Thursday, 10 February 2011


I have absolutely no recollection of it, whatsoever. Recollection of what? That’s the problem – I have no idea. I don’t even know if I did it, whatever it is. Or indeed if it even happened at all. It’s a terrible situation to find yourself in. I don’t know what I did, if I even did anything. I don’t know where it happened, if it even occurred. I don’t know who I did or didn’t do the thing I can’t remember happening to, and I’ll be fucked upside-down if I can even figure out why the thing I can’t be sure even happened happened or not in the first place.

Thank god i've got a full head of hair – not sure i'd be handling this quite so well if I was one of those stupid bald twats you see everywhere these days. Horrible things. I liked it better when they weren't allowed out of their cages.

It's PC gone mad.

Thursday, 3 February 2011

For the benefit of me.

Pro-bono: "for the public good". That’s the dictionary definition… The dictionary definition of dickish!

What kind of badger's fannyhole works for the benefit of others? Not this one, I can tell you that much. With just a quick poke of the caps lock, yours truly switches a lower case to an upper and all of sudden the world makes more sense: pro-Bono – for the benefit of Bono.

That’s how I work. It’s how everyone works. Whether you want to or not. This is my world. Welcome to Bonoland. Most of the rides are covered by the entry fee but some carry a hefty surcharge. The big one that makes you puke your Bonoburger into the face of the boggle-eyed cuntbot behind you – that’s about 500 quid extra. Well worth it though. I went on it yesterday and chundered right into The Edge’s mouth. Priceless. The great majority of it hit him in the eyes and where his hair should be, but a teensy cup-full went right to the back of his throat, enough to set off a domino effect that ultimately climaxed with him honking the bowl of semen I made him eat at lunchtime all over the place. Dirty bird. Stood over him like a god while he got down on all fours and wiped my absurd metaphor clean with his hat. He missed a bit so I told him to mop the rest up with his underpants. Then I bullied him into putting them back on so he’d have to sit in partially-digested cock-snot for the rest of the day.

It’s what Mandela* would’ve done.

All aboard!
Bongo. xx

* That’s Winnie, of course, not Nelson. He’s way too much of a bender.

Thursday, 6 January 2011

2011? No thanks, I’m on a diet.

What’s for tea? I bet you’re having the usual: half a roast chicken, some Cornflakes, 4 coins, two burnt pitta breads, 17 sheets of rice paper, a cup of warm ink, two fingers of single malt, a pint of Ragu, assorted bulbs, confetti, a quick look at a puppy's corpse, a Double Decker wrapper, half the rind from a lime, a bruise, one family-sized deep-filled gorky pancake, some teats, 44 numbers, a decimal point, all the vowels, a tablespoon of forks and an effervescent vitamin c tablet.

After the usual festive excesses, I really need to shift some timber, so I’ll just be dribbling onto a single Rivita crispbread from a height of exactly 4 inches. Or thereabouts.

Don’t rape it…seduce it,
Bing Bong. X

P.S. As he’s a registered diabetic, The Edge will be having sugar and sugar alone. I insist on it.

Thursday, 9 December 2010

When love comes to Toon. Or not.

Rarely do I take things personally, but considering my pedigree I’m genuinely shocked, appalled, sickened, offended, terrified, horrified, disgusted, haunted, choked, dismayed, buggered, grieved and queasy not to have been considered for the vacant managerial post at St. James’ Park.

This is Bono we’re talking about, here. Bono. As far as occupying the Big Chair at the north-east’s foremost Cathedral of Delusion, they don’t come any more custom-built than me.

First of all, the fat, the stupid, the poor and the ignorant adore me. I’m everything they aren’t and they love me for it.

Secondly, I know absolutely nothing about football. Which is exactly twice as much as Alan Shearer knows. And three times more than Kevin Keegan. Yet it’s that pair of squelching great clits that the Toon Army’s topless, tattooed hordes and their equally repugnant husbands start yelping for the instant Mike Ashley brainfarts himself from his idiot-slumber, remembers what a pathological twat he is, and sacks the best manager the club’s had since gluttony was invented.

And finally, if they’re happy to hire Alan Pardew, a man once described as a “sub-Dowie club-wrecker” by one of football’s weakest penalty-takers, the club’s mission statement must read something along the lines of “to undo all the good work Chris Hughton has done and get ourselves relegated as soon as is humanly possible” – something I’m more than capable of achieving with my eyes closed and my penis out.

Football’s loss.

Friday, 3 December 2010

Bono + Poetry = Bonoetry

Here, a rhyme i penned but an hour ago. A testament to my skills as both an author of verse and a conjurer of the vivid. I have entitled it 'Queef Pong: A vaginal augury':

Her fanny smelled like Cullen Skink,
A dreadful soupy seafood stink;
Her parted lips not flushed and pink
But grey like hippos eyelids.

Toward my mouth she pushed her chuff,
No half-arsed finger-bang enough
To sate her awful gaping lust
Or tame that rotten tuppence.

So lap I did, ‘til once I puked
Inside her hole, a stiff rebuke;
But firm she sat like King Canute
As tides of bile engulfed us.

The squalling flood of chunks I spat
Just made her cum so hard she shat,
Unseating Bono’s Stetson hat
And fouling Edge’s gimp mask.

Chained there to the bedroom floor
I bellowed at him through the gore,
“Next time I fuck your wife ensure
She’s cleared her bowels beforehand.”

Wrote that in an ad-break. Took 3 minutes, tops. Wipes its dick on anything Pam Ayers could manage.

Be awed. x

Saturday, 20 November 2010

Deaf Boycott.

In times of trouble, when life weighs us down, we all have our coping strategies. Some people drink heavily. Some people masturbate in public or fuck cats.

Personally, I like to pop on a couple of my own albums and console myself with the knowledge that deaf people the world over are completely excluded from enjoying my borderline-divine brilliance. And rightly so. They’re almost certainly being punished for sins in a former life, and what better way to rub their noses in it than denying them the right to bask in my glory.

Can you believe those stupid pricks haven't even heard my Band Aid cameo?! How do you say "Losers" in sign language? Those couple of lines all but defined a century. Terrifying to think that my amazing lung-busting refrain would never have existed had those 9 billion treacle-skins not starved to death.

That close to disaster, people.

Absolut Bonolity. xx

Thursday, 4 November 2010

Get some the Bono way.

With the office Christmas party just round the corner, in my capacity as universally accepted Cocksmith Supreme, i feel duty-bound to offer a little timely advice for any budding Romeos out there:

1. Always put a rubber johnny on before leaving the house. It pays to be prepared and there's no bigger turn-on for ladykind than a partially-erect penis choking to death inside a latex sock. Particularly if there's a few cc's of pre-cum swilling around the teat.

2. Girls love it when you go straight for their vagina. Even more so if that’s how you refer to it. “Hey, you have really noticeable eyebrows…can I feel your vagina now?” Every time’s a charm.

3. Like unicorns, the clitoris, and a decent Coldplay song, the female orgasm does not exist. So don't waste valuable time trying to find it.

Poke one for me,
Boner. xx