Humour


Why do we all go crazy for big ass?

Does my bum look big enough in this

Whatever happened to the cliche ‘does my bum look big in this’?

What I’d like to know is this. Whatever happened to that time when women wore girdles to flatten their curves? And when did men suddenly begin finding huge bottoms a massive turn-on? Or have we always done? Perhaps more pertinently in these days of militant feminism, is it right that many women nowadays actually become more famous for the size of their posterior than their intelligence, their talent or looks in general? It’s a question, right?

Maybe it’s because everything is now hyped to the nth degree. We live in an age of largesse. Of excess. Of riches, poverty, fame and obscurity. Of beauty and ugliness. And a parasitic media that thrives on blowing these things up out of all proportion. It’s the hyper-inflation of all things. We’re pumping our bodies up to the size of our egos. And that’s BIG. Prosthetically-enanced posteriors have become de rigueur, titanic tushes and Brobdingnagian buttocks abound.

In one sense you could say it’s just another evolutionary development. We dress, wear perfume, flex our pecs and primp our hair to make ourselves more attractive to the opposite sex. But why stop there? Nowadays medical advances mean we can take our most attractive features and accentuate them into objects of excruciating desire. Our boobs, our lips, our asses – have become the latest fashion items, stuff you pick from a surgeon’s catalogue like a new pair of shoes.

As if that wasn’t a troubling enough trend, as our body parts swell and expand under the cosmetic surgeon’s wizardry, the garments designed to clothe them shrink to ever scantier, tighter, more revealing proportions. Some days you wonder where it will all end. Women with tits like beach-balls covered with postage-stamp sized shreds of cloth? An ass as big as a bride’s train that needs a golf-buggy to get it from room to room? Maybe these people already exist out there. Some of the images I’ve seen on social media recently wouldn’t look out of place in a freak show.

But hey, I guess it’s a free world. And for all the ladies out there with big bums, I wrote this poem.

 

Does my bum look big enough in this?

 by Frank Bukowski
Does my butt look too big in this?
Chantille asked
Doing a 360
Tyrone shook his head
You’re just saying that, she said
Turning sideways in the mirror
No really, does it look big?
I said, din’ I
Chantille looked at him
Then back at the mirror
Sticking out her butt
You liar, it’s HUGE!
He shrugged, whatever
Awww c’mon hon
I can’t go no weddin
Lookin like I godda goddam beach ball
Sewed on my butt!
Pleeeeease?
Okay, it’s small!  It’s fuckin invisible!
Happy?
Fuck YOU!
On the drive back in
Chantille sat in stony silence
When he could bear it no more
Tyrone said listen
You really wanna know
Whad I think?
Chantille didn’t answer
I LIKE it big, he said
Great
No, I mean it
Wochafink I’ma allays hot fyo girl?
My personality?
Cain’t fuck no personality
Oh GREAT, she said, thanks a bunch!
When they entered the ramp onto the freeway
Tyrone floored it
For two miles neither of them spoke
When we get back, he said
Finally breaking the silence
Do me a favour, yeah?
Chantille’s head swivelled in slow motion
She sucked in her cheek
Look up dat Kardashian bitch
Know wh’am sayin?
WHAT!
I mean check out her google shit
Beyonce, Britney, Shakira, J Lo
All dem bitches
Chantille’s eyes came out for a walk
Ya’ll lookin for a smack here muthafucka?
Got five the most googled asses onna planet
Right there
Tells you all you need know
Bout motherfuckers and asses
Wait a minute, she said
You saying you motherfuckers LIKE big asses?
Tyrone grinned his answer
You bet yo ass it looks big in dat dress
Goddam right it do
Yeah right
Chantille huffed, folding her arms
And turning away
When he glanced in the mirror
Tyrone caught her smiling
Out the side window
And stop askin damn fool questions

 

 

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Raheem Sterling – take a look inside this football agent’s head and be scared, very scared

The Football Agent - front cover

The Football Agent – front cover

“Rich Dinero is the world’s richest football agent. His job is turning modest young men into money-grabbing mercenaries earning two hundred grand a week. It’s brought him a champagne lifestyle of fast cars, beautiful women and private jets. The secret to his success? He never takes no for an answer. Until he meets Fliss, a pretty young receptionist who won’t play ball. And the game is on. .”

So runs the gist of The Football Agent. Rich Dinero is one of the new breed of Machiavellian movers and shakers who’ve become such an integral part of the modern game. Or as some might describe them, a plague. As we draw close to the business end of another English Premier League season the spectre of agent power has raised its ugly head again. The much publicised PR disaster for Liverpool’s 20 year-old striker Raheem Sterling is a case study in how to piss off fans, club, and team-mates. Liverpool’s new contract offer of £100,000 a week was reportedly thrown back in their face, despite it being close to a 200% pay rise on Sterling’s existing £35,000 a week. Minimum wage, Raheem? As I write, word on the street has it that Sterling’s ‘advisers’ are encouraging the greedy oik to hold out for a figure closer to £150,000 a week. You heard that right. One hundred and fifty grand a WEEK. Not a year. A week. And there are fifty two of those in a year. Nice work if you can get it.

Back in the day when player loyalty was taken for granted, such mercenary greed would have made fans’ blood boil. But with the amount of money now swilling around in the game, greed is becoming the norm. Nowadays even a five year contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. It can be ripped up the following week, and the player toddles smugly on his way in pursuit of the filthy lucre. In Sterling’s case, he has basically handed Liverpool a ransom note. A hundred and fifty grand a week, or I walk.

Raheem Shaquille Sterling is not the first young footballer to have had his head turned by an exploitative Svengali type posing as an ‘advisor’. Let’s face it, many of us would find it hard to turn down the kind of rock-star lifestyle being dangled in front of these testosterone-fuelled young men. Once an agent latches on like some sucker fish, all notions of ethical behaviour go out the window. The players are taken to West End clubs, wined and dined at movie star restaurants, showered with expensive gifts as a demonstration of the millionaire lifestyle awaiting them, IF they put themselves in the agent’s hands. For most of these impressionable youngsters, it’s game over.

The result has seen an astronomical rise in player wages in recent years. Not to mention transfer fees. It’s become such a phenomenon that the BBC have built a special web-page where you can compare what you earn to modern footballer. Just make sure you have a stiff drink first. I tried an annual figure of £30,000, which is close to the national average wage in the UK. The comparison that came back shocked me, at a time when there’s so much poverty and austerity around. We’ve built a world where even a person in a decent job earning £30k a year would need to work for 617 YEARS to earn what Real Madrid’s Christiano Ronaldo earns EVERY YEAR. That’s a footballer we’re talking about. Not some Nobel Prize winner. Not a brain surgeon. Nor a brilliant nuclear physicist. If I’d started in the 14th Century and earned £30k a year, I’d only just be nearing the total of £18,200,000 Ronaldo earned last year alone. For kicking a bit of leather around on a muddy field. I’ll leave you to work out the madness of a world where that’s considered perfectly normal.

Of course it wouldn’t be fair to pin all the blame on agents. The kind of money Sky have been injecting into football over the last ten years has attracted some notable multi-billionaires with huge cheque books. Rich sugar daddies who have been buying up clubs like toys, fuelling the expensive bidding wars for the biggest stars. And let’s all hold up our hands. We’re the ones queuing up to hand Sky a shedload of money each month for their wall to wall sports coverage. There are genuine push-pull forces at work here, from which none of us can be absolved.

That said, there seems little doubt that agents are pouring petrol on the fire. By turning players’ heads, spreading rumours, deliberately unsettling them at their clubs, they are manipulating a lucrative game of musical chairs where footballers are flogged from club to club like knocked-off jewellery. Each move driving the player’s perceived value ever higher, eroding player loyalty to the point of extinction. Notable exceptions like Liverpool and England legend Stevie Gerrard who has remained a one-club man throughout his career, must shake their heads and wonder when jumped up young money-grubbers like Sterling (who couldn’t lace Gerrard’s boots as a player) put in wage demands higher than Gerrard ever earned in his entire career. Clearly the disparity in the sums involved has nothing to do with talent. It has everything to do with agents. And greed. And it’s not hard to see why.

Every time a multi-million pound transfer fee is agreed, the agent takes his cut. Every time he quadruples the wages of his client, he quadruples his own percentage. It is absolutely in an agent’s interest to be constantly moving a player from club to club as often as he can. To put ideas in his head. To make him feel he can always get more somewhere else. Next year. The year after. In such a world it’s hardly surprising that many big name agents have grown wealthier than the ‘portfolios’ of millionaire footballers they represent.

You could be forgiven for thinking things couldn’t get much worse. But here’s the thing. It used to be that football agents were required to pass tough examinations and have all the proper insurances in place. Not anymore. Only last month (on 1 April 2015) FIFA actually took the brakes off, by deregulating the licensing system for agents even further, incredible though that may seem. And no, it wasn’t an April fool’s joke. It was FIFA, perhaps the most corrupt old-boy’s network on the planet, run by the grand-daddy of dodgy deal-making himself, Sepp Blatter. Thanks to Blatter any old used-car salesman can now get a letterhead made up and call themselves a football agent. God help us.

Like many a fan who hands over a grand of their hard-earned cash every year for a season ticket, there are times when all this greed and disloyalty make you want to give up and walk away. But for most of us there is no choice. It’s in the blood. We’re as likely to give up on our team as we are on our parents. So that’s why I’ve written this book, for football fans everywhere. To get one back on the agents, and expose them for the greedy, unscrupulous gits they are. The Football Agent is an attempt to look inside an agent’s head from a fan’s point of view. If you’re an agent, sorry, but this is how you look from the terraces to us, the fans you treat like scum. Have a look in the mirror. It ain’t pretty. I’ll leave the last word to Dinero himself.

“I was thinking like the other day, how having any woman you want in the world can be like a massive responsibility. For instance. I’ve had Hollywood actresses round here with egos the size of Old Trafford. What a pain in the arse they were. You wouldn’t believe half the shit they make you wade through just for a simple poke. Sometimes I think fuck it, who needs that kind of shit after a hard day at the office. I am Rich Dinero. The most successful football agent in the history of the beautiful game. If I want to go down Orgasmic and pick up a local slapper with great tits and an accent like Eliza Doolittle, who’ll bugger off back to Topshop in the morning with a century in her knickers and no questions asked, fuck it, I will. Who needs some spoiled charley snorter whose agent is gonna wake you up at five in the morning waving a confidentiality clause under your nose, and they can’t find their Blahniks under the bed, and they look at you through mullered eyes as they chop up their breakfast on the dresser with a Barclaycard, and all their slap has worn off and you look at them and think, jesus, how did you ever get into films?”

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BBC condemns UKIP for not dusting behind the radiators 1

Feather duster

The £35 feather duster at the centre of the scandal

BBC revelation exposes a tale of cobwebs, economic mismanagement and racist cleaners at the heart of UKIP central office

The BBC, that bastion of fair and impartial reporting the world over, today published a devastating article revealing the depth of corruption, sexism, racism and economic mis-management at the heart of the UK Independence Party.

After going through the rubbish bins at the party’s Newton Abbot headquarters in Devon an undercover BBC journalist, who can’t be named without breaching their own impartiality guidelines, turned up an invoice for some feather dusters which had been purchased for an exorbitant £35 from John Lewis. Apparently, UKIP could have gotten the same posh dusters for a steal from Barry’s Barmy Bargains market stall in Camden Town, for 49p a pop.

“It’s a scandal,” said reporter Jazmin Lawro. “And just another example of the disgusting profligacy that runs from top to bottom of this neo-fascist party. It’s nothing less than a disgraceful abuse of public funding, that’s what it is. It shows they’re not fit to hold office.”

When a UKIP spokesman confirmed that the money used to pay for the feather dusters wasn’t in fact public funds, but had been paid for by donations from UKIP supporters, Lawro was unrepentant. “You would say that wouldn’t you, you evil right-wing trash.”

The BBC investigation also revealed that a cat burglar (who also can’t be named due to BBC ‘impartiality’ guidelines) had broken into UKIP headquarters on Sunday night and after running his finger over several window sills and book shelves, discovered a cobweb behind a radiator in the women’s toilets.

“Absolutely disgusting,” screamed Lawro. “I mean, he didn’t find any cobwebs in the MEN’S toilets, did he? How sexist can you get! And another thing, we tapped Farage’s mobile and discovered the cleaner was an English lady from Finsbury. Can you believe that? English? What’s wrong with Polish cleaners, or Libyans? Aren’t they good enough to clean UKIP’s toilets? If ever you needed evidence of what a deeply sexist, racist party they are, here it is,” she said, holding up the feather duster invoice.

“UKIP need to come clean on this. People need to know what kind of fascist scum they’re voting for. Wait till I get home tonight, I’m going to tweet the shit out of that white, male, middle-aged little Englander’s ass. What? I’m not allowed to do that as a BBC reporter? Who says? Oh. All right. Scrub that then, I never said it. I’ll get on the blower to Evan Davis or Andy Marr, get them to invite Farage onto their show to talk about politics or some bollocks, then they can drop bombs on him about the feather duster scandal and racist cleaner, and kick the shit out of him. I mean, what the fuck are UKIP still doing around anyway? We thought Farage was supposed to disappear into the wilderness after the unrelenting campaign we waged to undermine him during the general election. Can’t he just bugger off and let the BBC get on with indoctrinating the thick UK public on the benefits of political correctness and a socialist European super-state? For fuck’s sake.”

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