, as we meandered around the shops I didn’t recognise, I suddenly felt the playdough effect kicking in.

Basically, a turd was imminent.

So I hobbled to the ‘Restroom’ to do anything but rest. I walked in and there were two empty cubicles (or ‘stalls’) along with three urinals, all of which were occupied.

No problem, this was going to be a sit down performance anyway.

I went into the first cubicle, locked the door (although it made no difference to my privacy with the gaps around the door) and dropped my shorts for the big performance.

I just had to make sure I didn’t make too much noise as it was very quiet in there.

I started clenching and relaxing at the same time.

Got to be quiet.

There was a pause and all that could be heard were three streams of piss on porcelain.

Got. To. Be. Quiet.

Ha, no chance. My arse decided to sound like the final squeeze of a ketchup bottle.

I waited 5 minutes after I was finished before leaving the cubicle.

Killing him softly….

Posted on Dec 15, 2012 by headinablender

My dodgy stomach has been no fun on this trip. When I finally made it through all the security checks at Orlando International airport, I made a dash to the mens room for the inevitable.

Having negotiated all the same wet toilet seat issues from my blog on the 11th of December, I sat down to my Jamaican attraction; Dung River Falls.

I flushed, stood up, wiped my brow, caught my breath and my balance, unlocked the stall with the massive gaps (11th Dec blog) and opened the door.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

There was a guy waiting for an empty stall, and I’d just vacated one.

I looked at him with a sense of sadness and guilt. I wanted to hug him and, whilst holding back tears, wish him good luck.

His family are going to miss him.

Bathroom Rage!

Posted on Dec 11, 2012 by headinablender

On our drive from Miami to Orlando we decided to stop off at a service station to stretch our legs, although we all knew that the real reason was the driver’s need for nicotine and caffeine. He was threatening to get a little punchy, and no-one wanted that from the man with his feet on the pedals.

We parked up, got out, stretched our legs and proceeded into the air conditioned building filled with far too many kids bereft of guardians.

As our driver made a beeline for Dunkin’ Donuts, I decided to visit the toilet as I’d had a dull ache in my stomach since breakfast that indicated the approach of my own Dunkin’ Donut.

I looked for the restrooms, or washrooms, or bathrooms, despite there not being a bathtub in sight nor anywhere to sit and rest.

Well, that’s not entirely true, so I found an empty stall. I cautiously peered inside and found nothing that resembled an explosion at the Cadbury factory, so I confidently stepped inside and locked the door behind me; not that it mattered considering I could still be seen by anyone walking past. More on this shortly.

I lowered the toilet seat and, yes you guessed it, it was covered in delightful drops of yellow. Why do people use the stalls to have a piss when there are loads of urinals? It’s selfish to those needing to cut off some bum rope as it’s not like we can cop a squat in a urinal is it? If you absolutely HAVE to use the stall at least lift the seat, or get a better aim, or a longer penis.

It was at this point I let out a very audible sigh which would usually cause others, who were possibly resting or bathing, to wonder what I was doing in there.

Not in America.

No, in America the toilet cubicles have a gap between the stall and the door, ranging from half an inch to something you could easily push a cat through. This means the world can see you trembling one out with your dignity around your ankles.

I decided to make the best of a bad situation and grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped the seat as dry as possible. Then, with military precision, I started to cover the offending plastic horseshoe with enough streams of toilet paper to make a mummy think “steady on”. This went on for at least 2 to 3 minutes until I was satisfied I wouldn’t come in contact with any part of the seat.

I sat down, facing the ill conceived grand canyon gap and looked out for any peeping toms or cats. Once I was satisfied that no-one gave a shit, I decided that maybe it was time I did. My stomach was still feeling uncomfortable and there was no telling when the next pit stop would be.

The time had come for my big performance.

Here we go.

-fart-

Dammit.

False alarm.

Oh well, I’ll have a piss instead…but I don’t want to touch the underside of this seat so I’ll just leave it down.

Oops.

How the other side flies

Posted on Dec 1, 2012 by headinablender

One of the perks of working in the travel industry, other than cheap holidays, is the opportunity to upgrade on a flight for free. One of the great things that comes with a flight upgrade is the opportunity to get access to the special airport lounges.

Guess where I am right now.

There are a few things I’ve noticed that I’d like to share…

Firstly, I’ve noticed how I carry myself at all times when I know I’ve got an upgrade; head high, acting like I do this all the time, saying thank you instead of cheers…general full on twat behaviour.

Secondly, I feel like I’m undercover and at any moment I’ll be ‘found out’ by the actual paying poshies as a fraud and poshly thrown out. This doesn’t go away even though we know the people at the welcome desk to the lounge who are happy for us that we got free access. Somehow I still feel the eyes of the wealthy boring through my disguise to the pauper underneath.

And let me talk a little about these creatures of affluence; these money drenched drips. There’s a certain kind of style of person that you only find in special flight lounges, and possibly at posh horse racing events. They tend to wear clothing ne’er seen in high street shops, but rather at boutiques named after other priggish pricks with equally pompous names like ‘Whittingtons’, ‘Bletherington Smythe’ or ‘Turtle Kuntz’.

Here are some examples:

Women
– Big fur hats, not unlike those worn by Russian Kossaks, or the guards at Buckingham Palace. It resembles a large sticky doughnut that’s been rolled in King Kong’s pubic hair.
– A poncho/pashmina/tablecloth made of Balinese silk woven by free range gibbons fed on unicorn meat and fairy urine. As a result it costs more than my entire holiday and makes them look like a walking table.
– Huge sunglasses, and I mean ‘make you look like a wasp’ big! They usually have a massive D&G logo on the side, presumably to strengthen the frames to keep their massive fat heads from hitting the edges of doorways.
– Multiple scarves, usually made of satin, with designs ranging from anchors and ropes, to zebras and various animal prints…or are they the actual animals? Probably.
– Hair from 80’s porn.

Men
– Jumper over a shirt

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Oh, and leather pads on the elbows of whatever they’re wearing.

There’s just not enough denim going on.

Still, as I was once told, even the queen has to poo from time to time and it reminds me that these people are, after all, just people like you and me (except with helicopters, swimming pools and under stairs staff on hand to wipe their bums). This became a harsh reality when I used the toilet and had that unnerving sensation of the seat still being warm from the last bum to have graced this porcelain throne.

(Shudder)

I must admit I was tempted to stand up and look in the toilet to see if they really did shit money, but then I realised they’d probably flushed it away, or bought duty free with it.

I wonder who wiped them today?

Hmm…

Anyway, all of this, and I mean every little bit if it, is tolerable because after all….I don’t turn right when I get on board the plane today 😉

The Turdminator

Posted on Oct 10, 2012 by headinablender

I’m sat on the train late at night and a guy has just got on and parked himself next to me.

He’s not a small guy. In fact, I’m now getting very intimate with the window as I’m pushed up against it.

But the weird thing about Shrek here is the way he’s breathing. Every breath has that strain like he’s bending out a fresh biscuit in his shorts. His massive, massive shorts.

Any minute now I’m expecting him to shout “finished!” followed by that warm pungent odour of fresh man manure. And I think to myself, whilst wedged up against the upholstery, that by the looks of him it won’t be a small chipolata affair.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not mocking obesity as I myself was a lot larger up until about a year ago, but logic tells me that the more food he puts in, the more poo he’ll put out. Fact.

So what if he really is squeezing one out? What if my suspicions are correct? Then what?

Shit.

Stag do doo…

Posted on Sep 16, 2012 by headinablender

Hangovers. They’re fun aren’t they?

Having just returned from a stag night out in sunny (ahem) Newcastle, I’ve found it amusing just how a collection of hungover guys recall the events of the night before. Well, I say recall, but actually most of us needed it described back to us accompanied by wincing faces, looks of disbelief and the occasional ‘no, really? Awesome’.

In much the same way we call a collection of lions a pride, I shall now refer to a collection of painfully hungover guys as a ‘shame’.

My most amusing observations of the morning (which wasn’t easy through eyes that felt like they’d been dipped in gibbon piss), was when the stag suggested that one of the shame had probably been bumming a chimp at some point. I have to say I laughed so hard I nearly followed through…

…which is my main topic about the morning after the night before. The PAP. Or as some call it, the Post Alcohol Poo.

Us guys, and indeed any shame when sharing a hotel room, like to offer a thin threat of suffocation and toxic choking by announcing that at some point we’re going to need to drop a shit that resembles King Kong’s thumb. This is usually met with nods of acceptance, followed by the occasional “me too”, or “let me brush my teeth first”. I can only assume the last one is due to fear of the brush actually melting in the Chernobyl-ish meltdown that it’ll be subjected to. Plus who wants to put that in their mouth after your mate has dropped off the kids at the pool and stunk out the bathroom….and the bedroom…..and the corridor……

In fact, come to think about it…I could smell it in reception when we left.

And yet, despite there being a mutual understanding that the aftermath of last night’s poorly chosen kebab is soon to make it’s debut appearance in a toilet bowl near you, it’s still met with “faaaarkin’ ‘ell mate! What crawled up your arse and died??”.

I don’t think housekeeping get paid enough.