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Dickless Chicks

I am deeply wounded; or soon will be, according to EdZilla. Have just received a most offensive blog from someone called ‘Amanda B Twatweiller’. Some liberated chick from California. I imagine the B stands for ‘bra-burning’. Apparently, she and her Coven on the coast want to rearrange certain parts of my anatomy. Permanently. Penis envy, probably. Then I am subjected to a tsunami of tirades from her ‘sisters’. That time of the month I suppose… That certainly warmed up the debate, if not the quality of the argument. Apparently, all men are bastards; shock, yawn. And come the revolution, we’ll all be up against the wall. I merely point out to the wee souls, that in the United Kingdom, that would be called a ‘knee-trembler’, when all hell lets loose. According to la Twatweiller, the only knicker elastic I’m ever going to meet will be the stuff they use to strangle me. Blow it out your ear, babe. [Have you ever noticed how brave he is when he’s miles away, on the phone or on the blog? Ermintrude] Beat it; dum-dum. [The only thing around here that’s going to be ‘beaten’, is you; to a pulp. Love and kisses, Ermintrude] (With a copy of his rubbish book, ‘The Final Arbiter’. EdZilla) Bah! I sign off on the ‘Cellulite Sisterhood’ with some witty ones about how to train your pussy to roll over and beg, then head for bed.

Homicidal Hen Party

I do not believe this! A threat in the post? Surely some security x-ray thingy should have picked this lethal number up. A copy of ‘The Female Eunuch’ by Gerbil Greer, and a signed photo of Amanda B herself, wielding a Kalashnikov. I sweetly blog back, to hope that the aforesaid Kalashnikov doesn’t clash with her vibrator. Brilliant, or what? [‘Or what’. Ermintrude] The sound of outraged pudenda is music to my ears. I suggest a tad more ginseng, but to no avail. Clearly, the ‘Sisterhood’ is even less familiar with the male body than I had previously thought. Mind you, looking like that, I’m not surprised. Here’s a clue, dears. There is nothing wrong with burning your bra and letting nature swing free; however, there comes a time in the affairs of men, and ‘wimmin’, when a little restraint is necessary; especially with the pendulous mega-boobs of the over fifties. Unless suitably ‘restrained’ (by steel hawsers, preferably), they will not only constitute a Breach of the Peace, but also a threat to oncoming traffic.

Human Biology for Beginners

I am required to point out respectfully, that my penis would have to measure thirty-eight point four inches if I were to successfully achieve what La Twatweiller and so many of her followers have suggested that I go do to myself. In addition, since most if not all of such acts are done when the man is in a state of arousal, I could not possibly see how the necessary curvature required would let the tip of the monster in question fit where she and her ‘sisters’ felt it should go. Yes, I am well-endowed chicks, and thanks for the compliment; but there are limits. Have you considered the educational use of an inflatable doll? Male, obviously. The seismic waves that wash out from California are huge; at least eight on the Prickter Scale.

Pussy Whipped

EdZilla rings to tell me they’re selling tickets for my execution. My what? Get real! Every one in the world knows that the Yanks are the most pussy-whipped nation ever. Here, we blokes may sometimes pretend to do likewise, but it’s only paying lip-service – cunnilingus – geddit? [No, but you most certainly will; in the goolies! Ermintrude] Valkerie calls to ask if she can have my collection of cookery books. What is this? Mac then wants me to sign fifteen zillion copies of ‘The Final Arbiter’ since he reckons their value will go up when I’m dead. In about five minutes. Bumhug! Exploding fun-sacks. Yep. That’s how me and my mates think it will be done. Well, Madame Twatweiller, I am not, in fact, obsessed with hooters; least of all large, firm, bronzed ones, with hard, erect nipples, and a cleavage like the Grand Canyon… Down boy! I shrug off the reverie. Small, pathetic ones are okay as well; and often as not the chick in question feels so inadequate about them that she’ll put out at the drop of a zip…  The doorbell goes. It’s just some bird to read the meter. I thought they only employed blokes for such technical stuff. Never mind, the F of the S in question is easy on the eye; especially when she considerately climbs on the chair in the kitchen to read the meters. Nice arse. Have I ever considered  changing my supplier? If they all came with tits like yours honey; maybe. But to be blunt about it, the only people being screwed here are the poor bloody consumers. Bastards! Then she slinks out of the hall and out of the house. ‘Rive Gauche’? Cute. Where was I? Oh yes. Obviously I detest the objectification of women; especially the pretty ones. But come on ‘Sisters’ it’s been going on for millions of years – it’s called biology; get over it. Thus armed against the event I return to the computer to send off a crusher to the transatlantic Twatweiller. I think I can smell gas; which is odd, since the house is all electric.

John J McCabe. Copyright.

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