Jason Statham is not a man, nor is he a human being. He transcends the categorization of mere mortal, with the ability to shape worlds and break hearts with his fists.

"Statham"

This former footballer/actor/super-lover has a mythos that spans beyond human cognition, on the level of time travel, black holes and European carry-alls. A few brave souls exchanged their lives for the ability to comprehend that which is Statham, and selections from the sagely annal, Variety Magazine, are deciphered — with the help of a Stathamian sociologist simply known as “Arran” — from an otherworldly language of stick figures engaging in violence and strong sexual content:

Excerpts from Book XII:

Statham only has two emotions: relaxed and massacre. When Statham is in the mood for sex, many wonder if he is relaxed or ready for massacre. While Statham clearly is never nervous before coitus, he will tear that ass up something chronic. It’s not a literal massacre, but it’s close.

His tearing up of ass is like him imagining himself brutally beating up a bad guy within an inch of their life — but with his penis. Ultimately, Statham is a tender lover, but you may not walk right for at least a year. This is why Statham is unable to keep a lover for more than a day.

Statham, about to "tear that ass up."

Excerpts from Book XXIV:

Statham’s testosterone-powered seed overwhelm the ovaries so much that their reproductive systems hibernate to recover. It’s what gynecologists have dubbed the “Statham Effect.” It’s also why Statham doesn’t have known offspring, for no Earthly woman has the reproductive organs strong enough to handle the onslaught of Statham’s seed, let alone allow one to fertilize an egg without exploding.

In the unlikely event that a woman’s egg was fertilized with Statham’s sperm, she wouldn’t be able to carry a Statham child to term; the fetus would punch its way out of the womb within a month. This has not deterred many women from trying, though. Unfortunately, the result is always the same: the baby punches its way out, utters “Let’s get CRANKED,” and then proceeds to try and have sex with the midwife. Fortunately, Statham himself has always been there to stop this by killing the baby with a single karate kick to the sternum.

Statham, winding up to kick-kill another heir to the Statham throne.

When the baby attempts to sex the midwife, it kills her with its powerful thighs and the translated cries of “I’d like to offer you one: permanently disabled!” Statham, seeing the threat that the baby poses to his throne of ruler of Fuck City, kills the baby, yells at the dying corpse, “Fuck your mother! I let boss know you shit in Superman’s stomach. Dumb ass!” and flees the scene.

Excerpts from Book XXVIII:

The women that attempt to have sex with Statham are not bright, nor know how to navigate the internet to read the detailed reports of Statham’s seed shutting down their reproductive systems. This is how Statham likes it.

However, with celebrity-obsessed television show Entertainment Tonight — due to an extraordinary and unexpected piece of journalism — linking the trail of dead babies and midwives to Statham, he decides to relocate to a place where the women are gorgeous and don’t know how to use the internet and television: Croatia.

While Statham hatches a plan to eliminate the threat of trashy entertainment television like Entertainment Tonight, he spends his time manipulating his seed to not create life. He tests it by tearing that ass up of every Croatian women he deems “fuckable within an inch of their life.” His plan almost works.

The world, of course, is somehow unaware that Statham is actually immortal – that Statham is everliving. Statham still decides to keep his eternal status a secret just to fuck with everyone, as due to his extreme intelligence he regards anyone with an IQ under 364 as “a dopey cunt.”

Statham, applauding a retrospective of his carnal exploits.

Excerpts from Book XXX:

As another ripping gag, he decides to fuck Italy. Not all the women in Italy: the actual country.

The fucking of Italy plunges the country underwater — a brilliant maneuver as the genetic makeup of Italian women are the strongest to give life to a Statham that could withstand the abuse that the elder Statham can give.

What Statham didn’t know was that the future mother of his child, Lady GaGa, was of Italian and Martian descent. (Anthropologists are undecided on GaGa’s Italian heritage.) Upon meeting GaGa at a party in Fuck City, he was intrigued by her brazen fashion and extraterrestrial mannerism, wanting immediately to mount her like a Leonardo da Vinci painting in the Louvre Museum.

Lady GaGa, mother to Statham's seven sons.

As he sawed into her like a jackhammer on pavement, his seed was in for the fight of its life, warring with GaGa’s eggs for hours upon end until they burst through with their tiny fists and feet. The division of cells, creating life, were fought with similar vigor, fighting tooth and nail to give life to the growing Stathams in GaGa’s womb — equipped for carrying strong warriors… and other things…

Excerpts from Book XXXVII:

As Statham stared down the remains of the evil clone of Gabriel Yulaw, a bigger threat loomed on the horizon.

There were seven children in their beginning stages of life, each representing the very threat to Statham’s throne of King Shit of Fuck Mountain of Fuck City, and each would have to come out with guns-a-blazing from the very moment of their human lives — which they would.

As cited in Book XXXI, Passages 24-31:

Statham’s seed is especially notable in the field of biology, because in the incredibly rare case when a woman (such as Lady GaGa) has a womb strong enough to carry a miniature Statham to full term, it actually develops a pair of Glock 9mm pistols during the gestation period – one in each hand. The child is also born with the preternatural ability to wield said firearms with such skill that it makes Lee Harvey Oswald look like a mere patsy. (Indeed, legend has it that the Kennedy assassination was actually carried out by a spawn of Statham lost in the space-time continuum — another natural ability of junior Stathams being the bending of said continuum to their whims — but that is another tale entirely, referenced in Statham 17:29.)

On the predestined day that GaGa was ordained to give birth to Statham’s children, she flew to the remains of Italy and had a ceremonial water birth. The seven Stathams jump-kicked their way out of their restrictive womb, shouting “Don’t pop a blood vessel, you little penis!” to their birth mother, scattering around the world by swimming.

Lady GaGa, in the beginning stages of birthing the children of previous mate Kermit the Frog.

This did not please Statham, who until then was unaware of the survival of the children to term because of GaGa’s lead-clad womb and inexpressive Poker Face. He sensed a disturbance that was brought about the children’s births, and he knew that he had to bring them to their end. But he would need help, for even he could not kill seven Statham’s at once. He turned to the one man who could not feel pain — remembering the wise words of one scholarly man: “pain don’t hurt.”

He dug up the remains of Patrick “Dalton” Swayze.

Excerpts from Book XXXIX:

Statham rejuvenated Swayze with the magical words “Get up, you daft cocksucker!”, causing the corpse of Swayze to reanimate just to chastise Statham over the fact that the phrase “cocksucker” is merely “two nouns combined to elicit a response.” Statham knew that he had found the only being completely fucking hardcore enough to team up with.

After being informed of the situation with the Seven Sons of Statham, Swayze opined “It’ll get worse before it gets better.” Statham, humbled (as much as he could possibly be) by the only man to ever star in a movie more awesome than one of his own, had to agree.

And thus the greatest, toughest, mostest awesomest duo in recorded human history (narrowly edging out Hall and Oates) was formed with a single goal: seek and destroy the Seven Sons.

Flickr reorganised my photo’s & broke picture links….

So… let’s try again – and this time with an update & more pictures!

I was on the lookout for some captioned t-shirts recently and just couldn’t find what I wanted. In the end I found a place that allows you to design your own… and sell them if you want.

Well, I purchased the one I wanted (after designing it…) – and once it arrived I was impressed by the print quality and the actual quality of the t-shirt. I then went back to the store and looked into how to sell my designs, after all, why not?

Since then I have added several designs – including a mug and notebook case to go with all the shirts…

If you like any of them, go to http://sometimespace.spreadshirt.co.uk/ and have a shop around… if you can’t find what you want, I might be able to sort something out for you (if you don’t want to do it yourself!).

I started out with some shooting orientated ones and then added a few more various others…These are a few of the designs…

SOMETIMESPACE – THE SHOP

Click the shop link above to buy any of the items below! These designs are on shirts, bags, mugs, bumper stickers…. Go for it! Alex needs new shoes!

…in contrast to my usual necessary misogyny.

It was just gross; he could do so much better. I see this so often. I think I was originally going somewhere better with this post. Oh well.

So my husband went hunting this morning. He’s only been gone a couple hours. My goal today was to clean while he was gone. Of course that hasn’t happened. All I have been able to do today is talk online to a couple big pervs I talk to and watch porn.

All I can think of right now is getting fucked. I’m going to be having an experience in the next couple months and it’s all I can think about. Man.

I wish I could go a day without thinking of cock. Cock in my pussy. Cock in my mouth. Multiple cocks. One cock. All I want is sex. I almost feel I need a pill or something to keep me from thinking of such things.

I have masturbated 5 times already and its not even noon. Everytime I start to think about multiple men fucking me, fucking my face, spanking me, pulling my hair and just using me, I rip off my pants and shove my dildo in my cunt. I’m sore. I’m tired. I know nothing is going to get done today. It sucks.

Cock. Sex. Fuck. Pussy. Cum. 5 of my favorite words. Man its gonna be a long day…

There is something about the peaceful feeling I get when I’m sick. Not that I enjoy being sick, but it forces my body to relax. I also get very aroused when I’m sick. I know I shouldn’t expend the energy to get myself off, but I have to.

Last night, while in bed, fighting strep throat, I started thinking about Stephen licking and fucking me. It had been awhile since we had fucked so I’m all primed to jump on my boy toy. I thought about his gorgeous mouth licking my soaked pussy while I begged him not to make me cum. He refused and he said, “I’m taking it anyway.”

My body started to gently writhe, thinking about him touching my body and staring at me with those eyes. I slipped my hand down into my pants and gently rubbed my clit. In my head, I saw him fucking me with his big cock, from behind. He is holding my shoulders and breathing hard as he explodes, deep inside of me, filling me with all of his deliciousness.

I buck my hips as I start to cum. But once is never enough for me. I shiver and shake two more times before my body gives up.

I’m exhausted. And I sleep gorgeously!

Nice mac…

Amongst all the horror stories of the MPs’ expenses scandal earlier this year, one in particular stuck out with all the prominence of a turd in the middle of a brand new white carpet.

Frank Cook – Labour MP for Stockton North – emerged as possibly the tightest cunt (and that’s not a virtue in a bloke before you get too excited) when it transpired that he claimed for a £5 donation at a Battle of Britain memorial service. Of course, it was later stated that it was claimed for due to “a clerical error”, which you can choose to believe or not. My own view hasn’t changed. If it was claimed for – even in error – then it must have been noted down somewhere – which rather fucks up the notion of it being a charitable gesture. Why record a charitable gift at all unless you intend to claw the money back? And – for fuck’s sake – a poxy fiver?

Now, this tight cunt is in the news again – over a fridge.

Cook is to appeal against repayment of £600 for a fridge claimed for on expenses.

Mr Cook refused to say why he was appealing the decision to repay the cash or give details of the purchase of the fridge.

He said: “I will be submitting my appeal.”

So, after trying to claim back a £5 donation, and a subsequent over-claim of a grand’s worth of council tax, this cunt wants us to pay for his bastard fridge – a very nice one, too, at £600…

Not content with having to pay back what he’s screwed out of the taxpayer, Cook wants to contest the repayment and make us pay for his lovely fridge.

Well, fuck you, Cook – you egregious troughing cunt.

The sooner the people of Stockton tell you to fuck off, the better.

I’ll be completely honest with you, we’ve never had much interest in making a recording diary because we have a sort of mystique or some shit about us. It makes us a bit more interesting I guess.

We just wanna say that it took us/me over 4 months to write one song and all hope was lost until last night when I finally wrote the words transforming Electro Song Mk 2.0 into Morbidly Obtuse (what will probably be the opener for album 2 probably with the same name).

As soon as some proper vocals are recorded and we fine tune it all we should be onto a belter!

Also, in some news that’s slightly related I’ve heard a couple of the songs Honey Bee is working on for his next release which is tentatively called Straight Outta Elgin - it’s going to have a bit of rap and other things in it.

HB’s also been working on a metal record called 666: Number of the Bee but not much seems to be happening (from what I’ve heard).

In other Death O’Connor news we’re going to be doing a couple of interviews in the new year and also some remixes of songs by a couple of our friends (I know, we don’t really have friends!).

The Xmas EP is still available for listening to and downloading (it should be) on our myspace page at www.myspace.com/deathohconnor.

my friend butterface, another cunt

Kelli thought it would be fun to post the pic of a butterface/cunt like herself. She has said she actually wants to be a lower cunt then Kelli. Well she has her work cut out for her. In Kelli’s words, “This is my friend charlotte, a self admitted cunt just like myself, knows her mouth must make up for her avg at best looks.”

Goodness, my thoughts on the emptiness of female friendships is becoming the staple of this blog in the way the theory of evolution binds all of biology. That’s cool though; parsimony is our friend.

To recap on why this is: Friendships, for women, are just something to do between guys.

 Via Wow Report

HT: Slog

just when it looks like all hope is lost in cbus, “God” finds a way to work a miracle.  what am i talking about?  well, melissa starker, a cowtown douchebagette, is leaving the shitty Alive newspaper.

•••

i’m not sure who is replacing her and i really don’t give a shit because there can’t be a WORSE arts editor than ms. starker.  she did absolutely NOTHING for garnering support for local artists.  sure, she wrote articles about some, but since NO ONE reads that shitty newspaper it didn’t really do much for the artists she wrote about.  she was in position to help build columbus’ art community, but lacked all the skills required to such an ambitious thing.

here’s her departing letter she wrote on her blog (i love the hyperbolic bullshit and fake gratitude she sprinkles throughout):

•••

damn, i guess we won’t be seeing any more of these gems starring ms. starker and her douchebag boss:

•••

I cut this girl, then she cut me back.

We cut each other, and the blot clot stank.

I cut your mother cos she fucked my dad

I stabbed her face in and I twisted her cunt

Now she’s a faggot cos I shaved off her eyes,.

test this nigga

It’s much harder for foreign girls to integrate in to Western societies than foreign guys. I strongly suspect this goes for all societies, but I don’t have enough experience to be sure. This holds especially true if the foreign girl looks different, i.e. is Asian or something.

I don’t really know why this is.

Ok, I am not fucking around here. You are going to listen to me or I am going to reach up your cunt, tear out your cervix and use it as a scrunchy to keep my hair out of my face while I beat your throat with a salt lick and my associates double-team your asshole. Do I make myself clear? (By the way, if you’re into that sort of thing, see the lady with the clipboard to make an appointment.)

Stop making stupid websites that show up at the top of my Google search and have nothing to do with the query at hand. Want to write poetry about finding your dad with a belt around his neck and a tube sock full of bloody jizz, then post it on Deviant Art so we can all heckle you? Don’t slap unrelated tags on it, like “tits” or “genocide.” If I click a link promising fetus soup recipes and end up looking at your white-screen-Times-New-Roman whining, I am hacking the site to include your name, address, phone number, and preference for rough gay sex. When I search, I expect relevant material.

Better yet, just stop making your own sites. If you have a business, promote it. If you have a collection of previously-unreleased information of import: lyrics to good songs, new studies about the effect of beer on breast tissue, photos of bigfoot, knock yourself out. With a brick. But make sure you hire a designer to put it together. Don’t just link sparkly ponies from MySpace for the banner and turn your Helvetica purple. It’s like flinging a used tampon at the wall of the mighty Internet and calling it art. Fuck you, Tom Kay.

And if you have a blog, erase it. Nobody gives half a shit about what you think. My opinion is the only one that counts and my loyal subjects will not stray from the path I have set down from them. Mostly because they know what’s good for them or they’re too stupid to escape the peer pressure. Oh, except these guys. Because nachos are cool. Everyone else, get the fuck out of the blogosphere. And stop calling it the “blogosphere.” It’s even more pathetic than your attempts to push “turnips” as a word. As far as 1972 Scrabble knows, it’s not. And antique Scrabble is the Google of linguistics.

We can still keep the “social networking” sites. I allow this because I love seeing young people post photos of themselves getting it on with a furry at a Dollar Tree after hours because some guy named “Skeet” has an extra key, thus locking themselves into an eternity of burger-flipping. Plus, it gives me the chance to set up anonymous gangbangs with guys named Skeet and their muskrat-costume-loving friends. Everyone wins. And by “everyone,” I mean “everyone who matters,” and by that, I mean “me.”

she is a great hand-lettering artist whom you’ve probably heard of.
see more of her work here.

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In my original post about Girls Without Dads I wondered (about why they’re trouble) if,

Perhaps it’s a genetic thing? The reason their fathers are gone is because their mothers are cunts, and they’ve inherited the cuntitude? Or, I suppose, they could have inherited it from their fathers.

This post at gene expression (posted a week after my musings, thankyouverymuch) relays that,

Children raised without a biological father in the household have earlier average ages of first sexual intercourse than children raised in father-present households. Competing theoretical perspectives have attributed this either to effects of father absence on socialization and physical maturation or to nonrandom selection of children predisposed for early sexual intercourse into father-absent households. Genetically informative analyses of the children of sister dyads (N = 1,382, aged 14-21 years) support the selection hypothesis: This association seems attributable to confounded risks, most likely genetic in origin, which correlated both with likelihood of father absence and early sexual behavior. This holds implications for environmental theories of maturation and suggests that previous research may have inadvertently overestimated the role of family structure in reproductive maturation.

As others around here have found, it’s a buzz when science confirms something you’ve predicted. (Well, I kind of predicted it.)

I say this because I’ve known many girls without dads (some I’ve been involved with) and they really do take after their mothers in a way which would make blaming their fathers’ genes superfluous.

We’re off to see the wizard!

Someone has been a VERY naughty boy.  Yes, SH I caught you red handed in my clothes hamper.  You were standing over a pile of my dirty panties and playing with yourself!  What a twisted little boy you’ve become!  You just can’t stop touching that teeny, tiny little prick can you?

Didn’t Mommy warn what would happen if you kept playing with yourself?  Didn’t I tell you that obsessing over dirty underwear would make you wet your bed!  How dare you leave messes for Mommy to clean up!  Well I am going to have to teach you a lesson, baby boy.  This is going to hurt you a lot more than it is going to hurt me.

You will put on that short pink dress that is 2 sizes to small.  Mommy is going to powder you and diaper you and take you to the sex toy party were all my friends will see what a horribly horny little girly whore you are!  I will watch with delight as the room reacts with laughter as you sit on the floor, your little legs spread and you hand in that naughty little diaper!

You want to fuck Mommy’s cunt but Mommy can’t feel a thing!  Not even when Mommy gets on top and rubs on it with her slick pussy.  There’s not enough for Mommy so she has to fuck the toys!

What a dirty little girly slut you are SH!  Can’t wait to play again!

 Dommy Elaine  1 877 856 W I L D

I’ve been reading Guido Fawkes’ blog for a while and today I will attempt to diagnose the condition of being Guido Fawkes. He claims to be a libertarian yet intermittently supports the Conservative Party – a party he has a highly schizophrenic relationship with since they tried to ban all his lovely parties back in the day. Perhaps he supports them out of pragmatism, which is another way of saying, perhaps he supports them because they might win. This would certainly explain why he doesn’t go for the Lib Dems.

As an aside, he is under the delusion – and this is not unique to him – that we currently have a left wing government. Perhaps it is forgiveable gibberish, since I’ve even met a few New Labourites who inexplicably believed themselves to be left wing, but it is undoubtedly a sign of Weak Mental Faculties whoever believes it. Either that or there is something in the water round Westminster way – acid, or perhaps something really strong like DMT.

Meanwhile Guido is against authoritarianism but admits to adopting a ‘tabloid style’ in his postings – a style that has developed over the years largely in order to transmit the crazed authoritarian fantasies of journalists intent on rousing authoritarian tendencies in their readers (ban this, ban that, make a register of them, hang them, throw them out, LOCK EM ALL UP AND THROW AWAY THE KEY). The way it works is to bypass any attempt at reason or good argument in favour of SENSATION and RAGE, thus justifying any exercise of power that follows. Guido doesn’t seem to notice the purpose of the style he has adopted, or if he notices he doesn’t care, which makes me wonder how deep his libertarianism runs.

Above all however, his claims to being libertarian are constantly betrayed by his attempts to stay embedded in the Westminster Village, as close to power as he can get. It is clear he gets some strange thrill from being around the movers and shakers, even though according to his philosophy, they should not be moving and shaking at all but should be leaving the moving and shaking up to the people.

Where does this leave us with the diagnosis? the man is so mentally confused, so incoherent in his view of the world and so dedicated to the cause of…whatever it is he feels like this week, that his case is a tough one. However the Sheikh has seen cases like it before. It is a matter of his heart rebelling against his head. Intellectually he wants to be a libertarian, but his heart is infatuated with the idea of power, of being close to power, of power over his readers, of power over the politicians he pretends to despise but secretly wants to be, of power that could one day be his to do with as he wishes. He is a hypocrite of the highest order and plays to a gallery of politics-watchers so inured to hypocrites that they have no idea how to spot one any more.

In short, I diagnose Guido Fawkes with being a cunt. There is no known cure.

There is something that is thrilling about fucking a complete stranger.  I haven’t done this in a LONG time (read – months and months and months), I started thinking about the rush it gave me.  Now I’m not talking about picking someone up, randomly, off of a street corner.  I’m talking about meeting someone for the first time – wherever that may be, talking very briefly and then ending up naked in the front seat of someone’s car.

You explore each other’s bodies with your hands, trying to feel what you couldn’t see under their clothes.  It’s thrilling.  You are tearing each other apart, trying to figure out a way to get situated in a small space and starting to explore each other’s nether regions.  Sweat rolls down your back as you finally get to mount the gem in his pants.  You ride his cock like a teenager about to get caught by her daddy.  You are trying to keep your voices down so the folks getting into the car next to you don’t bust you.  Then you cum and he cums.  And the thrill is gone.  For the moment.

I have begun subscribing to another kind of thrill.  The thrill of connection. 

You can still have the rush and the excitement – except without the stranger.  I have found it to be a much more satisfying arrangement.

So. I post ads on Craigslist a lot. I love posting ads in the adult section. I love reading all of the emails from perverted men. I do meet one on occassion. I admit it. I don’t see anything wrong with it. People who go to bars pick up random people to fuck so I don’t see any difference. Some of them that reply are truly demented. Some of the men post some off the wall sexual shit and it turns me on to know that these dirty men want to use my body.

I love the thought of some stranger putting me on his knees and making me suck his cock. I love the thought of some stranger having 3 other men in his house and making me suck their cocks as well. Having all those men face fuck me and shove their cocks in my pussy until it hurt. Using my holes as their personal play toys.

I also love the thought of 2 of those men shoving 2 of their cocks in my pussy at the same time. I have a desire to be stretched. To walk away from getting fucked asking myself…”Damn did I really let them to do that to me?” I want to walk away feeling that I was a total slut for them. That my body make them feel good and I am nothing but their personal fuck toy.

I know I’m sick. But I like what I like. I have so many thoughts throughout the day about being just totally abused like a fucking sex slave. Just used over and over and over again. Slapped, spanked, choked. Just fucking destroyed.

Am I Sick?