Archive for October, 2014

This week’s barrel of shit should have been one of the more entertaining episodes, as it involved a bunch of creatively moribund suits trying to come up with something which requires the use of the imagination rather than randomly pointing and shouting at things. However, it was cak.

 
It starts out with Sir Lord Alan Donkeybollocks Low Calorie Fat dragging the reptiles to some old dog and pony emporium where he reveals that this weeks tragedy is for the gathered hellspawn to make utter twats of themselves by kick-starting an Interweb channel and seeing how many wall eyed chronic masturbators knock one out over it. The concept alone should have had my trousers exploding with expectation at the bitching possibilities, but everyone was reasonably civil for most of the episode. Having contemplated the reasons for this I can only assume that the social rejects had come to the conclusion that acting like a bunch of squabbling ferrets probably wasn’t the best way to make Alan’s goolies go all creamy, so they made a pact to try and co-operate, which from a business point of view might be the bees norks but from an entertainment point of view is utter fucking massive shit wank, to quote Jean Paul Bastard Satre.

 
The teams are divided up – let’s call the team with Steven and Sarah ‘Team Mental’, and the team without them ‘Team Lucky’ – and sent off to enter a world where short, fat spods run internet sites and live around how many retweets they can garner when they wave their disease ridden wrinkled old genitals at the camera (which is a fucking lot, by the look of things).

 
Neither Team Mental or Team Lucky go for the obvious way to rack up a billion retweets and hits, which is to stand Sir Lord Not A Sugary Snack under a fucking great anvil and drop the weight on his testicle-faced visage until the cunt stops acting like he’s in charge of anything rather than a raggle-taggle band of comedy dick faces and an empire built on nothing but utter shit. Instead they go the marketing route of talking to the Pod People who live in’t Internet World – the sort of media twats the world would be better off without – basically people living off their parent’s money and who’ve gone into the Big Shitty to start up an online entertainment concept which involves generally fuck all of any use to society at all (like this blog, come to think of it). These people are usually hipsters.

 
Anyway, after a few cursory meetings with people who are still virgins the teams get together and start belching out their bollocks video concepts which will decrease the worth of humanity one step at a time (again, like this blog). Team Lucky come up with the concept of a kid’s cookery programme, even though they swear on their grandmother’s hip replacement that it’s actually aimed at knobs in their late teens. It involves people getting messy in the kitchen, and not in the sort of way which WOULD get them a load of re-tweets, if you know what I mean, missus, ooer, fnarr, etc (for those slow on the uptake I’m taking about gentleman’s bongo entertainment, mainly involving penises and vaginas – AND NOT THOSE IN THE CABINET – take THAT satire!!!) Basically it’s Tiswas.

 
Team Mental come up with the unique concept of abusing a fat man. They take Felipe who, in the great scheme of things, is not actually a rotund pie eating tubster rampaging through the downtown offices of Gingsters, and subject him to a series of tortures (some people would classify it as ‘exercise’, but they can fuck off) in a sequence of videos which leave him a frightened, perspiring mess of future psychosis. In one video, where two fit people chase him across a field and we suddenly cut to his prone, sweating body, it actually looks like they’ve just sexually abused him. This cannot be right.
Now it’s pitching time, and what better platform to launch a load of old wanktoss than Buzzfeed. Three nerds sit around and watch witless business types in the kitchen making a mess and see right through their fake plastic smiles and their desperate pleading eyes, one even taking the time to write ‘Kill James’ on his pad, Buzzfeed actually being populated by gibbering psychopaths rather than well rounded human beings. No one looks impressed, so you know the cunts are going to win, because the fucking Apprentice has about as much cunting originality in it’s bastard editing process as Michael ‘Shitface’ Bay (how’s that for ruddy swearing!). Team Mental pitch ‘Torturing Fatty’ to the new media whores, with a hyper-Steven going completely over the top and making a right fucking pig’s ear of the pitch, followed by Sarah (previous readers will know her as the woman with the poorly assembled face) fucking it all up as well. Despite snorts of laughter at fatty falling over the Buzzfeed leeches get all moral when they realise the camera is on them and say it’s not really for them, before sneaking off to the cupboard to touch themselves.

 
It’s boardroom time and blah blah blah sarcastic comment from the hairy gimp twat Alan blah blah blah a bit of bitching blah blah blah who gives a massive cunt. Team Lucky win as they don’t have the members from Team Mental with them, and swan off to sit in a heated pool and pretend they like each other and wouldn’t stab each other in the back for a chance to buff Alan’s hairy bollocks with their foreheads.

 
Steven and Sarah come back in the room with the team leader (Ella, I think her name was) and the witless bickering commences. Steven gets the boot sharpish as he’s the one throwing the most toys out of the pram, and then Sarah gets the chop, mainly because she looks like a Picasso original, and just as Ella thinks she’s got away Sir Cuntan pulls a surprise out of the tired bag of tricks and fires her as well for not fucking well cheering up when she’s been patronised by a midget twat and his gimp sidekicks. Well tickle my tonsils, that was a turn up for the books!  Who would have thought when they stacked too many people in the programme for a twelve episode run that Sir Bollockchops would resort to getting rid of them as quickly as possible before comfortably settling back into the same format next episode. Cunt.

 
To win: An anal polyp.

As episode three once more whips it’s rancid, disease ridden knob out and slaps the face of reason with it, so we are once more subjected to about five minutes of recap at the start of this week’s episode of The Accuntice, which suggests – as always – there’s fuck all going on in the episode and it’s the usual spods running about like wanking chickens trying to please their bollock-faced Overlord. It’s a genius way of filling time by pointlessly going over the same old cock. If you were a novice to The Aknobice the opening recap of scurrying twats running about and shouting at each other, topped and tailed by some scrotal bumfluff pointing a finger into thin air and shouting, “You’re a facking disgrace. You’re cunting well fired, you jizz stained rectal wart!” (or words to that effect), would not give you any idea of what the ruddy blime was flipping well going on. It’s nothing but a bare faced excuse to pad as much of the episode out as possible, a bit like this opening paragraph.

Speaking of big farty smells, the grockles are assembled at the Exchange and Mart (or somewhere similar) to hear Testicle Head over-emphasise a few words relating to ‘the margins’. If this had been an episode about ‘The Water Margin’ and the cannon fodder had been asked to dress up as samurais and kick ten barrels of aspiring shit out of each other that would have been watchable. But instead Drippy Bellend Face gets them to have a go at the tired old ‘make a funny smell and sell it to some posh knobs/market mockneys’. He divides the teams up so the sexes mix, and not in a raunchy ‘trousers-down’ way, either, and the teams burble off to sit around a table and compare egos.

Team Hairy Bollocks – principally made up of men – agree that a lovely lady who is more used to fragrant smells coming out of a bottle rather than her bottom should run the show, and someone called Rochelle (I think) steps up to the mark, saying that she smells of old tramp’s pants so should have a good nose for the whiffs. Probably. Team Passive-Aggressive, principally laydeez, nominate some stick thin Sarah Millican-a-like whose name I can’t remember.

Team Knackers bandy a few ideas around, most of them massively shite, as one would expect. A few names are kicked about, like ‘Jumbo Whiffy Cak Pants’ and ‘I Wouldn’t Go In There For Ten Minutes If I Were You’ and ‘Blimey, That One Had A Sprout On It’, and ‘Did Someone Step On a Duck?’ and ‘I Have Just Done a Massive Guff and Have Smelled Out The Room – Can I Get a High Five?’ and ‘Big Smelly Whiffs That Come From People’s Bottoms’ before deciding on ‘Beach Breeze’, which still sounds a bit rude so we’ll give them that one, ala:

Man A: What’s that smell?

Man B: That’s ‘Beach Breeze’.

Man A: Well put a fucking cork in it, whiffy!

And so on and so forth.

Team Blob Strop obviously has a UKIP member in their team and some bright twat decides that ‘British Bollocks’ should be the name of their effluence. It was ‘British’ something, anyway. I was too busy trying to claw my ears off rather than listen to their shite so I missed their fabbo title.

It’s off to the shops for the usual selling routine, which is always massively boring and consists of people in suits looking sceptically at Lord Low Calorie Sweetener’s Entourage of Toss whilst they blabber away like gurning chimps about how great their products would be once shoved up the arses of the patrons who visited their knocking shops. Probably the fattest man outside of my mirror turns up at one point and agrees to buy some candles and other assorted whiffy product on the proviso that they shove in a few pies as well.

On Team Cunty Bollocks the barrow boy of the hour makes his mark, as some tossbag little clag nugget called James, who is twenty six and blow dries his fucking armpits like the prima donna dickless badger fucker he so obviously is, starts making a fucking nuisance of himself and starts harassing passers-by by just generally being an annoying little shit. He actually sells fuck loads, but is so cuntingly annoying that he should be summarily executed on the spot until he learns to keep his fucking wanky gob shut.

On Team Fragrant the woman from series one who led the task and has a face that looks as though it has been crudely assembled in a knock-off factory does the ‘making a fucking nuisance of yourself’ duties by arguing with everyone. Clearly above actually communicating with pleb scum she fills her time by wandering aimlessly about and scaring small children. It’s like a female Christopher Lee, but without the charisma.

Back in the boardroom, and after a bout of subdued squabbling it turns out Team It-Would-Be-Sexist-To-Call-Them-‘Team-Knockers’ wins by a grand sum of fourteen quid, mainly because that Arsehole That Is James has sold off all of Team Penis’s stock at a cut rate price, whereas Team Wimmin still had loads left which could ostensibly be turned into profit.

The only sane person there, some woman who teaches swimming, has obviously had enough of hanging around such a rampagingly egotistical bunch of faecal matter and Lordy Who Won The Eurovisian Song Contest fires her out of sympathy. Rochelle brings James – for just being a cunt – and some woman who sold bugger all back into the board room where James proceeds to shout over everyone because he’s a massive bag of three week old dribbly shit. Sugar Puffs fires the other woman because he gets sexually aroused by shouty young men, and they all fuck off back to the house to sacrifice farmyard animals to Our Lord Satan.

To Win: I saw a tramp do a poo the other day. He’d win.

Episode two of the recruitment guide for people who think UKIP are understated in their overwhelming ability to come across (ooer) like a group of massive deluded bellends with excessively cheesy helmets is upoin us, and Team Gonads and Team Norks assemble to hear Sir Bollocks fantastic new idea to figure out which comedy business-unit is more willing to bend over the nearest table and take what Alan gives them. He wants some old toss concerning wearing bastard technology – which I imagine means glueing a phone to your jockstrap and scaring old ladies or something.

Team Please Just Fuck Off is led by some Yorkshire gentleman who keeps shouting ‘Done!’ at people, like he’s just created an exceptionally pleasant jobbie and wishes to inform the assembled grockles about how he’s now finished excreting. Originally Sir Cunting Alan made nods and winks that the long streak of urine from Ep One who keep sighing like a big girl’s blouse and overdoing the drama (Robert, I think his name was) was meant to lead this task, but Robert immediately shows what a massive brown trousered gnat’s foreskin he is by bowing out, so that’s him fucked then.

Team Why Are You Alive? (the ladies) is led by – well, no one, really. Everyone who could possibly have had some experience or input into how to sell pointless tat to the proles bows out, probably knowing full well that most team leaders in the early stages get both barrels right in the nadgers from Sir Fucking Twat Suger. In the end some poor hapless woman is gerrymandered into the role and proceeds to not have a fucking clue what to do. Mind you, they’re all pretty bastard well like that in the end. Everyone on this cunting show talks like pubes vote to grow on their genitals because they’re so fucking cool, and then when it comes to the crunch they all fall apart like a big twat.

Team Scratchy Bollocks (the men, if you can call them that – more ‘Sub-humanoid pond life stepping on the heads of each other in a vain attempt to curry favour with a rectal wart with a beard’) decide that it would be a fucking magic idea if they created a fabbo grey jumper with a camera in it which they could secretly film girlies with. When some bright spark points out that this would be incredibly dodgy even in such a totalitarian state as the United Kingdom where they’ll be installing CCTV into your toilets to make sure you’re not smuggling economic migrants up your ring, Team Fucking Wanky Old Scabby Cock decide to sweeten the pill by having ‘On Air’ in big LED letters on the John Major jumper so girlies would know when they’re having their norks oogled. Twats.

Team Wombman basically come up with a whole new cybersuit which wouldn’t look out of place in Robocop, and not just because of the massive shoulderpads which power everything through the magic of the sun. Yes, you read it correctly – solar powered shoulderpads. They’ve also got a phone charger somewhere, and some lapels which light up when anyone points out what a fucking stupid idea it is, which is all the bastard time.

Basically the whole selling process is tortuous. The leader of Team Bird clams up and forgets the pitch, the leader of Team Willy says, in so many words, that he would rather slam his helmet in a fridge door made of spikes that wear that grey eyesore, and everyone comes out of it bitching about how everyone else is cak and they’re great and etc etc. Same old shit, really.

Back in the Bored Room (yeah, see what I did there? That’s right. I’m playing with words, man) everyone says some shit. Words are involved, and most of them revolve around how the idea for each technology-shite thing is a big pile of pants and if only unicorns existed the world would be a happier place (probably). When it comes down to the crunch Team Laydeez managed to get one order which amounted to fifty pee off a tramp and Team Tiny Tadge came up with no sales because they’re idea was so fucking awful. Team Bird are told to fuck off sharpish and punch ferrets in the bollocks or something as their treat, whilst Team Knackers get their first sacking of he day when Sir Cunty-Fuck Bastard Bollocks Jizztwat Sugar fires Robert for being a Teflon shouldered dick and not taking the hint when he said “This task should be run by a tall, lanky, badly dressed cak.”

Oh, Sir Alan, how one pulls the rug out from under one. You cunt.

Anyway, Mr ‘Done!’ brings some bumfluff chinned twats back into the room for some reason – probably because they refused to admire the jobbie he had just done when he said ‘Done!’ and Sir E-Mail Phone Is A Fucking Stupid Idea sacks ‘Done!’ man for being from Scotland and whining his way through his defence.

To win: A talking poo which comes up with a clever new idea to extract tagnuts and winnets from Sir Alan’s testicle-visaged jowels.

A new series of The Apprentice drops it’s caks and empties a big load of old steaming entertainment right onto our stupid gawping faces this week, and what better justification for a load of rude words than that. With this in mind I present a whimsical look at the whacky world of cunts in suits. Think of this as a companion piece to Hazel Humphreys’ blog on the subject (http://funnyfarmhazel.wordpress.com/2014/10/15/the-apprentice-s10-ep1-yes-we-have-cheese/), but with more uses of the phrase ‘massive wanking trampy load of old piss stained grief mongers’.

Unlike Hazel I am far too lazy to remember anyones name unless they come across as an especially trouser troubling knuckle shuffler, so be prepared for sweeping generalised nicknames, which basically boils down to referring to everyone as ‘that cunt in a suit’. Which is all of them.

Anyway, this week’s opening knob fest starts with the usual load of self-aggrendising monkey jizz. One bloke, with the requisite semi-hairy chin showing the world the witless tie-wearing twat can’t even operate a fucking razor blade properly, bangs on about how he’s such a lyrical motherknobbing wordsmith he can bed loads of chicks, yeah, and probably some blokes as well because they all fancy him, and he can do wheelies on his Grifter and punch himself in the bollocks without crying. The only other identi-fit bellend that sticks out is some woman doing ‘the walk’ to the camera (as they all do, looking a bit aloof and power hungry, dragging a case full of their bondage gear and spanking paddles behind them) who was swinging her hips about so much she was in danger of popping a joint out.

Since this is the tenth series of promoting Alan Sugar as something other than a bollock faced penile wart there is a suprise in store when the scrapings from the sewer gather in the boardroom to simperingly laugh at every piss poor pun Alan deigns to dribble forth from his testicle jowled visage. Instead of the usual 16 wankers ready to be humiliated in front of an audience of literally tens, there are actually 20 wankers. Oh, the fucking shock and suprise! Well, you certainly pulled the rug from out of the audience with that one, didn’t you Sugar, you massive excuse for being kicked in the bollocks. With whizzo suprises like that Sugar represents nothing less than the sort of cunt who buys you socks for Christmas thinking it’s original. You massive twatty arsehole cunt.

The assembled shitbags first task is to sell a load of old tat from one of Sugar’s lock-ups. The genders divide themselves up into birds and hairy chinned tosspots and set about coming up with a name. The best the apparently-male group can come up with is ‘Summit’, probably because they’ll all be flinging themselves off one by the end of the series rather than have to put up with anymore of Sugar’s whacky one-liners. The female-creatures come up with ‘Lebensraum’. Only joking. It’s actually ‘Panzer Tank’. No, not really. It’s ‘Hitler Was Great’.

The next day the assembled monkey bollocks are let loose upon the city of London, which mainly involves lots of running around and acting like massive lactating vaginas. Some spam headed go-getter called Chiles decides to fuck the T-shirts they were going to sell because only a cunt buys a T-shirt in London, especially with their boffo slogon ‘Buy This Shirt’ (or some such shit) written on the cunt, and they should spend all the hours given to them flogging a few manky spuds and lemons to the witless cosmopolitans. The team leader, Felipe, tries to chat up a few women under the pretense of selling them flowers, hopefully without getting his knob out.

The ladeez, on the other had, try to shift a bucket full of bog brushes to some penquin sanctuary, which ends in no sale because penguins haven’t learned how to clean the toilets yet. The leader of the Fembots (can’t remember her name, but her face resembes something poorly assembled in a factory) keeps insisting she doesn’t have to do any work as she’s the team leader, which ends up annoying the fuck out of everyone, and it won’t be long before they stick a bag over her head and chuck her in the Thames before insisting to the camera that they have no idea where she’s gone.

At one point cheese is sold. Probably.

Some gimpy faced man-tree called Robert insists on going to some wank-filled gourmet organic pig fucking artisan hipster toss factory called ‘The Organic Twat’ to pad out the hotdogs he’s going to sell to the commuters with guacamole and shit. Instead of kicking him roundly in the bollocks for the next several hours Felipe agrees. He is an idiot.

Anyway, before you know it the Beeb do their usual thing of manufacturing tension with lots of running shots and wanky music and before you can say ‘fuck me, this is a load of old granny twadge’ the assembled cunts are back in the boardroom for the showdown. ‘Team Bird’, as they’re eventually called, have sold more bollocks than ‘Team Bloke’, despite the Dali-faced team leader being about as much use as a one-legged man in some sort of sport which involves the use of two legs, and they all troop out to fuck about on the London Eye and forget the fact they’ve been calling each other a bag of cunts for the last two days.

Team Bloke are called back in, and after the usual bickering, which mainly involves a bloke called Steven doing a massive load of whining and everyone else insisting he was a monkey’s anus, Felipe drags Chiles and Robert back in with him. Again, after the expected manufactured tension with Bollockchops umming and ahhing over which stripey-suited cock-biscuit to get rid of, he eventually surmises Chiles is too bald to live and kicks him out, despite Robert obviously being a massive gleaming helmet.

So there we have it. Cunts on parade. And there’s twelve more weeks of this intolerable twatstorm to have to sit through, as jisming cock-like diseases passing themselves off as humans goosestep into our living rooms under the pretense of entertainment. Oh, the humanity.

To Win: Godzilla, who will come in as a suprise entrant when he eats the rest of the competition.