Must be a sign: Woke up this morning and me Baracks were once again snagged in me bin lid…
An ‘omage to the 34th American President – the one who has the cunning plan to use complete sentences – who is to be innaugurated today.
Hope he likes Knob gags…
On with the day.
Stan T
Now also available at http://www.funnyordie.co.uk http://www.funnyordie.com
and on MySpace too…
Evening – or early evening to be more precise…
Lifted up me top flap on the old Wheeliebin just now, only to be confronted by the unsettling site of some pre-pubescent Chav’s arse hanging out the back rolled-down window of an otherwise tinted-windowed extra long limo…
What is it about pre-pubescent Chavs and trips in a stretch limo? And where’s all the glamour when any Tom, Dick or Chav can order themselves up a trip in what used to be the transport of choice for the rich and famous?
I don’t want to be looking at some spotty-arsed Chav hurling abuse and then flicking me the finger…
Yeah, happy Birthday you little RUNT…(Try not not catch your cock and bollocks on the window as it rolls back up…)
Only 8 and already a complete little arsehole…
Stan T
Keepin it real…
Matt Damon is now fucking me, Stan Trolley: We’ve just watched some re-runs of the “Bourne Identity” and he’s feeling a bit more dominant…
Ben Affleck still happy on webcam – and Sarah Silverman is making a cup of Tea…
Obama, still got me “Baracks” snagged in me bin-lid…
Stan T
(feeling a bit light-headed)
11.00 a.m in the Big Wheeliebin house – and let me tell you, all fucking hell is breaking loose…
I lift up me top flap to find meself stuck slap-bang, right in the middle of Bristol University’s “Fresher’s Fare” – with some grumpy old arsewipe of a Security Guard kicking 10 shades of shit out of me bin, and telling me, in no uncertain terms, to shift my bloody bin sharpish…
“Hold on a minute….Hold on a minute, arsey chops…Pardon me for flippin’ breathing but I’ve only just got ‘ere ‘aven’t I? And anyway, it’s not my bleedin’ fault where me bin takes me, is it? Got a mind of its own it has. It’s the Master not me…”
And then of course the bleeder wouldn’t start would it? The tardis mechanism being so flippin’ random and all that…
So there I am – stuck there – whilst bollock-chops is whipping himself into a right old froth, getting more and more of a hair up his arse about me moving on.
” ‘Old , ‘old, ‘OLD ya flippin’ ‘orses – I’m trying to start the bastard thing up aren’t I?…Arsehole…”
Anyway, suddenly – and just in the nip of time as it goes – as a whole gang of the little jobsworth bleeders are all over me like a flaming rash of safari ants, intent on flipping me over and doing me some right old physical mischief.
(And what is it with you Security jobsworth facists? We’re only talking Students here – not the fucking Queen (Gawd bless ‘er) you’re guarding the delicate sensibilities of…)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, at last the bastard mythical bastard bin tardis-like mechanism engages (finally), and then off I fark with not a moment to lose, with me hanging my arse out of the bin and pulling my cheeks apart as a parting salute. “Fuck You…”
But then – bugger me – I then re-appear a mere 150 yards up the same bloody road, slap-bang-opposite…a Christian Union flippin’ “Free Burger” BBQ fare…CHRIST ON A BIKE…
Well I say “Free”…Free of course provided you’re prepared to put up with some spotty-specky-twat banging on about Jesus and reeking of moth-balls & talcum powder, whilst your going “yeah, yeah, wo’eva – just make sure Jesus Saves me some flippin’ onions would you mate? Thanks…” and then off you push to try to find the fucking mustard (that is unless of course some bloody Christian’s not gone and necked it all before you can get there). And anyway, I thought they’d stopped doing Christian Barbeques way back in Roman times – so what the bloody hell was going on?
And then – is if all that wasn’t enough – to cap it all, I look up, and there’s this huge great big yellow sign emblazened with HUGE red writing saying: “NO CHRIST, NO LIFE”…
And of course in my case, RUB IT IN WHY DON’T YOU? “NO CHRIST, NO LIFE” and more importantly “NO FUCKIN’ BURGER” EITHER…
OH…COCK & ARSEHOLES – WHAT A FUCKING DAY…
“FRESHER’S FARE?” Wish I was “FRESHER” – I smell like a Buffalo’s arsehole today. And I am so fucking HUNGRY…
“Send me some fuckin’ material over here” and A FUCKING BURGER WHILST YOU’RE AT IT…
Fucking hell…It’s not all glamour being fucking Stan Trolley let me tell you…
Flaming students…Go put a cone on your head and then get – wazzed up in a shopping trolley or something highly original like that…Oh and don’t forget to be fucking hilarious whilst you’re at it – and go put another cone on the head of that Military Statue opposite Habitat as a cheeky chappy chaser…Oh yes – and whatever you do – please, please, please make absolutely sure you put some fucking washing powder in the water of that fountain next to the Victoria Rooms. Hi-fucking-larious…
ARSEHOLES…
Stan
(has got the right old hump)
Oh God …Some arsehole’s gone and thrown a rape alarm into the bin now. It’s going off – it’s wedged somewhere – and I can’t get to it to turn it off….
If “Jesus Saves” – now would be a good time mate…
“Turn that Car Radio down – arsehole…”
Well actually, since you’re passing, that’s quite interesting that is…
Seems they’ve got FART Tax in New Zealand. Tax on that what emmanates from cows and sheeps arses by the sound of it…
Ooh no. Just a minute: On second craning-of-the-neck, apparently a load of Kiwi Farmers have been and gone and got themselves a load of car-bumper “protest” stickers printed up. And all with the word “FART” written on them.
“F.A.R.T” I now learn, standing of course for “Farmers Against Ridiculous Taxes”. Nice one…
(Just as well I don’t have to pay FART Tax. Ripe as an orangutan’s arse after feasting on rancid mangos is my gusset. I’d be in to the government BIG time on methane emmissions from the old trouser-department gas, me…)
Anyway back to New Zealand:
“What do we want?” ” More FARTS” ” When do we want them?” “Now!”…etc
Clever that innit? I mean – think about it – they do want more FARTS don’t they? You see the more protesting FARTY Farmers there are, the bigger the FARTY smell and mess for the government to deal with and clear up, you see?
And eventually – when all is said and done – the Government will most probably have to let them off won’t it?
And then – think about it – if the government is “letting them off” – well then, that would just be hypocritical wouldn’t it? You see? I mean, think about it…And remember that expression: “What’s good for the goose is one up the arse for the farmer” and all that, isn’t it?
What a vicious circle ey?
(Bloody hell. I’m glad that car radio has fucked off. I’m getting a splitting head-ache just thinking about all that bollocks…)
Time to Blog-off (and indeed have just let-off another big fat FARTeroony of the original squelchy variety meself…Christ on a bike, that’s rank that is…Give all the cows and sheep in New Zealand a run for their money would that one…Quick someone – waft me top flap). Ooh Arseholes…I disgust meself sometimes…rarely, but I do…
Stan
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