nunoncastors

Jeffry Petersen writes;

Girls admit that too skinny and short male sticks are completely incapable of pleasing them! They just don’t stimulate the vaginal nerve endings effectively!

Thank you for bringing this to my attention Jeffry, but you really needn’t worry, women seldom let me get close enough for this to become an issue and disappointment can often be assuaged with chocolates. That tip’s on the house.

Solomon Sanchez writes;

Heya,
I saw your profile online, maybe we can chat today?
email me at Jen@GloryLandUsa.info and I will reply with a Picture and info right away.

Solomon, while I do enjoy a chat now and again, I’m afraid I’m somewhat reticent to indulge with someone who seems quite so eager to send me photographs and, apparently, can’t decide on their gender. Sorry.

Joseph Gallagher writes;

Holy shit! Can you even piss out of that thing? You need MegaDik to make your cock into a monster!

Joseph, Joseph, Joseph. There’s no need to be insulting. Besides, can you please explain to me why you have been looking at my penis at all and, moreover, why you think I would want to turn it into a monster? Monsters scare people and, if horror movies are anything to go by, often spoil the mood by tearing them limb from limb. This seems somewhat inconsistent with sensitive lovemaking and evenings of passion to me.

Also, if I’m honest, I don’t want to have to worry about being bitten every time I go for a piss.

Selma Fuentes writes;

Hey nunoncastors,

Do you want to fuck hot teenagers? Why not visit [url removed]?

Because, Selma, you’ve confused ‘fuck’ with ‘wank over pictures of and pay for the privilege’ they’re two very different things as far as I can tell. Obviously I’m not an expert, but that’s my general feeling.

And that concludes our letters section for this month. We’ll be back in the new year addressing concerns about my breast size and the best places to buy herbal viagra.

See, spam can be fun.

There are some things that only your friends can get away with saying. I wouldn’t, for example, be too happy if a complete stranger called me a great bearded twat or a greasy German rapist, I’d probably chin them. Friends, however, can get away with that sort of thing because – well, they’re your friends aren’t they? They’re allowed to tread the ground that no one else can and give you nicknames like Beardface or ask you how often you masturbate in an effort to cheer you up at your grandfather’s funeral.

And they’re allowed to do things like this.

Which is brilliant, because life would be shit otherwise.

I’m not going to pretend that I’m perfect, I don’t need to. Ha ha! What larks! Anyway, sometimes – well, most of the time – I cross the barrier of what your average man-in-the-street would consider to be “good taste” and travel far out into the inappropriate plateau to utter statements that decent people would lose their monocle over. It is my way.

However, it would seem that my propensity for not mincing my words is nothing compared to the capacity for ignorance displayed by a few thousand Mancunians over the weekend in Las Vegas. I’m sure I’ve said it before, but witnessing fellow Britons abroad leaves me with a chill in my heart as they, by and large, behave like fucking morons. This weekend was sadly no exception.

I don’t know what causes it, it could be because a good number of my countrymen are fucking morons or it could be something more complicated, some sort of latent Empire Effect™, it really doesn’t matter in the long run. What matters is that our reputation abroad is that of ignorant, arrogant, drunks. And this weekend, true to form, as I watched the Floyd Mayweather – Ricky Hatton fight I was treated to the sight of my fellow countrymen booing the American national anthem like a troop of enraged Howler monkies. On Acid!

Have you ever noticed how the phrase “on acid” is used instead of a sensible description far too often? It’s meant to imply “crazy” or “zany” behaviour but really it just points to laziness on behalf of the author. On Acid!

I digress. What I’m trying to get at here, is the enormous sense of shame I felt as I watched those morons and realised that, for many Americans, that is going to be their lasting impression of British people. What is worse, and worse by far, is that it’s becoming an increasingly accurate impression.

I mean, I’m no fan of America. My experience of the people themselves, as with those of every other nation, is mixed. I know many wonderful Americans who are a credit to their nation and an absolute pleasure to be with and to talk to. Unfortunately I also know a fair few Americans who are right-wing, trigger happy, god bothering fuckwits possessed by their own notion of divine providence and convinced that *salutes the flag* America is the single greatest thing to ever happen in the history of the entire universe because god made it, god loves it and fuck you for saying otherwise.

You get arseholes everywhere though, don’t you?

I find their government obnoxious and overbearing, their foreign policy is abhorrent and akin to something out of a “My First empire” handbook and the experience of getting into the country, it’s draconian in the extreme. Frankly, it’s no wonder tourism is on the slide if they want to look up the bottom of every vaguely dusky person and treat the rest of us as though we’re a live grenade (but without the requisite respect).

But did they boo our national Anthem? No, no they didn’t. And that makes us look like c***s†. Well done lads.

As for the fight, well, little Ricky was always going to lose wasn’t he? The referee being utterly shit not withstanding; Mayweather would have won simply by being the better fighter in every area. He is really fucking boring to watch though, isn’t he? Christ, it was like watching paint dry at times. Still, fair play to Hatton, he turned up, gave it his all and lost and there’s no shame in that, just in acting like morons when the eyes of the world are upon you.

† Choose you own gender specific swearword.

It has been remarked upon recently that, amongst other things, I swear a lot. This is true, I do and it’s simply because I quite like swearing. I realise that there’s no real need for it, that I have the vocabulary to be far more erudite than simply saying ‘fuck off’ when the mood takes me, but I quite like to. As Orwell said, “never use a long word where a short one will do.”

I’ve been going to the cinema quite a bit recently; sadly it’s shaken my belief in my own judgement. Usually, I make a decision on which film I’m going to see based on how interesting the trailer looks, if there’s any exciting new technology or technique used in making it and whether I’m in the mood for that particular genre at the time.

However, I’m on my third strike in terms of making choices because the last two have been absolute stinkers.

Let’s review, shall we?

Last decent film viewed: Stardust.

Based on the Neil Gaiman novella of the same name and adapted in such a way that it leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I watched it, loved it and felt a renewed faith in life, love and everything else because I am such a girl.

Strike one: Beowulf.

You’d think with the source material being such an entertaining yarn of kings, demons, sea monsters dragons and heroes, a film adaptation featuring groundbreaking 3D and a clutch of decent actors would be at least reasonable. It isn’t. It’s dog shit. Mindless, tangled, tragic and featuring some awful accents and an artistic licence that adds approximately fuck all. I eventually wanted to claw out my own eyes and die in agony instead of seeing the farcical ending through to fruition. It isn’t even worth watching for the entirely unsubtle scene where Angelina Jolie metaphorically strokes one out of the eponymous hero before getting a good seeing to. I mean, fair enough, you would, but Jesus H. God, it’s fucking rubbish.

Strike two: The Golden Compass.

I love fantasy and sci-fi and magic and wizards and all that bollocks. I find solace in fictional worlds where magic is possible or, as in this case, where people’s souls manifest as animals called Demons. It strikes me as a huge weak spot that, having your soul somewhere people can club it with a shovel, but there you go, that’s fiction for you. Unfortunately, while the books have a sense of narrative continuity and an engaging character, the film flaps about like an epileptic on a bouncy castle. You’re constantly forced to blindly accept all sorts of rubbish as narrative leap of faith follows narrative leap of faith. They could have done so much with the source material; instead they drenched it in CGI and hoped no one would notice that the script is fucking useless and the characters have all the depth of a puddle.

But it’s a kids film, I hear you shriek. Yes, yes it is. But so was Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day and that’s so awesome that sometimes I have to pinch myself when I’m watching just to make sure it’s real.

Strike three:

Well, no strike three so far. I have been informed by Stephen however, that the next poor choice of film I make is going to cost me a finger. If that isn’t an incentive to avoid Into the Wild like the bad aids, I don’t know what is.

Into the Wild, by the way, is the film of the book of the story of Christopher McCandless, a rich twat who shat on everything his parents ever provided for him by giving it all away and walking into the middle of Alaska to die from being a fucking idiot. Some people take a sympathetic view of his adventures and death, these people are morons.

As Judith Kleinfeld observed, “many Alaskans react with rage to his stupidity. You’d have to be a complete idiot, they say, to die of starvation in summer 20 miles off the Park’s Highway.”