As my deranged one legged grandmother once told me there are two things you should avoid in life; Drunken German’s in Messerchmits and Greed.
When my Great Grandfather Rupert played rugby for the English Empire, he survived twenty three knee reconstructions and survived three bouts of testicular wandering. In the end he just crawled around the pitch thumping any German’s he could get near to. He commanded respect and when the Great War broke out he sailed for France where he shagged many French widows. One day, Grandpa Rupert took 3 bullets in the arse from a returned presumed dead Froggy husband and was forced to eventually kill him but not before taking a bayonette to the head causing irreversible mental health issues.
Upon his return to Reigate Rupert moved in to the English underworld porn scene and so the Scrotum egend began. Freak porn shows for returned unstable soldiers were extremely popular and he befriended the great German Artist ‘Otto Dix’ who often painted Rupert dressed as a donkey wearing a fez shagging Capitalist scum. Then in 1929 Rupert’s life long dream came true when he represented England in the Ashes series where he notoriously bashed Don Bradmen senseless. Bradmen’s mates killed my Grandfather whilst he slept one night. The motto is, don’t get bayonetted in the head and don’t go to sleep if the Aussies are about.
Anyway as Ronald Reagan always said, keep it firm and keep it clean.
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Dear premature ejaculators of Perth,
I apologise for my absence in recent weeks however I was struck unconscious by Tanya Cottons enormous studded labia while filming ‘The Curious case of Benjamin’s Cock’ and fell into a coma and have spent the last 5 weeks at Fremantle Hospital mumbling in poor Italian and asking for directions to Assisi. Even now I feel peculiar and often have no recollection of time or lateral space. Apparently it’s February and bogans throwing full cans of beer at passing strangers is acceptable behavious in Fremantle on any given weekend. The only consolation I have is my old friend Mr cheese.
I am delighted cheese has re-awakened so many pleasures of the flesh for many of the patients here at the hospice. Sex is no more a filthy act than listening to old Danni Minogue cd’s in a lubricated darkened Morley room eating poorly cooked kidney beans while watching Ben Cousins chunder all over our economy as pensioners revoly at being forced to work till they drop. Kevin Rudd will receive no hand jobs from the wrinklies with that piece of legislation and nor will he from Peter limp dick Costello – the hitman of the working class gleefully tumbling weighted dice down the rabbit hole of deceipt. Poor Peter never stood a chance and if anyone should wear a burkha right now it’s him. We’d all line up to cast the first stone or preferably Tanya’s labia.
However my friends, when feasting on loved ones my favourite cheese to nibble on is ‘Gouda.’ Let’s face it, when you think of cheese you think of the Dutch. The Dutch have a long history in cheese making and today blind dutch people are still forced to build windmills made largely out of cheese and paper mache. Indeed many historian’s claim that’s why Hitler invaded Holland, due to his perverted cheese fetish. Hitler apparently loved cheese and today nazi’s the world over eat cheese even though it’s yellow.
A traditional Dutch Windmill made entirely of cheese and clogs from 1478
In the western world we have what vegetarians term as “puberty” but in Holland acne prone teenagers are confronted with “The windmill years.” As part of their journey to adulthood, the youth have to build a working cheese windmill and then attempt to sell it to stoned English tourists who are purely there to perv at the erotic dancers who roam the streets of Amsterdam carrying jugs of Nordic beer and autographed copies of Richard Branson’s boxer shorts.
However you swing comrades when you want to impress, get the Gouda and don’t wear your hospital gown into Fremantle on a Saturday night.
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Greetings Space bangers and freedom feeders,
I have recently returned from a tour of duty in Thornlie, a sea side resort north east of Perth just 2 hours south of Sydney and what an amazing community – drunken accountants feeding great white sharks in the nude, dyslexic emus running freely, United Nation troops dropping food into Homeswest compounds whilst small autistic Tennis players hide out in damp Anglican churches listening to Green Day CD’s as Aussie youths wearing horrendous 80’s fashion break into soup kitchens and graffiti needlessly in the spaghetti bolognas. What is my point?
Well I tell ya what comrades, I haven’t heard of people bonking so much since Barrack Obama stuck his knob into the victory of love thus sending Right wing Republican’s into talk back radio frenzy on KKK FM as wild stories of John Howard belatedly apologising to indigenous Australia remain unfounded as the economic downturn worsen’s and all of our superannuation funds go kaput sending Buddists into the penalty corner with 2 minutes remaining on the global clock.
A BUsh in ya hand is worth more than a Johnny up ya arse
Now I know that some of you in Australia pretend you’re are as frigid as a chilly Born again morning with severe erectile dysfunction, but Rolf Harris has shagged many a beautiful women in his day and that’s something Don Bradmen couldn’t do even with a large tin of Braised steak and onions rammed down his trousers.
All I can say is take your clothes of people, lube up and orgasm for beauty, love and the joy that you feel in ya heart after you’ve been bonking like wamp rats on a gentle Tattoine evening.
As Kamahl once asked, ‘Why are people so unkind?’ Well most young people people don’t know who the fuck Kamahl is but I believe he toured England with the Ashes team in 1991 and made a century at Wimbledon with Bjorn Nastaji, the one armed Swiss chess maestro who sustained his injuries in Desert Storm at the age of 11 while disguised as a Scud missile launcher.
Kamahl when he played for Collingwood
My global friends, I have lived through enough bloodshed and war to sink the Playboy mansion manytimes over and I say enough is enough. Take your knickers off, pull ya boxers to one side and try every position known to a randy hare Krishna or whoever it was that invented that saucy book on love positions that Lleyton Hewitt and whatever her face is practice with every morning following yet another loss to Roger Federer again and again in a recurring nightmare of premature talentless blond bimboism that dominates the shite tabloids that lurk dangerously at shopping centre checkouts.
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This week I take a nude summer’s stroll through Glendalough.
Invented by Lord Glendalough in 1874, today the ‘loch of Glenda’ is a thriving metropolis sustaining well over 2000 single mothers and overseas University Students who are failing their degrees, and will banished from home once they return to their country of origin. Today Glendalough houses the only living Benedictine Butter museum in Australia and was recently used in Baz Lurman’s post apocalyptic period drama/comedy/non musical Austraaayliaaaa. Glendalough was originally a pearl diving town but turned to gambling and soft porn in the 1970’s before blossoming into the beautiful tapestry it is today.
Glendalough – where butter still tastes like an intoxicated monk.
The Benedictine Butter museum in Glendalough
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Grandpa Gazza (top left) feeling guily about the nun’s.
January 5th 1915
Up at 5.30am. Sadly we were forced into turning the Welsh nun’s out of their tents and with great regret we handed them over to the non English speaking French bastards. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep and this morning was one of those occassions. I wandered off carelessly with a can of bully beef and stumbled upon several Turkish peasants with an old wooden plough drawn by the oxen just as seen in the old Family Bible Pictures Uncle Horace used to regularly beat me with. Some barley is grown and also melons, tomatoes and a strange looking weed. Most of the peasants dress in the national costume eating locusts staring at the clouds and laughing for no apparent reason. I often wondered what they could possibly be thinking of so I decided to shoot several of them which induced no response but more laughter.
I have never seen such finer sunsets or sunrises than here. The colours are magnificent and cannot be fully described whilst wearing trousers. Tomorrow I will walk back to camp and shave my pubic area.
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2009 will see J’Scro make a few changes to his life. I’m heading off to film several documentaries about WW1 porn and trying to retrace my great great grandfathers early days of porn theatre in post war Berlin which I’m immensely excited about.
Consequently J’Scro will publish his blog less frequently – every Monday at this stage.
So big bloody cheers to all my avid readers especialy you Vic, and I will see you all again next Monday.
Kick ass this new years eve and may you all bonk yourselves senseless.
Ride that New Year in Cowfolks
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As Xmas approaches my tight buttock clutched comrades, here are J’Scro’s Sex signs of Love to guide you through the murky waters of festive passion
You need to guard against falling into a mental institution during December which is so easy to do. Panettone will be offered gently by strangers claiming to be Sicilian but who are most likely Chinese. There will be attempts to come to some sort of agreement over money or ethics or foreplay during December 22-28. Unexpected events are likely to mar your days during December stretching your neighbour’s calf muscles to the limit and costing you several Euro’s along with the opportunity to bonk drunken strangers at Christmas parties you were never invited to. Slow down to a manageable arthritic pace.
During December 23-28 you realise that you need to tighten your pelvic floor muscles. Money is harder to come by but irritation with family members is not. The financial representations of others will not always be what they seem, except on Dec 23 between 2.11 pm and 4.17 pm when all will be fine. There are unsettled influences operating in your financial sector during December 14-29 making it difficult for you to eat porridge without the assistance of firm fitting festive underpants.
December 22-28 is a time for enjoying the things you like to do, whether you choose to spend the time on your own or in the company of those you stalk. You will work in well with other nutters during December 22-25, when you will also find that your perverted talents can be given full reign. It is hard to get a commitment out of that elusive individual during December as they are not there, hard to reach or don’t want to be tied down with Burmeses rope. Reindeers will haunt your dreams however cheap fruit mince pies will provide welcome relief to your disturbed state of mind.
The day the Leo stood quite still but the Cancerian Virgo did not
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