The Snarkings of a Snarky Swine
Ten years before āBridesmaidsā showed it was okay to portray women acting like a bunch of twits, there was āThe Sweetest Thing.ā
A goofy and footloose tale about a trio of foul-mouthed, sex-obsessed women, The Sweetest Thing was something of a flop when it came out and without interviewing thousands of people I can only speculate as to why this was the case…
Continue reading āI Canāt Believe Iām Fucking A Purple Elephant!ā
We all know that American cops love three things above all others : eating donuts, getting free blowjobs from hookers, and shooting negroes in the back.
A man needs variety in his life, though, so occasionally a cop takes his dick out of some hookerās mouth and throws the donuts away long enough to shoot himself a different kind of victim. Not wanting to stress himself out, such a man tries to find the easiest target available. No going after some 6ā4ā, 300 pound biker, no siree. A cripple in a wheelchair, thatās whatās needed.
This may be what happened when some cop in Texas was called to a late night disturbance involving a one-armed, one-legged, schizophrenic man in a wheelchair. Freaked out by the obviously agile lunatic, and perhaps not realizing that having all four limbs is a huge advantage when taking on a cripple armed only with a pen, officer Matthew Jacob Marin pulled out his gun and blew the man away. His excuse? He apparently thought the pen was a knife!
Even if it is true that this flatfoot canāt tell the difference between a thing what writes and a thing what slices, it is very difficult to see why a knock on the head with a big black stick wouldnāt have served just as well ā or a kick in the teeth for that matter, after all the guy was sitting down.
For reasons of fairness I must point out that the cop may have been in the right, and for the sake of reason I must point out that I find that possibility to be a rather remote one.
Lessons in how to shoot fish in a barrel here
The Sex Pistols were wrong ā there is a future for England, itās just a future without food.
So, apparently kids in parts of Old Blighty are going hungry. Even kids whose parents work are in trouble solely because the stupid little bastards were born to serfs who — despite spending 40+ hours in the field — donāt make enough money to support a family.
This sad but predictable situation has forced Save the Children to redirect some of its resources from feeding hungry Africans to feeding hungry British ā the first time it has done so in its almost one hundred year history. While reasonable people are applauding this measure, others beg to differ and suggest instead some less orthodox solutions.
One such naysayer is Conservative MP Alistair Hurlington – Highbottom, known to his friends as Jumbo, who yesterday held a press conference in which he made his views known. As someone who finds himself in the possession of both a flying convertible ā long story ā and a fake but very convincing UK Press Card, I made sure I was there to take notesā¦
After squeezing his way into the conference room, waddling his way to the podium, and letting out a loud burp, Hurlington – Highbottom beganā¦
āI know that we are all concerned about the plight of hungry children everywhere and naturally we want to do what we can to help. The answer, however, is not yet another handout. Why should the British public dole out money to some layabout and his litter just because he and the missus canāt be bothered to put down the cigarettes and beer and take up a second or third job? What utter extravagance! To waste good money on feeding children when there is a much easier and much more economic way to solve the problem.ā
After pausing briefly to mop the sweat from his brow and brush the donut crumbs from his lapel, Hurlington – Highbottom continuedā¦
āThe fact is that everyone knows that hungry children are not Britainās only problem. There are also large populations of feral pigeons all over the country, pooping on everyone and everything. I suggest that we solve two problems with one measure by passing legislation that will allow the poor to kill, cook, and eat these feral animals. I will even go so far as to say that the government should make available to the poor free cricket bats — though I think it only fair that the poor themselves provide the nails with which the bats need to be studded in order to be fully effective. Now, I know what youāre thinking. How the bloody hell do you kill pigeons with cricket bats?!?? The bloody things fly, donāt they ?!?! Well, what you do is make your way down to the town square and throw some gravel on the ground. The pigeons come down to check it out, and before the bastards can realize theyāve been duped, you thump them with the bat! Instantly you have a meal guaranteed to satisfy any child!ā
At this point I felt compelled to interjectā¦
āErā¦ what happens when the pigeons run out?ā
āWhat in heavenās name do you think feral foxes are for? Fine eating, Iām told! And you can make yourself a nice pair of boots too, thereby taking even more stress off the family budget! And letās not forget the stray cats and dogs! These creatures are all great sources of high quality protein and other essential nutrients. And then thereās the Battersea Dogs Home and other animal shelters ā those places are just full of animals looking for good homes, and they arenāt all going to find one, are they? Once those sources have been exhausted maybe we will be justified in giving these people money, but not till then. Why, I myself will pledge 50 p and a box of half-eaten donuts right here and now!ā
At this point the press conference came to a sudden and unexpected end as a concrete-filled rubber chicken spun through the air and struck the MP on the head. His noggin not being as well padded as the rest of his frame, Hurlington – Highbottom went down like a case of sherry at a meeting of the House of Lords.
As the paramedics tended to what I fervently hope is a very serious concussion, I decided it was time to make a discreet exit. As I left the building I realized that an England full of starving children may not be the best place for a Pigman. I covered my head with my coat and sprinted for the parking lot.
After decades of diligently checking his mailbox every day, Mr. Wilbur Snorflebonger has finally received his long awaited male privilegeā¦
ā I couldnāt believe my eyes,ā he told our reporter. āI had been hearing about male privilege ever since childhood, yet somehow I had never seemed to receive mine! I was starting to think the entire thing was some sort of myth. You know, like a leprechaun or something. Then this morning there it was, a beacon of hope radiating from my mailbox like the dawn of a new day. I swear, I donāt know why it took so long to get here. I can only assume itās been lost in the mail for the last 35 years. But hey, what matters is itās finally arrived and Iām pleased as punch. I have to admit itās not as large a package as the rumors had led me to expectā¦ in fact itās not so much a package as it is a small envelope containing an even smaller noteā¦ā
āAnd what does the note say?ā I asked Mr. Snorflebonger.
āWell, itās a pretty fancy note, I should point out. Embossed, and with faux gold trimmingsā¦ā
āYes, but what does it say? What is your actual āmale privilegeā?ā
āWell, apparently I am able to write my name in the snow without having to bend over! Of course, I am not allowed to do it when anybody else is around or I will be arrested. But hey, most women canāt do it at all! Ha ha! Itās good to be King!ā
And there we leave Wilbur Snorflebonger, a simple and trusting man who has at last seen the promise of patriarchal privilege delivered on. Best of luck to you, sir. All you have to do now is find a way to stop paying your wife child support for a child of which you have custody.