“Mommy, why’s the bunny wearing a carrot?,” a curious kid asks a mortified parent as she hurriedly drags the innocent one in the opposite direction.This storefront curiosity from Easter time is a Passion Play…of a different sort altogether. Horny boy bunny playfully smacks butt of submissive girl bunny in kinky foreplay scenario – how cute! Wait a minute; boy bunny is naturally equipped with his own gear, so why would he need a strap-on? I popped into the store and asked the clerk. She said, “Our bunnies aren’t gender specific so they’re open to interpretation.” My interpretation is Carrot Boy ain’t nothing but a bull dyke about to give it to her girlfriend. Seeing how they’re both pink only adds to the intrigue. I rest my case.
My friend Jason pointed this one out to me on the subway. At first glance it looked like a large spot of rust. Then the truth suddenly dawned upon me. Holy shit! It’s a subterranean troll about to swallow an unsuspecting commuter. Actually, it’s Rob Ford, about to take a bite out of taxpayer’s wallets to pay for his retarded subway extension. Well, we all know how that one went – straight down the effing toilet where it belongs. And so, the Fordian Flakester retreated to his lair with a silent howl of dismay, beaten back by angry villagers. The poor creature never saw it coming, but that’s what happens when you get blindsided by your own overinflated ego. Rumour has it that Beastie’s retreated to his cave, licking his wounds and planning his next attack. Where will The Dark Lord strike next? Only time will tell, but he’d better keep his grubby paws off our libraries. Talk about evil lurking in the depths…Ford’s not evil, really. Just a misunderstood chap who never got over being the fat kid in high school. Damn those blasted bullies…
I just love toilet humour. Especially when it’s geared towards raising awareness. Apparently animal rights is a hot topic, even after taking a dump. Pigs feel pain when people kill them, there’s absolutely no question about that. The horrendous abuse these poor animals suffer just to become sausage on some carnivore’s plate is something most people don’t even want to consider. “But your flesh is a drug, I am addicted,” says the hungry consumer. See, that’s the root of the problem. Pork tastes so damn good, it’s hard for millions to quit cold turkey (oops! Another tasty , tortured animal reference). Where would a BLT be without the B? Less Tasty, that’s for sure. Souse is simply not possible without porcine participation. Bacon bits add pizzazz to perogies when sprinkled over sour cream and green onions…mmmm…. Awwh shit, I hear my stomach growling! But all I have to do to make it stop is think about trichinella spiralis larvae squirming in my retina or giant roundworms dancing in my gut, courtesy of infected, undercooked pork. Ewww….you get the picture. Leave the host pigs and their crappy parasites alone and the world will be much better off for it.
This snap was taken in Canning Town, East London.The sign once read “Skills 4 Communities” ‘til some wanker prised off the S. A very telling description of the grim reality for neglected, inner city communities. Only a stone’s throw away from Stratford, site of the upcoming Olympics, Canning Town is a ghetto that has been targeted for “regeneration.” Meaning the demolition of decrepit buildings/ houses to make way for shiny, cheaply constructed, spanking brand new edifices. Newham Council wants to convince people that it’s making the borough a better place for people to live, work and play. Try telling that to the kids doing wheelies through the estates on their BMX’s or the chavs brokering drug deals in the park with their weapon dogs off the leash. They know the score. The regeneration scheme ain’t nothing but window dressing for tourists, as they zip by Canning Town on their way to the Games. They’ll never see the forgotten, neglected drudgery hiding behind the 0.25 km façade. Heaven forbid the tube should break down in 40 degree weather on the less than jubilant, notoriously glitchy Jubilee line. Then they’ll have to disembark, in search of a pasty or a pop before they recommence their journey…and come face to face with perennially pissed off, underprivileged kids having a really bad day. So much for the bloody Olympics.
I made a surprisingly charming discovery in my friend’s pantry the other day. Betteraves is French for beet, but who cares – it’s Better-raves! Whoo hoo! BRING BACK BETTER DAYS YO!!!! Those bright colours certainly help to bring back memories of tha good ol’ daze of giant bells, happy chains and loopy gains…”Hey man, guess what?” – “What?” – “I found some E mann!!!” Damn…who knew a can of sliced beets could take me on a trip down memory lane. Never mind the pot boiling over on the stove – dis here’s da shit!! I never thought I’d ever say this but No Name just made my day. And onto my blog. Whoa…that’s kinda depressing. Never mind the bollocks – pass me the beets.
Copyright © 2012 Frankie Diamond. All rights reserved. Excerpts of less than 200 words may be published to another site, including a link back to the original article. This article may not be reproduced in its entirety and posted to another site without the express permission of the author.