Amsterdamned; The Feature Length Blog

So I did it, I went to Amsterdam.

“What for five fucking months? Did you get locked up – what did you do THIS TIME Benjamin?” is probably what you're billowing out of your mouth right now, with specks of saliva gathering on the screen [which by the way; does not class as cleaning it].

No, everything flight wise went to plan and I returned home after the weekend away.

“But where's the follow up been, you cunt? I've been sat here five fucking months constantly refreshing this webpage, waiting to find out what's happened!” is now what you're more than likely spouting, as the collection of spit heavily grows on your monitor and begins to trickle down, collecting at the bottom, then dripping onto that napkin from Costa on your desk that you were saving for 'personal time'.

But let's move away from that shit and get into what you came for;

Amster-FUCKING-dam!

Let's get the most important stuff out of the way first, fuck the whores and weed, let's talk burgers!

Amsterdam may be globally known for the place to go for the world's best prostitutes and/or marijuana strains, but it doesn't pain me slightly - as the whore-mongering stoner to say; it's burger's surpass both of them, easily. Because I went to Amsterdam thinking there's a possibility I'd have an orgasm in someone's mouth, but instead I had one in mine [no homo] at Burger Zaken!

If we move away from the puerile factor for two seconds [sorry readers, I know you love your filth] Amsterdam is famed for it's architecture too. All the buildings have an extremely narrow width, but stretch back to make space. This is true in Burger Zaken too; so the chefs are right in front of you the whole time, totally surrounded by customers. So you get to see your burger made to your specifications while getting to hear all those snarky work comments. The guy on the salad was a fucking gem, I was inches away from him bitching about the way the lettuce had been cut. But that's more of the reasons I love the place, they actually gave a shit.

We visited Burger Zaken twice that weekend. The first was kinda by accident, we needed to eat and it was a burger shop, so we went in and basked in it's glory. Then Saturday, after going out for steak at 10pm, then hitting the pubs/coffee shops, we returned to Burger Zaken around midnight for a goodbye burger. I'd like to say the greatest thing was the fact that the guys remembered us and asked how we were doing – not a surprise you may think for a customers that were only in a day before, but this was Easter weekend, Amsterdam was full of tourists and their footfall always seemed maxed out on the many times we walked passed [while lost/trying to find our bearings]. But for me the greatest thing was waiting for my burger and basking in the banter of one the employees and a foreign female customer;
“So how do you like Amsterdam?”
“It's great, it's soooo free here!”
“What do you mean free? You still have to pay for things... Oh, you mean 'free' because of the weed and the sex. Do you not have sex in Norway?”
“No.”
“Then how are you here?”

I'd stagger to Amsterdam for another one of those burgers. Honestly, I'd even empower the myths of Jesus to walk across water, while kicking sharks in the face, barefoot, for one more bite of their super succulent burgers.

So if/when you go to Amsterdam please visit Burger Zaken, tell them Ben Broughton sent you, they have no fucking clue who I am, but if enough of you do it maybe I'll get a free burger next time I go!

But let's forget burgers for a the meanwhile cos you and I know you're only here for the sordid details.

Prostitutes! After my first visit, which totally shocked me and left me all bashful like the proper English gentleman I was [and still am], my second visit to the Red Light District was mild. I knew what to expect. I obviously had no need to take advantage of the products [women] on offer because for a male of my handsome attributes it'd be a crime against natural selections for me to pay for sex, but it's fine for me to look!

Seeing as it was Easter weekend and the streets were flooded with tourists, the farmers had brought out their best cattle out [that was a metaphor by the way, sadly there was no cattle market]. Honestly some of these ladies were so beautiful it made your dick tingle, until you think about the abuse they must have suffered to get to this point - then your penis shrivels back in on itself [told you I was an English gentleman].

But what I found fascinating what all the time I spent in the RLD [it was right by our apartment, we had to walk down it to get anywhere, especially when we wanted to see boobies] I only ever saw one person go to 'use the facilities on offer' even then he was being egged on by his mates so it seemed like a dare. Which to be fair is the best dare ever; “So is no-one in our group going to fuck a prostitute? If you dare me, I'll do it … but as a reward for the dare you guys have got to pay for it!” Oh, when I said 'use the facilities on offer' I meant 'fuck a whore', I didn't mean he shat/pissed on her... but maybe he did, it is Amsterdam after all.

Weed! And the decade long love affair with Mary Jane that's ruined countless relationships, soured my aspirations and nulled my social skills … but fuck it, as I was in her home town I had to indulge in my mistress's temptations.

Off the bat, I've got to say; whomever decided to have the marijuana capital of the world in a city with so many canals, deserves every joint smoked in Amsterdam's history, past and future, put out on his face for eternity. Because it's a fucking death trap.

On our first night we came up with a plan; coffee shop then bar, then repeat. Which is a bloody fantastic plan due it's simplicity, yet the roadblocks were thrown in our faces by the bulging populous of Amsterdam at the time; everywhere was packed!

We still stuck to our plan, but speaking for myself; I soon turned into a meandering zombie; lurching from place to place in hopes of cannabis or alcohol. At one point, in one of our seemingly never ending treks I was so high I think I reached what Buddhist's call enlightenment. I was in a dream state, still walking, yet at one with everyone and everything around me. I was floating above humanity, I was a higher-being, I was untouchable... that all came crashing down when another tourist slightly brushed passed me and almost sent me toppling into a filthy canal.

Now a drawback to being a bunch of proper English gentlemen, is the fact that each coffee shop we entered we thought it was fitting to buy some more weed, despite the groom-to-be telling us to we didn't have to. But what kind of person turns up to an establishment and uses a competitors product? A bastard that's who and English gentleman aren't bastards! This eventually left us with numerous bags of weed at the end of our last night and despite our best efforts to get our monies worth and smoke the lot, we failed.

Now here's the predicament... in that super-stoned mindset you start to think; “I could easily get this back to England... somehow! I bet everyone does it!” You begin to conger up plans... the best being just putting it in your pocket... yeah it sounds fucking ridiculous now, but in my mindset at the time it was genius, plus you haven't seen my “Oh... I forgot that was in there” face!

Eventually you sober up slightly and realise it's probably not worth the risk. Then at the airport, after they check your passport, you stupidly slide it back into your pocket and walk through the metal detector, setting it off. Now some G4S dude starts to frisk you. “I think it was the chip in my passport” you tell him, hoping it stops the borderline sexual assault taking place, sadly it doesn't. “Ha, you have some coins in your pocket too”, he says, with you half expecting to follow up with correct amount; “... three Euros, fifty-two cents”, seeing as his hands wonder all over your body like he's a teenage virgin and you're some passed-out slag at a party. He eventually gives you the all clear. Then you realise it's definitely not worth the risk.

… or is that just me?

Plus they had a fucking sniffer dog when we landed back in the UK!

Bastards!

The Fuck Buddy Complex

After the dust had settled on my previous relationship and my brain was again able to finally form actual real thoughts instead of replaying an endless loop of “our best bits” like a lazy sitcom episode, my initial thought was; “well that’s my sex life over with… for the time being”.

I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].

You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.

When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!” 

You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!

Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.

The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.

That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.

But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.

Breaking Up & Broken Down

To say that break-ups are hard would be a fucking understatement.

Break ups are devastating and no matter how many you’ve had in the past they still pack a punch hard enough to leave you crying on the other side of your face.

I recently broke up with my long-term missus, it was an amicable break up, something new to me, so I falsely led myself to believe it would be different this time around, how wrong I was. An amicable break-up does have its benefits, you feel like an actual adult for once; you’ve made a realistic decision that the relationship is no longer working and you should terminate it. It’s a damn sight better than belongings being thrown from a window while you trade expletives at the top of your lungs in front on the curtain twitching neighbours. But to be fair no matter which route you take; amicable or trading blows on the street until the police turn up, you still end up in the same emotional state; lonely and heartbroken.

Obviously the old saying goes; “time heals all wounds”, not strictly true, but from my experience it certainly aids with heartache [as in sorrow, if your heart actually physically aches, go and see a doctor imminently, time may not heal that problem]. The problem is what do you do in that time because you’re whole life has altered drastically. The person that you’ve spent the majority of your time with other the last two years is no longer around and just to top things off, you’re two housemates that haven’t been in relationships for ages finally get girlfriends, that really highlights your loneliness. People ask if you’re ok, you lie and say; “Yes”, hoping that they pick up on the fact you aren’t, but they don’t, they’re idiots, they take your response at face value. This then only serves as a reminder that the one person that knows you best and can see through your lies has left. You feel isolated. You cry into your pillow. You think about all the good times you had together. You cry into your pillow some more. You get that overwhelming feeling that you’ve made a mistake. You cry into your pillow again. You can’t sleep at night because the double bed feels empty, plus your pillow is damp and uncomfortable.

Soon you come to terms with the loss. You begin to accept that you’ll never get a chance to relive that wonderful day you spent together in Skegness [in all honesty that was a terrific day]. And while it’s difficult to come to terms with the fact that you will no longer make memories like that, you begin to realise that you no longer have to have the same stagnant, long-winded conversation about what the fuck we’re going to eat tonight. You can actually make plans with the few reminding friends you have left without checking in with your other half as to what her/our plans are over the coming days/weeks/months. You can engage in sexual activities with other people [theoretically, as it’s been a while since you approached a female]. You can watch rap battles on YouTube without that moaning sound in the background, grumbling over the best punchlines. Yes that double bed still seems empty, but now you get the comfortable side, all the duvet and to top if off the pillows have dried.

Eventually normality prevails, until you begin the very same cycle with the next person to come along.

Can't Live With Her, Won't Live With Her

The old saying goes; “Women; can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em”, of course it's not actually true, you can live without them, just look at homosexual men, they live their lives happily enough, even if they're living in sin [only joking guys, I'm liberal really]. But I'm sure it is possible to live without women.

In all my life I haven't lived in a house or student accommodation without the female of the species apart from a short period when I first came to University. In the first few weeks of living in my 'Student digs' I shared my flat with just two other guys. It was a brilliant time in my life, a time I look back on with great fondness. We drank in the morning and had people over until early hours of the (next) morning. Great times. Although later on two girls moved in (along with another male) and it was clear that we'd have to alter our behaviour slightly. Seeing as they'd wondered into an area where the law of the land had already been strongly established things didn't too change much, but some aspects of our testosterone driven day to day living had to be tweaked, most notably shutting the toilet door when using the facilities – the oppression women bring with them! When will it end?!

But since that fond time I've always lived with females, although they are usually greatly outnumbered, as they very well should be, who wants some kind of feminist coup on their hands? There's no great advantage of living with women, in my opinion. I learned early on that they won't willingly take up all of the domestic chores like my mum did. I was fine with this anyway, because I have high standards, so it was better for me to do these things, as a women would only fuck it up and I'd have to do it (correctly) at a later date. Females aren't even that clean either, this is on a totally different note but start to take notice of a girl's car because of the few female friends I allow into my life the state of their cars seems to be 'not great' and that's putting it likely [you know who you are and don't get mad when you read this].

Anyway, I'm beating around the bush like a baseball bat wielding psycho failing to assassinate America's former President [reread that – I'm quite proud of it], the point of this Blog is that my girlfriend wants to live with me [add a dramatic “dun-dun-dun” sound here]!

What the fuck is she thinking? Maybe she has totally lost her mind, I'm not sure. She's with me so it's safe to say that she's kind of deluded or insane anyway, but living together, that's a completely different kettle of boiling water. Limitations have been put on my life already with the pure fact that we are together. If it wasn't for her I'd be avoiding showers and shooting heroin into my fucking eye. Not that she's saved me from a life of drugs, I still want to shoot heroin into my eye, I just won't because – I don't even know how to finish that sentence, that's her influence over me!

Look, I love the girl, but living together, that's a commitment I cannot to commit to. That's a huge step for me. That's some Neil Armstrong shit in my eyes and I don't want to walk on the moon. The cards have been played in our relationship; she wants marriage and kids, I want alcohol and weed (why change the habit of a lifetime?). Living together seems like a massive shift towards what she wants and the only way I could possibly regain ground was by setting up a grow-op in the spare room. And although I love marijuana, I don't wanna set up a grow-op because I don't want to get arrested, plus my bonsai tree is almost dead and if I can't manage that I doubt I could handle a room filled with cannabis crops [that accidentally turned out to be a good metaphor for this whole situation]. So I'll loose leverage if we live together and as my mother always used to say; “Never loose leverage, son … and twist the knife when you shank a motherfucker – make sure he knows he's cut”.

To me living together seems like the perfect way to ruin a good thing. We spend most days together anyway but if we lived together we'd never be able to escape each other. Plus there are so many arguments that would definitely be provoked if we moved in together. Like how would be decorate our bedroom? There's no way she'd let me put my posters up and she'd want her Mac in the bedroom so I'd be forced to do all my writing on a Mac, and I'm unable to switch from PC to Mac, I'm old and set in my ways, plus after so many arguments over which is better, I'd feel like I have lost the argument for Team PC. Plus I know that my friends wouldn't be made welcome in the house. Which is understandable, because the majority of my friends are scum. I know it, they know it.

I'm too young to live with my girlfriend. It took me 20 years to escape the dictatorship of my mother, now after four years of a democratic lifestyle, why would I move to the dictatorship of another woman? It'd be like going from Hitler to Pol Pot or from Mao to Stalin. A house shouldn't have to become a PoW camp! I want freedom! Freedom!

If this gets posted and then vanishes, you know I've succumb to dictatorship. In that case please post me some a cyanide pill ASAP.

The Cervical Civil War

After some self deliberation [with myself] I have come to the conclusion that soon enough I will cut off most of my friendships with friends that happen to be the opposite sex.

But Ben’s that’s sexist, you can’t be sexist!

Wrong! I shouldn’t be sexist, yet I can be sexist. I shouldn’t push an old lady down I flight of stairs, but I can. Do you see the difference?

This has not come about because they are the weaker sex, or anything to do with that, it has come about because of woman’s hate for themselves. So they only have themselves to blame.

Women love to moan, complain and bitch, that’s a scientifically proven fact. But the recent level of moaning, complaining and bitching has reached astronomical levels, so much so that I can no longer bear listening to a female slag off another female. Yeah, it used to be funny listening to one girl slag off another girl behind her back, but I think I’ve well surpassed my quota of bitchiness and backstabbing.

The fundamental relationship between three women goes like this;

Woman #1 talks to Woman #2 about Woman #3

Woman #2 talks to Woman #3 about Woman #1

Woman #3 talks to Woman #1 about Woman #2

With such backstabbing and two faced actions I’m surprised Women were even able to rise up all those years ago and stop being slaves to men. What would Martina Louisa Queen and Michelle XX [Chromosome] have to say about this if they were still alive? It’s almost as if women united, got the vote and thought; ‘Well, now we’re equal to men we have no common enemy, hey, let’s hate each other’.

In the 2005 French film 13 Tzameti people ‘compete’ in a mass game of Russian roulette, in which the individuals stand in a circle, each man pointing a gun at the person in front. They all stare at a light bulb, when it goes on/off they fire. This is the perfect analogy for female relationships, but instead of a gun women are armed with knives and they just keep stabbing each other in the back, then they all turn 180 degrees and begin to stab another woman in the back.

No matter how much feminists want to wave their fishy figures at men and blame them for all their own downfalls, women are much more destructive to themselves then men could ever be. Men maybe sexist, misogynistic and chauvinistic, but it is the envious backstabbing of women that is the real problem facing the female race. A male may call a promiscuous woman a ‘slapper’ or a ‘slag’ to his mates, but it’s the friends of this promiscuous woman that will completely character assassinate the poor girl behind her back to anyone that’ll listen.

But why does this happen? We are women so hell bent on ruining each others reputations and lives?

I don’t know, to be honest, if I did I would be able to bring peace to the female kind. I have my theories, of course, but I have things on everything from religion (total fabrication) to abortion (good stuff).

It’s doubtful that there’ll even be peace between women; we’ll be seeing Palestinians and Israelis skipping around the Gaza Strip hand in hand before females learn to stop bitching about each other at every opportunity. The best advice I can give is just remain out of the way of the crossfire, you never know when you could get dragged into a civil war that you’re not a civilian of.

Kiss, Tell, Proceed to Hell

Celebrities’ cheating on their wives was happening before the Big Bang, yet the public’s interest in them is still alive today somehow, just like the Queen. John Terry, Ashley Cole and Tiger Woods have all been slated in the newspapers recently for shagging females of the species that they didn’t buy an expensive ring for. This of course is a massive injustice. These gentlemen have worked extremely hard to make it to the top of their respective sports, while their wives have just got a free ride all the way.

Cheryl Cole, of course did have some-type of pop career before wedding Ashley. But cast your mind back to when she was a racist alcoholic. You can barely remember that because marrying Ashley altered that perspective of her, so while the tabloids poison your mind to hate Ashley now, if it wasn’t for him, there would have never been Cheryl on X-Factor, she’d still be beating up toilet assistants in an alcoholic rage while spouting racial slurs that would make Nick Griffin blush.

It’s not fair to blame these men for their actions because at the end of the day they are simply men. What’s the difference between men and women? Men have penises, which play heavily on the decisions they make. It’s that simple. These men have no control over what they did, the blames lays on the fact they have penises! You can’t blame them for the way they were born, that’s sexist, and I’m against sexism. I can reveal who the blame lays with in all of these cases; their wives and the women they fucked.

Firstly the wives of these men are all attractive, as these men have lots of money, the more money you have, the better looking your wife is, it’s that simple. Yet, clearly these women weren’t satisfying their husbands’ needs, so they have to go elsewhere for attention. These women get everything they need in life and all they have to do is suck a dick or sit on a face, to keep their man happy, yet they can’t do that! But if these pampered-up, spoilt bitches not do it someone else will …

Secondly the blame lays with these women that the sports stars sleep with, for the purpose of this we’ll call them ‘whores’. These whores know full well that these gentlemen have families at home, yet they still go ahead and sleep with them, well aware that they are ruining a marriage. My beef with these kiss and tell girls is that they never come under fire from the press. Jaimee Grubbs (Woods), Vicki Gough (Cole) or Vanessa Perroncel (Terry) didn’t get blamed for being home-wreckers.

It’s infuriating that these women do this; sleep with someone famous and go and sell the story. Oxford English (Mini) Dictionary reads;

Prostitute n. a person who has sex for payment.

Which is what these women are, yet the payment doesn’t come from the men directly, instead it comes from tabloids, each willing to throw money at these colossal skanks in an attempt to shift a couple more papers. Look at Vanessa Perroncel; she went directly to Max Clifford, who pimped her out like the whore she is for the highest price.

I thought women were meant to look out for each other, instead of stabbing each other in the back … although in these cases it more to do with letting another woman’s husband stab you in the front. Would it be that difficult for them to say; “No, I won’t have sex with you! You have a family!”? I mean, some of these girls act as if they had nothing to do with the whole thing, like it just so happened that a penis fell into them and it’s all the fault of the penis-owner, because it’s not like their legs were open, it’s not like they have any control of what choices they make. They’re not men, they don’t think with their dicks, they think with their brains, and what’s the thought; “I could probably get some money for swallowing this. Glug, glug, glug!” That’s Prostitution 101, a whore’s ideology.

The pure existence of these conniving wenches makes the possibility of affairs hard on the rich, under-sexed sport star. Knowing that you can’t just pick up some girl at a bar and shag her, because the story penetrates the headlines faster than you penetrated her the night before could lead numerous sports stars to not even bother with cheating on their wives. Because of this I have come up with a technique that sports stars can use in order to assure that they can go about their affairs without a trouble in the world;

What you want to do is get your girl (easy enough, you’re rich and famous – they flock to you like flies to shit). Take her to your room. Set up a video camera (wait, although this confirms evidence of what happened it won’t incriminate you). Do your business. But make sure you capture on film the girl knelt in front of you, while you over her masturbating, as you look down on her get her to spout anti-Semitic bile as you proceed to slap her with your cock, calling her a “bad girl”, repeatedly. You then take the tape and lock it away in a safety deposit box and threaten the girl that if a single word is ever uttered about that night you spent together, that tape will makes its way to her parent’s house. Yet if she still goes to the newspapers you produce the videotape and explain that you have been conducting an experiment in which you are attempting to discover if your penis can cure racism.

It’s that simple.

In a world where everyone should be treated equal, isn’t it time that we labelled these ‘kiss and tell girls’ what they really are; prostitutes. Isn’t prostitution illegal in this country? Shouldn’t these women be held up in court? At the end of the day, they are having sex for money. Yet, the sport stars aren’t the one paying the bill, it’s the tabloids. Should we question the tabloids hold over these women? This celebrity driven society, in which newspapers are able to put forward an ideology in which it’s acceptable for females to sleep with married men, as a way to sell a story to further line the pockets of newspaper owners, no matter how many lives are ruined in the aftermath. For us readers it’s something to look at and gossip about for a couple of minutes, for the ones involved it never ends, but next week we’re reading about the next footballer that’s been fucking around, literally. Yet, what about last weeks headliner? That’s old news to us now, fuck him and his failed marriage, bring on the next two-timing cunt and hoe-bag that’d lick a homeless man’s nuts for a couple of copper coins, parade them on the front page and let us ogle at their disgraceful actions, then fuck them off and bring us someone else. Our shitty relationships seem imperial to theirs and they’re rich. Hooray for us.

MSN; Mocking Stupid Noobs

I was recently stupid enough to accept someone I didn’t know on MSN, this is the transcript of our conversation;

Ida: hi
...[Ben]...: Who the fuck are you?
Ida: hi
Ida: how are you today?
...[Ben]...: Not great, I’ve just found out that a priceless family heirloom is actually worthless as it’s made out of cheese not gold, so I’m pretty torn up at the minute. In fact I think I might commit suicide.
Ida: my name is kaylee I’m doing great today I’m 21 yrs old how old are you?
...[Ben]...: Hold on ... “kaylee”, why is your MSN name Ida? How the fuck do you get “Ida” from “kaylee”? And I don’t believe I asked you how you were doing; I believe I was complaining about my priceless family heirloom. And why aren’t you asking me my name? I know my MSN name is “...[Ben]...” but using your logic of picking MSN names, my real name might be “Patrick” or “Osama”! And why do want to know my age? Is this the fucking Spanish inquisition?
Ida: listen hun, I am about to start my webcam show with jen, come chat me there in my chat room? We can cyber, I will get naked if u do..lol!
...[Ben]...: Hey bitch! Answer my questions! We’re not even chatting now, you’re just talking at me! We’re not married you know, this isn’t a relationship; you can’t just talk at me! WTF!?!?! You want me to get naked, I’m all for the empowerment of women, but that’s a bit forward isn’t it? At least take me out first!
Ida: I can show u how to watch for free if u promise not to tell anyone else how to do it??? PLEASE:-$
...[Ben]...: ... erm ... by turning on your webcam on MSN?
Ida: well since its free the law that u gotta be 18 (nudity involved), u have to sign up with a credit card for age verification! BUT .. Once you are inside, just clikc on “Webcams” let me know what name you use to sign in with so I know it is you babe [website] fill out the bottom of the page then fill out the next page as well and u can see me live for free!
...[Ben]...: Look, I just suggested that you turn your webcam on while ur on MSN, that way I can view for free, but you completely ignored me. I’m starting to wonder if you want me to jerk off to you. Look I understand that you haven’t been granted with much intelligence, seeing as you’re selling yourself online like some cyber prostitute and you also spelled ‘click’ incorrectly. And how exactly does a credit card prove I’m old enough? What if I stole my dad’s? What if I wasn’t hold enough, what if I was only 9? What if you were a man saying these sorts of things to a 9 year old girl, you’d be locked up you fucking perv!
Ida: Please dont mention anything about that in the chatroom once u get in ok? :-$
...[Ben]...: Fuck you bitch, I’m telling the world.
Ida: OH SHIT .. k I am late to start my show, I gotta get off msn ... I will see ya inside my chatroom babe .. remember not to mention that I am upgrading u for free... You can use your msn name to sign in so I know it is you ..
...[Ben]...: Look kaylee/Ida, your parents must be ashamed of you. Selling yourself to randomers on MSN, they probably had high hopes for you. Now look at you, begging strangers to watch you strip for free no less. Yes, sex sells, but not if you’re giving it away for free. You dirty little hoe bag!
Ida: AUTO-RESPONSE: hey just in the middle of my free webcam show if you want to watch click the link [website]
...[Ben]...: No thanks, I’ve got 20GB of Lily Thai on my PC, so I’m fine.
Ida: AUTO-RESPONSE: hey just in the middle of my free webcam show if you want to watch click the link [website]