Borderline bellend

Yet again I must apologise for the terrible delay in updating MoB. Call myself a blogger? Wanker more like. Of course I mean wanker metaphorically, as in lazy. Not literally, as in carpal tunnel syndrome. Not that I’m saying I’m not a wanker, because I’m not. Saying that I mean. It’s not something I’d want to admit to in public. Which of course I’m not admiting to in public or, indeed, in private. I don’t do it in either of those two places, well hand on heart (why is my heart beating so fast?) maybe only one of those places. And if I’m honest I am curious about the other. Hand, not place. Well maybe both. But I don’t want to come across as dishonest, so admit it, we all do it. Deny it I mean.

Well hopefully you’re as confused as I am about whether I’m a wanker or not. Which of course I’m not. Confused, I mean. To be honest any of you who know me will know I’m a wanker. But in the endearing he’s-a-sarcastic-condescending-wanker-but-I-love-him sense, not the stranger-dressed-in-camo-gear-jumping-out-of-a-bush-and-bursting-into-tears-of-self-loathing-whilst-throwing-his-wanking-flannel-at-you sense.

Now, I feel like I’ve said the word wanker too much and it’s cheapened us all. Cheapened you more than me, of course, I just wrote it. But you’ve come here and you’ve laughed, oh how you’ve laughed, and that’s just encourages me more. So in many ways this is all your fault. You terrible wanker.

Anyway, four incoherent galloping paragraphs about me not being a wanker aside*, I thought I’d share with you my latest photo of something that looks ever so slighty like a cock. To be honest I’ve got loads of new Spotted Dicks, due to an issue with getting them of my phone (what with me being a wanker and everything) but I don’t want to shoot my bolt and show them all in one go. Of course I mean bolt in the gun sense, not the wad sense. And of course I mean wad not in the bundle of cash sense, but wad in the ‘sometimes into a sock’ sense.

Water fountain
I don’t know whether to spit or swallow, which is a first for me.

* Which of course I’m not. If I’m honest for a long time I didn’t really understand the word. For most of my teens and my early twenties I thought wanking and boredom were the same thing. Then it dawned on me I was confusing cause with effect, problem with solution or illness with treatment. Now I rarely get bored these days. Not because I have lots of interesting hobbies, because I don’t. But I’ve trained myself to spot the signs of boredom early on and commence treatment as a matter of urgency. (I’m still working on the appropriate cure for the inevitable post-boredom feeling of pathetic self-loathing – perhaps I should try wanking, that’s meant to be good, but doesn’t really sound like it would be up my staircase). To begin with this made things better but then I realised it was a self-fulfilling prophecy and I started to look forward to being bored. But actually it’s only becomes a problem if boredom starts interrupting the course of your everyday life. Thinking about it I am getting a bit bored with all this typing…**

**What you may have noticed is that I have managed drag out a joke about wanking, the oldest, easiest and most trite joke in the world, for well over 6 paragraphs (7 if you count this one) and if I’m honest I am getting a bit bored. Presumably if you are still reading it you are either very childish or also getting a bit bored. Or both. Now I don’t think is the time to discuss the merits or otherwise of mutal boredom. Perhaps that’s for another post when we are all less bored, or thinking about it when we are all bored together. But I want to make one thing very clear, mainly as people I work with read this, I have never been bored at work. Well, maybe in meetings when I’m sat at the back, but never for very long.

 

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2 Responses to Borderline bellend

  1. Pingback: Precipitating peniod | Manifestations of Baboonery

  2. Pingback: Precipitating penoid | Manifestations of Baboonery

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