“I gotta feelin, that tonights gunna be a good night.” – It could be, but not with your music dickheads

“I gotta feeling that tonights gonna be a good night.
That tonights gonna be a good night.
That tonights gonna be a good good night.

Tonights the night. Night!
Lets live it up.
I got my money.
Lets spend it up.

Go out and smash it.
like Oh My God.
Jump off that sofa.
Lets get it. Get it up.”

Possibly the greatest ever lyrics I have seen. Or quite possibly the worst. It’s difficult to tell. Well it would be if you have downsyndrome. If you don’t suffer from Downsyndrome however, and you have danced to this song, then you my friend (your not my friend) are a prick. I’m not trying to be horrid. It’s just that I think your a prick. A massive one. A massive massive prick. You. A prick. Your a prick. Prick

Do better.

ps. To my vast following of Downsyndrome readers, you are not pricks. You can dance to whatever you like and you won’t look stupid. No one will judge you. If anything it would be rather endearing. If you do want to dance to something a lot better than the shit above, then you should put down your crayon and listen to some heavy, heavy drum and bass. You’ll love it so much it’ll leave you dribbling…

Oh.

I have one breast a lot larger than the other, am I a freak?

If you a genuinely searching about this because you suffer from it, then I suggest it is best that you don’t read further, this is a satirical blog and might offend/upset you. A website you can check out is www.polands-syndrome.com, which will give you further information.

If they look like the Willy Wonka’s above then yes my dear, you are a freak, a massive one. If however there is only a subtle difference then you have nothing to worry about, it’s quite common. Get it out of your head and learn to love both your little breast and your large. Equally.

If you are similar to ‘mutant a’ above then may I offer my most sincere condolences for your misfortune. You are a sufferer of ‘Poland syndrome.’ I have never to my knowledge met one of your kind before. I suppose I must have assumed that Professor X with Wolverine, Storm and the rest of the gang had rounded you all up. Or failing that, you had been snatched from your beds at night by ‘the government’ to perform scientific experiments on you. I mean you could be dangerous, someone could harness your mutant ability and it could be used as to help feed a Clone army. A Clone army that could rise up and rule this world. A Clone army that relies on the goodness that exists within you and your mutant sisters larger breast. You would be at the forefront of society, someone of great importance, you could honestly do whatever you wanted to… Well with whatever free time you would have after the 8-12 hours a day of serious milking, but wouldn’t it all be worth it just to have the nickname 0f ‘Cravendale?’ Yes, yes it would. But…

Whilst it might seem a dream to live the highly comfortable and respected life of a super milker for a Clone army it does have its drawbacks. Over time it could be that the Clone army developed into preferring SMA or cows milk and in all honesty they probably would grow to prefer other types of milk. Whilst they might not be as full of goodness, it does mean that they wouldn’t have to suckle from a pair of breasts that resemble Laurel and Hardy.

Now joking aside I want you to know that your freakish breasts are not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. This is where I like to think we are sharing what I call a ‘Good Will Hunting’ moment. I imagine your are crying, hugging your screen and are extremely appreciative of what a fantastic thing I have done for you. Do I want you to thank me again and again and again? No, I don’t want that, I don’t need to validate that I’ve done an amazing thing for you, I know that already. Do I at least want a small thank you? Yeah I suppose so, everyone deserves a thank you when they’ve done a good job. I have through our ‘Good Will Hunting’ moment given you the tools to go on and be happy with your life and your wonky tonkies.

If in some way and I don’t see how it can’t of, but if in some way I have not helped you and you are not entirely satisfied with your David and Goliath (and I can completely understand why you wouldn’t be, I mean who would?) then you have a two different options you can take. One which is tried and tested and is world wide renown and the other a lesser known option.

1. The first and most obvious way to combat it – Visit Poland. You probably have this because you haven’t visited Poland before, it’s the complete opposite of Stockholm syndrome.

2. The lesser known option is to have corrective surgery, this could be covered by the NHS, as despite it being a breast operation it’s not seen as a ‘vanity thing,’ rather a ‘get this fucking freakish thing off me.’

Why my uncle raping me never affected my life

It didn’t affect me… because I didn’t let it. And also the fact that it didn’t happen, that helped a lot too.

So if you find yourself looking at ‘a penis in the mouth’ as a rather favourable thing, stop. You might not be gay. Ask yourself some questions. How well do I know my uncle? Is he a friendly man? Did he insert his penis into me?

If I have offended anyone then I must apologize. I’m sorry for the fact that your uncle was friendlier than mine, that he showed you love and showered you with affection (and copious amounts of semen). I suppose what I’m really trying to say is…

“We all have different ways of showing love”

Why I don’t like Turkish people

I don’t like them because I got over-charged for a kebab. A whole extra £1.80! It was only meant to have cost £3.20! The bloody cheek of it. I feel like I can never trust another Turkish person again.

Did I trust them implicitly in the first place? Honestly? No.

Sure, I could trust them to rustle together a tasty kebab, though even then, I’ve had some bad kebab experiences… But could I honestly trust them with my money? Or worse still, with my girlfriend? No, I could not. Though I’m sure if I knew them as a friend then of course I could. So perhaps it’s not a case of me not trusting them because they’re Turkish but a case of me not trusting them because I don’t know them. Why fantastic! That is a worry off my mind! It’s nothing racist, it’s just a case of me not having a friend who’s Turkish. I will get onto this. Soon. Maybe I’ll even be-friend a few… but let’s not get too carried away, 3 max. But who knows? Maybe I can even get a cheaper kebab?

There’s a world of advantages out there to be had, so do something for me will you? Find yourself a friend from a different country, learn to trust them, learn a little about his/her culture and just generally express an interest- they’ll love it! Or not, you can never tell with these foreigners. Sneaky fuckers.

When is it acceptable to have an incestrous encounter?

Emma flashing her Weasley

When your sister is Emma Watson. Then you are allowed to go to TOWN on it.

Other than that, there are not many occasions when it’s considered acceptable.  On new years eve it is, but that goes without saying really, pretty much everyone knows that. But that’s about all folks, that’s about all.

It’s quite a boring existence when you think about it.

Quite a shit existence.

Unless your Emma Watson’s brother. Lucky cunt

Some helpful advice. I like to help.

There is something that you should be aware of.
But it’s not something I can tell you.

For now at least.

There is something that you should see.
But it’s not something I can show you.

For now at least.

There is something that you need.
But it’s not something I can give you.

For now at least.

What I can give you however, is some solid advice. Some very useful advice.
Anti- perspirant and Muslims don’t mix. It’s like Jews and showers.

‘Scrub-a-dub-dub.’

Shhhh.

Add something to your life

My time here is limited. I do not know when I will be here again.

How strange it is to not have charged wireless molecules shooting around my head. Tiny excitable particles zooming towards me with most admirable intentions of providing your humble sire with a boarding pass to an unlimited journey/voyage/expedition through the web>wide>world.

Destination? Well my friend (I assume it is ok to call you my friend? Naturally I understand that we aren’t actual friends, I’m not jumping the gun here and expecting an invite to be sent via my facebook to one of your god awful parties, no no. Chances are that we would not get on. Move on) that is the thing. The thing thing. You know the thing?

The thing is… its not even a thing. And the other thing is that its also anything. Confusing? Perhaps.

If you have downsyndrome. Now put down your crayons and repeat this twice

‘It’s anything, and nothing. And its nothing and anything.’

Now repeat it twice more, but after each verse add the line

‘Have you heard it? Have you heard it?’

So now you should be repeating. Nay scratch that. You should chanting. Chanting. 

‘It’s anything, and nothing. And its nothing and anything
Have you heard it? Have you heard it
It’s anything, and nothing. And its nothing and anything
Have you heard it? Have you heard it.‘

Good. Now learn, learn, learn. Sit on the floor cross your legs, rock back and forth and chant, chant, chant.
15 minutes a day.

That is your destination.
Get working.
And my destination?

Your gran

 

The Fiddler Scribbler

Blind is the man who knows not.

Have you seen it? Seriously have you seen it? No, neither have I.

Have you heard it? Seriously have you heard it? No, neither have I.

It’s rather annoying.

I wish I had heard it, I don’t have to see it.
I wish I had seen it, I don’t have to hear it.

The latter would be my ideal choice.

Well that’s a lie, my ideal choice would be seeing and hearing it. But you get the idea, I’d have liked to have experienced at least one of the two.

Do not walk in this world blind. Look around you. Listen.

Do it better than me and you will know. You will know.

You will look. You will listen.
Then, you will see, then you will hear.

You’re seeing, you’re hearing. Fantastic.

If you did ask me ‘1 to a 100, how much do I like candles?’ I’d probs say ‘quite alot.’ Move on

The Fiddler Scribbler

Improving. It’s for the best.

There are those amongst us who look down upon others. They frown. They ignore. They think themselves better. Well I’m here to dispel a few myths. Firstly, its not a myth. They ARE better. Seriously, they are.

If you find yourselves looking down on someone, its normally for good reason. They tut before they say anything, they wear chinos, they eat smooth peanut butter. They are twats. So if you find yourself being looked down upon, perhaps give improving yourself a go. You are most likely annoying and embarrassing those around you. Be considerate. You’re making them look worse. You’re a disgrace.

If however you are reading this and thinking of people you know who are ‘serious embarrassments,’ then maybe you should be more considerate and help compile a list of his/her flaws. Ensure that you are honest, this is of paramount importance. These people aren’t just going to change of their own accord, (this is evident by the fact that despite pissing EVERYone off they have failed to see their flaws and adjusted them to suit you. Selfish cunts) they need encouragement. They need a friend. Unfortunately, they are not going to get any friends on account of who and what they are. And thus they can’t improve. It is a vicious cycle my friends. If I were to rate the viciousness of it, with options of ‘not very vicious, sorta vicious, vicious, very vicious and golly thats vicious,’ I’d probably choose ‘very vicious.’ So all in all, quite vicious.

Now whilst helping those who need it, is deemed a ‘rewarding experience,’ its actually not. They always seem to be moaning. Blah Blah Blah. They just don’t give it a rest. I’m not saying I’m in favour of mass genocide or anything, but I’m just saying ‘lets not rule it out.

The Fiddler Scribbler

AIDS does NOT exist! The TRUTH!

Following months of intensive undercover investigation, I, the Fiddler Scribbler have stumbled upon the startling discovery that AIDS is in fact, a made-up illness. Many of you may be scratching your heads thinking “thats rubbish, lots of people have died of AIDS, Africa has an AIDS crisis, what is this (extremely good looking) writer on about?” I’ll tell you what this (extremely good looking) writer is on about. AIDS actually stands for ‘Artificial Illness Doesn’t Subsist,’ whilst you would think this news would shock and confound many, it appears that countless public figures have been ‘in the know’ about this conspiracy for a long time.

I spoke to a prominent premiership footballer who wished to remain anonymous, infact such was his insecurity, it was only after several promises of stringent methods to protect his identity that he was willing to talk to me. He informed me that he had known AIDS was a made up illness for some years. “Yeah of course, I know its a made up illness, known for years haven’t I? Its weird you ask about it actually, I was chatting to my wife about it the other day. Yeah Cheryl asked me about Adidas sponsoring Chelsea, your not going to put her name or my teams name in the article are you? No, good. (Unlucky!!!) But yeah anyway she asked me about it, and I told her an interesting fact about how Adidas was nearly the name of AIDS. She was like ‘yeah whatever Ashley,’ she even rang her band mates to see if they knew about it, the ugly one did… you know the ginge minge. Well yeah anyway I told her all about how the name for AIDS was nearly ‘Artificial Disease & Illness Doesn’t Actually Subsist, ADIDAS. There was a big legal battle behind closed doors or something. But as soon as I found out I’ve been taking it up the shitter from any old tramp. I’m a dirty gay bastard.” And readers, I can confirm he is a dirty filthy bastard, it almost rubs off on you, very much in the same way a lump of ‘coal’ would…

Many of you may wonder how I, the Fiddler Scribbler, managed to find out how AIDS was a made up virus? Well after several personal health checks confirming I did not have AIDS, I swam in the same pool as a ‘known gay’ for 17.4 seconds before hurriedly scrambling out to under-go further tests. The results shocked all, I had not contracted AIDS! Whilst many would have taken this as substantially clear evidence that AIDS was in fact a made up illness, I, the Fiddler Scribbler still had my doubts and continued with testing. The second test consisted of me drinking out of the same glass of another ‘known gay,’ a practice known as drinking ‘gay juice,’which reportedly has an AIDS content of 7.14523, or more commonly known as ‘100% AIDS, Double Proof.’ The subsequent tests once again shocked all, I had not contracted the AIDS virus. My researchers were confused, my editor excited, and most shockingly my white blood cell count was normal. We were down to the final test, a test that I was not sure my body, mind or soul could endure, but being the Journalist I am I pushed those thoughts away and prepared myself for the ordeal. In the final test I would have to…wait for it…take a deep breathe and prepare yourself… I would have to spend 16 minutes in G.A.Y, surrounded by AIDS fumes, a practice know as ‘the gas chamber’ or ‘Auschwitzing it.’ As I stumbled through the bright purple doors of G.A.Y my life flashed before me in chronological order. I saw my first steps, my first ride on a bike without stabilizers, my first rape, my 9th birthday party and so on. After some time I pulled myself together and delved deeper into the glitzy disco of G.A.Y, I was light headed on what I assumed to be AIDS fumes. Much of my memory of that day has unfortunately been lost, I however am told that I stumbled out completely hammered after 26 minutes, 10 minutes more than had been required! I was put into a fumigating tent as the tests were carried out. Eventually the results were read, it appeared that I did not have AIDS. I had done it, I had proved that AIDS did not exist! Unfortunately for me I did appear to have consumed something called Rohipnol, and after further investigation discovered I was also suffering from a torn arsehole and anal herpes.

Whilst the anal herpes do occasionally play up, it is not without suffering that we as human can progress and evolve. I am happy to accept anal herpes as a consequence of being the person who discovered and informed the world that AIDS did not actually exist. Whilst there are several conspiracies as to why AIDS was made up ranging from ‘to keep squirrel numbers down’ to ‘I like mash potatoes.’ It is my belief that AIDS was fictionally created in an attempt to spice up the gay community. We, heterosexuals were trading ‘Premiership Football player stickers’ all the time and some of the gay community felt left out, they needed to trade something, and subsequently along came AIDS, a made up illness that could be traded more frenzied than a Chinese kid with Pokemon cards.