Category: Lulz!


Unholy boredom

has led me to create a tumblr –
find me at GinCat from now on 😀

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…I don’t know why.

Frivolity Bites

http://www.sporcle.com/games/micah/shakespeare_characters – which of Shakespeare’s characters has the most lines?

Hint: It’s probably not who you think it is.

Warning: Contains adult languages and themes, shameless parody and cuntishness.

Because I am wonderful and highly educated, being at Oxbridge (CAMBRIDGE) and all, my favourite men in the world are the thick ones who will not figure out that I am slagging them and their plebian sexual abilities off in this little blog, even when it becomes national news for some unfathomable reason. (Perhaps the miners and their urchins like to read about the goldleafed lady parts of brilliant belles such as yours truly; I do not know or care, because I am highly educated and must worry about my studies which are more important than yours and, of course, my reputation as a vixen with a poor sense of humour and the inability to keep schtum about my silly little sex life.)

I met one of my favourite men in the world at a social gathering common only to one half of Oxbridge, that being CAMBRIDGE, or “Bridgey” as its glorious scholars, like me, enjoy calling it over our pretentious conversations about being Better Than You. These social gatherings are quite exclusive, and you must be given what is known as “Daddy’s allowance” to be invited. But enough about my lifestyle, I can see you want to know about how I contracted the Aids. Pray stick with me, peasants, the time to fap is nigh.

He was a little paunchy, and a massive twat to go with it: I could not let this great love monster escape my opportunistic clutches. As he guffawed heartily about the girth of his scholarly phallus, I knew he would be the one: the ignorant thrusting machine who would service my upper-class cunny and remain moronically in the dark, even though I would write accurately of his physical appearance, vocal exchanges and exact geographical location on the night we made sweet silver-spooning love and even when my racy erotica is heavily publicised by masturbating journalists.

“Hello,” he said, as I collided into him, reeking of desperation. I tapped my wine glass three times to satisfy my OCD. (Did I not mention that before?! Foolish me! Well, I have it and it makes me appear really interesting and not at all idiotically unknowledgeable about the condition and what it actually does to its actual sufferers.)

He smiled a crooked yellowed overbite and I gushed. Every British man reading this is so predictable and unable to defend themselves against my beautiful sexism that they will naturally assume that I am talking about them, so I will not bother to disguise him beyond telling you all that he is 6′ 1″ and named Algernon.

He pulled me into his flabby grip and breathed hot winey breath all over my blessed face. This reaffirmed my notion that this was indeed the one I would write about to all my vicariously-fapping readers and we adjourned to a room. I am not sure which room it was – a drawing room, an observatory, a Turkish bath – but I know that I was bent backwards over a large gilded globe, which made it easier for me to read the spines of everything by Chaucer upside-down whilst being rogered. Painful, but romantic.

The sex was lovely but I’ll leave that to your imaginations after fucking around creating a huge build-up. Anti-climax? Oh non, my nether regions beg to differ! 😉

I’d adore it if I could tell you something intelligent, but I simply cannot engage my throbbingly huge brain. Slutty outfits are calling to me – I can’t let this nice little attention-seeker run dry now, can I?! Love and terrible “sexual puns” always!

If you haven’t read the Sex at Oxbridge blog, do so. It’s gratingly unfunny, unfair and arrogant. This is not a cunt-punt to any Oxbridge student: just this one who makes them all look like tossers, which I know for a fact they are not. (Largely.)

…I still end up in *tears* every time I watch it. Her epic muffin top makes it thrice as brilliant.

*weep*

So I’m singing along to the acoustic version of ‘Poker Face’, which is completely wonderful and can be experienced here.

And the cat?

The cat puts his paws over his face, like “Shut up, you tone-deaf HUSSY”.

There’s a lot of love in this room right now.

I’m determined to finish Volume III of Great Expectations by today or tomorrow or the day after, so I can at least start Madame Bovary and the other multitude of books patiently waiting in the bottom of the wardrobe in the box they were delivered in. O virgin novels, I’ll penetrate your pages with my bookmark yet.

Incidently, introducing talk of sex into a boring subject is a sure-fire way to gain my attention. I can’t help feeling that all of Jane Austen’s work would take pride of place in my collection if she’d included a saucy encounter now and then. Unless I learn to make dry social commentary work as an aphrodisiac for me, I doubt Sense and Sensibility is going to be a favourite read. Even imagining Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon DOESN’T WORK. THAT’S HOW BAD AUSTEN IS.

I have shopping to do.

Morning Hijinks.

From this fine specimen of a site.