Fucked Up Conversations

Myself and SB were having a quiet drink last Friday and conversation turned to a house we had shared some time ago. More accurately, discussion turned to the "war criminals" who lived next door (so named because they had a German accent and were around 70 years old).

SB: I can't believe you gave that fucker my bike.
PO'P: Dude, you never once rode it and it had a flat tire.
SB: I bet that fucking war criminal's riding round Nottingham on it now.
PO'P: Yup. That's how he'll be celebrating the Holocaust - getting one up on your kind.
SB: That fucker.
PO'P: After all, it's not far from misappropriating a bike to gassing a couple of million people, is it?
SB: And you let it happen.
PO'P: Shit. I reckon I fucked up there. Sorry Jews!
SB: First they came for the bike and Peter did not speak out, because it was not his bike...

PO'P NOTE: Just in case, SB was playing on the famous Pastor Niemoeller poem.

Sadly, we then realised that we were in a very quiet pub which had suddenly got a lot quieter, except for the sounds of two people giggling like maniacs. I ordered some Vodka Red Bulls and ignored the stares.

Slow Saturdays

I had the most amazing Saturday anyone could possibly hope for this week:

It starts with me running out of cigarettes. Understandably pissed off, I leave the house and start walking to the local shop. I've barely taken 10 steps when this wimpy looking guy in glasses approaches.

WG: Holy fucking shit, it's Peter O'Phile.
POP: ?
WG: Dude, we need your fucking awesome skills to save humanity.
POP: First, I appreciate the compliment, but I'm a famous fucking misanthrope. I for one would welcome the apocalypse with open arms and a fruit basket.
WG: GO GO GO!
POP: Where?

Suddenly, 20 Ghurkhas appear from inside a bush and encircle me. I announce that I don't need any trouble, but am perfectly capable of providing said trouble, should they not all get the fuck out of my way so I can buy some tabs.

The Ghurkhas kick off on me. I grab the Kukri from one and kill a couple, but then fall over and am beaten senseless. Fucking Ghurkhas.

When I wake up, I am sitting at a pub table. A packet of Marlboro Reds and a lighter sit in front of me, so I light one up and look for a baby to breathe the fumes on. No luck. The wimpy guy appears.

WG: Dude, I'm sorry I had to do that, but we really need your help.
POP: Fuck you.
WG: Look, there's too much lager in the world. The boffins have grown too much of it. If you don't lower the stocks sufficiently, Hitler's corpse will reanimate and take over the world.
POP: Those bastards. They finally did it, didn't they? Where do I start?
WG: Here. And thank you on behalf of mankind.

The wimpy guy hands me a pint. It’s Carling. Fucking hell.

POP: Fuck off and get me some pork scratchings, nerd.

So, I start saving the world by drinking pint after pint of lager. The only problem is that I grow bored of Carling very quickly, and forgetting my task, switch to Vodka and Red Bull. Nine hours later, Wimpy Guy reappears.

WG: Holy fucking shit Peter. You drank two pints of lager and fifty three Vodka Red Bulls. What the fuck were you thinking?
POP: I thought that I might make Churchill reanimate by drinking Vodka Red Bulls. Did it work?
WG: No. Now Hitler's going to fucking town on Nottingham city centre. You fucked up, Peter.
POP: No fucking problem. I'll go kill Hitler as soon as I've taken a piss.

I step outside the pub and there's Hitler, lording it up. Except this time, he's 100 feet tall and is carrying a gun that fires these blue rays that turn people to stone.

POP: Hitler! Cut that shit the fuck out, you Jew hating motherfucker.
AH: Nein. Du bist einen licshittle swein munchen ziebel.
POP: That's fucking it, Adolf. I'm taking you the fuck down.

Then Hitler fires his evil cannon at me and I get encased in stone. Fortunately, I saw this thing on the Discovery Channel about simple harmonic motion, so I start making a humming noise and the stone falls to bits around me. I'm free again. Hitler gets all shit scared, because without his stone gun he's fucked and he starts to run away.

I catch up, and pull off an awesome flying kick to the back of his head. Hitler goes down like a hundred foot tall reanimated corpse. Everyone not wearing a stone overcoat starts cheering for me.

Then Kim Basinger (when she was younger, not all old like in 8 Mile) crawls out of the dead Hitler’s' top pocket.

KB: Oh my fucking God, Peter. You fucking rock harder than anyone has ever fucking rocked before. I want you to fuck me in my tight little pussy right fucking here and now.
POP: Well, that's more swearing than I like to hear from a lady, and I'm not sticking my dick anywhere that fucking half-baked superhero Bruce Wayne has put his batcock. I'll fuck you in the ass though.
KB: No I don't do that...wait, OK.

So I start ramming her from behind. At one point, I'm going so hard that she pukes up on the floor, but I don't stop. Then my girlfriend walks in and starts giving me grief for cheating on her or some shit. I stop my work for long enough to donkey punch the stupid bitch in the stomach.

GF: You can't do that. I'm pregnant, you wanker!
POP: Well it's not fucking mine. You know I don't have any balls (this is a lie).
GF: Yes you do. You have massive balls. The baby's yours, Peter.
POP: Fuck...I want an abortion.
GF: I can't. I'll go to hell.
POP: I'm not fucking discussing this, bitch. I'm fucking telling you.

I punch the girlfriend in the guts. Oops, that was unintentional - I punch her so hard that my hand rips through her flesh and goes into her womb. I pull out the foetus I find between my fingers and crunch it's bloody head in my mouth.

GF: You are such an asshole.
POP: Fuck you, bitch. We're through.

I return to my task of nailing Kim Basinger in her brown hole. The girlfriend goes away or dies, whatever.

THE END

I'll level with you, things are a little slow at the moment and not all of the above really happened. This Saturday, I actually waited in the house for NTL all morning, then watched Freddy Got Fingered for the 452nd time. It's a great film, apart from where he's fucking the cripple. That bit pisses me off because he gets to fuck a cripple and I probably never will. Way to rub our shitty lives in our faces, Freddy.

I did run out of cigarettes, so the story wasn't 100% fabricated. As to the rest, you decide.

Offence-a-Sketch

It's unlike me to find anything worthwhile to do on the internet, but I came across something recently that has caused a sensation amongst my scat-ridden circle of friends: Offence-a-Sketch.

The aim is, surprisingly, to create the most offensive etch-a-sketch drawing possible, using the meagre two dimensional, constant line control provided. Or Photoshop of course, but that's cheating.

So, go to http://www.arniie.com/sections/user/etch.php and create your own.

If you manage to create a drawing more offensive than those displayed below (I've set the bar pretty low, all things considered), then send it to PeterOPhile@Gmail.com. I'll post it here and credit you if it amuses me.

It's far from easy but these images are in chronological order and as you can see, I soon got the hang of things. Will you?