MAY 2007

After my Laptop stood up, fell down and buckled up on me - one of the blogs I needed to accelerate my desperate laugh was Emerald Bile. Thanks be that I can now "summon her up" again - see below!

Play it again, Osama
Monday, April 16, 2007

God, the people in this country are real fucking, almighty, useless cunts. If they aren't keening and mewling and begging and clutching at you with their grasping hands, or waffling on about djinns and spirits and other such occultish rubbish, they are making an absolute fucking hash of being suicide bombers. Taking the job title absolutely literally, several of these poor little fuckers are trotting around Casablanca blowing themselves up in the middle of nowhere. One chap had a brainwave and took himself to the American visa queue at the Consulate - which, at best, would be a cracking place to blow up some other Moroccans and no Americans at all. But on a Saturday?? The Yanks don't work on Saturdays, you fucking cretin, they are busy playing "little league soft ball" or hitting each other with chairs in the wrestling ring. So it was a solo feat of terrifying terror.

I went to another half marathon on Sunday and it was turbo shite. The race was sponsored by a bottled water company, and all the spectators had small flags and hats with the logo of the water company on them. But did they have any water for the runners who were pegging around 21km to drink? Did they fuck, the fucking, thieving cunts. People kept keeling over and dying and the ambulance was very busy. I said to this marshall "Do I look like a fucking camel?" and she did not answer, she just waved a flag with the logo of the water company on and blew a whistle. I finished the run, of course, keeping myself going by my insane rage, and flirting with a man, to get his bottle of water off him. I hope he did not have herpes.

Morocco can fuck off. If only those terrorist muppets were together enough to blow the place up properly, I'd sacrifice myself just to get rid of the fucking shithole. That is all.
Noreen
# posted by Emerald Bile

I'll fucking break you in a minute

Training is a double edged weapon. On the one hand, I enjoy being paid to stare out of a window for a week or so, on the other, I fucking hate being told what to do. ANd I hate those cunt trainers they employ -over friendly, bossy, ex-schoolteacher women, or oily men who overuse your name, Noreen, thanks, Noreen, if you wouldn't mind, Noreen. Fucking cocksucking, wanky, tosspot fuckers.

But worse than those overpaid, jumped up charlatans standing up there like little gobshites giving out about "listening skills" this or "Team dynamic" that, worse still is the lingo they use. This one announced at the beginning of another day of dull pain, that we were allowed a "comfort break". I honestly had no idea what the woman was on about - I thought she was talking about a group hug, or maybe a great binge on chocolate, or perhaps a sly fondle in the "break out" room. She was talking about urinating, the dirty bitch.

God they are pure cunts the lot of them. And what about those ones that start off "let's begin with an ice breaker" and they make you play a ludicrous game remembering stuff or writing things down on small bits of paper and passing them about - would they ever just fuck away off with it? I am not remotely interested in ice, not one bit, breakable or not, if gets in the way of me looking out of the window, whilst being paid, then it can fuck off.
Noreen
# posted by Emerald Bile @ 4:33 PM

Does she have a tail? No she does not

I have always been unimpressed by dear little proverbs, and sayings, and cutesy turns of phrase, they can go and fuck themselves. I fully support the campaign for Plain English, and I am quite sure they would endorse this site, so succinct and trim is the language Ball Bag and I use. They haven't got in touch with me yet, but I feel sure they will pretty soon. The new written medium of "the blog", must have been a blow to the knackers for the Campaign for Plain English, all those whimsy cunts out there, scratching around in their knickers for a more flowery expression than the last fuckwit - yes, i am sure most bloggers would not be welcome in the good books of the Campaign for Plain English. It probably offends the Campaign for Plain English too much even to look at the internet, in case a great cloud of purple prose engulfs them, with words like "discombobulated" and "random mutterings" and other horrible things someone has picked out of a thesaurus with a pin. I am not afraid to take up the arms of plain talking though, I am on a crusade to pare away the linguistic veruccae the rest of you lot nurture on here. And in return I want the right to burn Brewer's dictionary of Phrase and Fable - that big boring tome of cunt.

In support of the campaign's good work, I am going to impose a ban on certain expressions, and each day I will choose one that you are not allowed to say anymore. You won't notice it, you see, if you give up the bad habit a little at a time. After a couple of months it won't even cross your mind to use a reflexive pronoun in the wrong context, and your tongue won't actually be able to form the words "resplendent" or "Elegant sufficency", and I am sure we all agree that would be a fucking marvellous thing.
So today's phrase that I am banning is "she is the cat's mother". She fucking well is not, is she, unless you are actually talking about the mother of a cat. "She" is a personal pronoun and that is all. So if you are tempted, the next time someone says "She didn't like her dinner much" to say "she is the cat's mother", just please fucking do not. I will not say it either.
Noreen