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Thứ Tư, 24 tháng 9, 2014

Please Excuse My Parking Fine...


Recently, 
Leichhardt Council issued me a penalty notice for disobeying a no-stopping sign. I love the municipality of Leichhardt and would never break their rules intentionally. Unfortunately, I was forced to park in a forbidden space, due to a medical emergency. I hope this letter clears up the misunderstanding.

Dear Mayor Byrne, Leichhardt Municipal Council, and the State Debt Recovery Office,

On 30th July 2013, between 11:48am and 11:50am (presumably 11:49am), I was issued with a $236 penalty notice for disobeying a no-stopping sign in the delightful inner-west hamlet of Rozelle. As embarrassing as it is, I'm writing to see if I may be excused from paying the fine, on the grounds that I was suffering from violently explosive diarrhoea at the time.
The evening before the fine was issued, I ordered a beef vindaloo from a local Indian restaurant - a mistake I vehemently regret. Later that night my stomach started ferociously churning, which sounded like Chewbacca being sodomised by a jackhammer. As you can imagine, this was not a pleasant sensation.
Then came the sweating. Like Patrick Ewing in the fourth quarter, a saline waterfall of perspiration cascaded from every pore on my dehydrated body. This was followed by a sudden wave of staggering nausea. In fact, it was the exact same feeling I experienced when someone showed me the 2 Girls 1 Cup video. Have you seen it? If not, I wouldn't Google it unless you're a hardcore scat fetishist. It's really gross.

Before I could make it to the toilet, I projectile vomited a fiery torrent of curried magma across my bedroom. The spicy tsunami destroyed everything in its path, including my Wests Tigers jersey, which I often wear to display how proud I am to live in this superb municipality. Eventually I reached the bathroom, where I spent the remainder of the night rapidly deploying thousands of chocolate skydivers into a porcelain drop-zone, whilst shaking like Muhammad Ali on a roller coaster.
When I woke up the following morning, I felt like the entire volume of the Ganges had passed through my emaciated torso. I needed three things: hydration, Imodium and a butt-plug, so I dragged myself to the car and drove to Rozelle, where I knew I could get at least two of these items.

As I entered Rozelle, the sudden urge to evacuate my bowels overcame me once again. I parked in the first vacant space I saw and swiftly exited my vehicle. Somehow, I remembered that a ticket is required to claim the generous 30-minute free parking that you bestow upon your beloved citizens. I flagged down a passing hipster on a fixed-gear bicycle and asked if he'd collect the ticket for me. I don't normally interact with hipsters, but this was a crisis. Thankfully he stopped riding, put his satchel of organic groceries down, and placed a ticket on my dashboard.
As you can see, the time matches that of the penalty notice. Don't you think it's amazing that I had the presence of mind to remember a ticket in the midst of such a frenzied gastrointestinal emergency? Me too. However, I must say there are a couple of things I don't understand about this particular 'no-parking' space. Firstly, why is a ticket machine located directly next to it? And secondly, why is it identical to all the others in the area? It's very confusing. 

When I arrived back at the car, the parking inspector informed me that the spot is allocated to Australia Post between certain hours. He also said that "Nobody sees the sign" and "It happens all the time." Now, I'm not a smart man by any means, but I think I may have a solution to avoid this scenario reoccurring. How about painting red or yellow lines across the space, or perhaps the words "AUSTRALIA POST, SO DON'T FUCKING PARK HERE!" in big, bold letters? Oh, and relocating the ticket machine next to ANY other space but the prohibited one would also be favourable.

One of my friends told me there's no way you'll do any of those things, because you're a bunch of greedy, revenue-raising wankers. I told him to shut up, as I know there's no way the upstanding Leichhardt Councillors would behave in that manner. By the way, he's no longer my friend. Anyway, thank you so much for your time. Please find it in your benevolent hearts to forgive my minor indiscretion. I promise never to eat beef vindaloo again.

The kindest of regards,

Rich Wisken.

P.S. I hope you like the envelope I sent this letter in. I really, really love the municipality of Leichhardt!


*UPDATE*

It didn't work...




Recently, 
Leichhardt Council issued me a penalty notice for disobeying a no-stopping sign. I love the municipality of Leichhardt and would never break their rules intentionally. Unfortunately, I was forced to park in a forbidden space, due to a medical emergency. I hope this letter clears up the misunderstanding.

Dear Mayor Byrne, Leichhardt Municipal Council, and the State Debt Recovery Office,

On 30th July 2013, between 11:48am and 11:50am (presumably 11:49am), I was issued with a $236 penalty notice for disobeying a no-stopping sign in the delightful inner-west hamlet of Rozelle. As embarrassing as it is, I'm writing to see if I may be excused from paying the fine, on the grounds that I was suffering from violently explosive diarrhoea at the time.
The evening before the fine was issued, I ordered a beef vindaloo from a local Indian restaurant - a mistake I vehemently regret. Later that night my stomach started ferociously churning, which sounded like Chewbacca being sodomised by a jackhammer. As you can imagine, this was not a pleasant sensation.
Then came the sweating. Like Patrick Ewing in the fourth quarter, a saline waterfall of perspiration cascaded from every pore on my dehydrated body. This was followed by a sudden wave of staggering nausea. In fact, it was the exact same feeling I experienced when someone showed me the 2 Girls 1 Cup video. Have you seen it? If not, I wouldn't Google it unless you're a hardcore scat fetishist. It's really gross.

Before I could make it to the toilet, I projectile vomited a fiery torrent of curried magma across my bedroom. The spicy tsunami destroyed everything in its path, including my Wests Tigers jersey, which I often wear to display how proud I am to live in this superb municipality. Eventually I reached the bathroom, where I spent the remainder of the night rapidly deploying thousands of chocolate skydivers into a porcelain drop-zone, whilst shaking like Muhammad Ali on a roller coaster.
When I woke up the following morning, I felt like the entire volume of the Ganges had passed through my emaciated torso. I needed three things: hydration, Imodium and a butt-plug, so I dragged myself to the car and drove to Rozelle, where I knew I could get at least two of these items.

As I entered Rozelle, the sudden urge to evacuate my bowels overcame me once again. I parked in the first vacant space I saw and swiftly exited my vehicle. Somehow, I remembered that a ticket is required to claim the generous 30-minute free parking that you bestow upon your beloved citizens. I flagged down a passing hipster on a fixed-gear bicycle and asked if he'd collect the ticket for me. I don't normally interact with hipsters, but this was a crisis. Thankfully he stopped riding, put his satchel of organic groceries down, and placed a ticket on my dashboard.
As you can see, the time matches that of the penalty notice. Don't you think it's amazing that I had the presence of mind to remember a ticket in the midst of such a frenzied gastrointestinal emergency? Me too. However, I must say there are a couple of things I don't understand about this particular 'no-parking' space. Firstly, why is a ticket machine located directly next to it? And secondly, why is it identical to all the others in the area? It's very confusing. 

When I arrived back at the car, the parking inspector informed me that the spot is allocated to Australia Post between certain hours. He also said that "Nobody sees the sign" and "It happens all the time." Now, I'm not a smart man by any means, but I think I may have a solution to avoid this scenario reoccurring. How about painting red or yellow lines across the space, or perhaps the words "AUSTRALIA POST, SO DON'T FUCKING PARK HERE!" in big, bold letters? Oh, and relocating the ticket machine next to ANY other space but the prohibited one would also be favourable.

One of my friends told me there's no way you'll do any of those things, because you're a bunch of greedy, revenue-raising wankers. I told him to shut up, as I know there's no way the upstanding Leichhardt Councillors would behave in that manner. By the way, he's no longer my friend. Anyway, thank you so much for your time. Please find it in your benevolent hearts to forgive my minor indiscretion. I promise never to eat beef vindaloo again.

The kindest of regards,

Rich Wisken.

P.S. I hope you like the envelope I sent this letter in. I really, really love the municipality of Leichhardt!


*UPDATE*

It didn't work...


Election Campaign Ad #2


Kevin Rudd and Tony Abbott don’t like boats... or basic human rights. They like slogans, and will do whatever it takes to “Stop the Boats.” Kev and Tony are engaging in a game of xenophobic one-upmanship, aimed at stopping asylum seekers reaching our shores. Why? Because fuck refugees, that's why! Rudd is sending them to Papua New Guinea. Abbott wants to tow them back to Indonesia. Who will win? Whose “We grew here, you blew here” policy will reign supreme?




Kevin Rudd and Tony Abbott don’t like boats... or basic human rights. They like slogans, and will do whatever it takes to “Stop the Boats.” Kev and Tony are engaging in a game of xenophobic one-upmanship, aimed at stopping asylum seekers reaching our shores. Why? Because fuck refugees, that's why! Rudd is sending them to Papua New Guinea. Abbott wants to tow them back to Indonesia. Who will win? Whose “We grew here, you blew here” policy will reign supreme?



An Open Letter to Pastor Matt Prater...

Dear Pastor Matt Prater,

Every Monday night at 9:30pm, I sit down with my girlfriend (with whom I'm living in sin) and watch my favourite TV show, Q&A. I very much enjoy watching the punters, pollies and pundits debate the relevant issues of the week. I also really like the host, Tony Jones. Don't you think there's something mesmerising about a handsome, educated silver fox? I just love how the studio lights playfully dance on Tony's glossy platinum locks. One night, I must've been a little too mesmerised, because I dreamt that TJ was a Calvin Klein underwear model. I know, pretty gay, right?

The other reason I watch Q&A, is to see if I can get one of my infantile tweets on the screen, so I can impress a bunch of people I don't know on Twitter. This is pretty difficult, considering there's an average of 21,000 tweets per episode. However, last night I was successful.
Don't you think I was Lucky to have my tweet pop-up just as the Prime Minister was demonstrating his 'crane' technique. I do. When I saw my masterpiece appear on national television, I was happier than George Michael jumping into a sea of penises.
Unfortunately, my feeling of joy was short-lived. When you stood up to ask Kevin Rudd your marriage equality question, I thought to myself, "Who is this attractive, well-built man with a powerful jawline, yet strikingly effeminate disposition?" Then you asked your question... 

Initially, I was disappointed that some human beings still believe that homosexuals should be banned from holy matrimony, because they're repulsive sinners. Then I realised that you're just following the word of your loving, benevolent, understanding, considerate and kind-hearted God (who thinks gays are an abomination, even though he created them) 


Seeing as though the Bible is the word of God, can I assume that you follow it word for word? Surely you don't ignore the parts about murder, slavery, genocide, rape, human sacrifice and child abuse; only to focus on the 'love thy neighbour' bit, do you? That'd be exactly like someone visiting a cherry orchard and picking the best cherries off the trees, leaving the ugly, diseased ones behind. 


In your question to Prime Minister Rudd, you ask "If you call yourself a Christian, why don't you believe the words of Jesus in the Bible?" With that in mind, I'd like to play a little game called "Yes or No." It's easy, I'll ask you five questions and you just have to answer yes, or no. Got it?


1) Is it a sin to eat delicious crispy bacon?

(Leviticus 11:7-8) And the pig, though it has a divided hoof, does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. You must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses; they are unclean for you.

2) Is getting a tattoo a sin? (not including white guys with tribal tatts)

(Leviticus 19:28) Ye shall not make any cuts in your body for the dead nor make any tattoo marks on yourselves: I am the LORD.

3) Will you execute your children if they call you a fuckhead?

(Exodus 21:17) And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death.
  
4) Do you believe that men with mutilated genitals should not enter a house of God?

(Leviticus 19:27) He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD.

5) Is Brokeback Mountain the most FABULOUS movie you've ever seen?

If you answered "No" to ANY of the first four questions, HOW CAN YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN? If you answered "Yes" to question five, would you like to go camping and horse riding with me? If so, I call shotgun on being Heath.


Holy regards,

Rich Wisken


Dear Pastor Matt Prater,


Every Monday night at 9:30pm, I sit down with my girlfriend (with whom I'm living in sin) and watch my favourite TV show, Q&A. I very much enjoy watching the punters, pollies and pundits debate the relevant issues of the week. I also really like the host, Tony Jones. Don't you think there's something mesmerising about a handsome, educated silver fox? I just love how the studio lights playfully dance on Tony's glossy platinum locks. One night, I must've been a little too mesmerised, because I dreamt that TJ was a Calvin Klein underwear model. I know, pretty gay, right?

The other reason I watch Q&A, is to see if I can get one of my infantile tweets on the screen, so I can impress a bunch of people I don't know on Twitter. This is pretty difficult, considering there's an average of 21,000 tweets per episode. However, last night I was successful.
Don't you think I was Lucky to have my tweet pop-up just as the Prime Minister was demonstrating his 'crane' technique. I do. When I saw my masterpiece appear on national television, I was happier than George Michael jumping into a sea of penises.
Unfortunately, my feeling of joy was short-lived. When you stood up to ask Kevin Rudd your marriage equality question, I thought to myself, "Who is this attractive, well-built man with a powerful jawline, yet strikingly effeminate disposition?" Then you asked your question... 

Initially, I was disappointed that some human beings still believe that homosexuals should be banned from holy matrimony, because they're repulsive sinners. Then I realised that you're just following the word of your loving, benevolent, understanding, considerate and kind-hearted God (who thinks gays are an abomination, even though he created them) 


Seeing as though the Bible is the word of God, can I assume that you follow it word for word? Surely you don't ignore the parts about murder, slavery, genocide, rape, human sacrifice and child abuse; only to focus on the 'love thy neighbour' bit, do you? That'd be exactly like someone visiting a cherry orchard and picking the best cherries off the trees, leaving the ugly, diseased ones behind. 


In your question to Prime Minister Rudd, you ask "If you call yourself a Christian, why don't you believe the words of Jesus in the Bible?" With that in mind, I'd like to play a little game called "Yes or No." It's easy, I'll ask you five questions and you just have to answer yes, or no. Got it?


1) Is it a sin to eat delicious crispy bacon?

(Leviticus 11:7-8) And the pig, though it has a divided hoof, does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. You must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses; they are unclean for you.

2) Is getting a tattoo a sin? (not including white guys with tribal tatts)

(Leviticus 19:28) Ye shall not make any cuts in your body for the dead nor make any tattoo marks on yourselves: I am the LORD.

3) Will you execute your children if they call you a fuckhead?

(Exodus 21:17) And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death.
  
4) Do you believe that men with mutilated genitals should not enter a house of God?

(Leviticus 19:27) He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD.

5) Is Brokeback Mountain the most FABULOUS movie you've ever seen?

If you answered "No" to ANY of the first four questions, HOW CAN YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN? If you answered "Yes" to question five, would you like to go camping and horse riding with me? If so, I call shotgun on being Heath.

Holy regards,

Rich Wisken

Thứ Ba, 23 tháng 9, 2014

Inside My Workspace


I recently found out that I'm a finalist in the 2013 Ultrabook Pedestrian Blogster Awards. The Pedestrian team contacted me find out about my workspace...

Hi there,

Congratulations and thank you for being a finalist in the 2013 Ultrabook Pedestrian Blogster Awards! In the lead up to voting closing, we'll be publishing an article on each category and we'd love for you to supply something to include! Your article's topic is: 'Inside My Workspace'. Send us a photograph of your workspace + a little blurb (50-100 words) about it.

Good luck!

Xoxo Team Pedestrian





I recently found out that I'm a finalist in the 2013 Ultrabook Pedestrian Blogster Awards. The Pedestrian team contacted me find out about my workspace...

Hi there,

Congratulations and thank you for being a finalist in the 2013 Ultrabook Pedestrian Blogster Awards! In the lead up to voting closing, we'll be publishing an article on each category and we'd love for you to supply something to include! Your article's topic is: 'Inside My Workspace'. Send us a photograph of your workspace + a little blurb (50-100 words) about it.

Good luck!

Xoxo Team Pedestrian



KFC Zinger Pie Review: Part II


Hello KFC,

I'm responding to your request for a PM, regarding my immature Zinger Pie-arrhoea comment on your Facebook page. Firstly, I'd like to apologise for being so silly.
My Zinger Pie review may have seemed somewhat harsh, but please don't take it the wrong way. I think you've been doing a stellar job assisting Australia's Type 2 diabetes epidemic. However, smothering shredded factory-farmed chicken in fatty afterbirth, then baking it into an insipid pastry sarcophagus just seems a little careless. Frankly, I think we deserve better. Did you know that Australia is ONLY the fifth fattest nation on Earth? I know, really embarrassing. While I truly appreciate your efforts to get us to the top of the list, I just don't think the Zinger Pie has what it takes to get us there...
Just have a look at it. Personally, I think your food stylist should've gone to Specsavers, unless of course, they were going for the "weeping vagina on a poster in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic" look. Honestly, if someone asked me to draw Paris Hilton's vulva, It'd look eerily similar to this, but with more rust-coloured discharge... and more penises in it.

I'm guessing that the product development team in charge of this monstrosity, consisted of two stoners debating which foodstuff most effectively tames the munchies - pies or KFC. As fast-food pioneers, surely you can come up with better ideas than this. I mean, it's not exactly groundbreaking is it? It's just a pie, that seems to have somehow contracted the Ebola virus. What happened to the innovative concepts, like serving 21 pieces of fried chicken in a bucket, and the Double Down, or as I like the call it, the "FUCK YOU INSULIN!" burger.

Come to think of it, my portrait of Paris' genitals would probably look more like this one. I bet she's had a few "Double Downs", know what I'm saying? Anyway, sorry for jabbering on all this time. What was it that you wanted to chat about?

Cheers,


Rich Wisken.




Hello KFC,


I'm responding to your request for a PM, regarding my immature Zinger Pie-arrhoea comment on your Facebook page. Firstly, I'd like to apologise for being so silly.
My Zinger Pie review may have seemed somewhat harsh, but please don't take it the wrong way. I think you've been doing a stellar job assisting Australia's Type 2 diabetes epidemic. However, smothering shredded factory-farmed chicken in fatty afterbirth, then baking it into an insipid pastry sarcophagus just seems a little careless. Frankly, I think we deserve better. Did you know that Australia is ONLY the fifth fattest nation on Earth? I know, really embarrassing. While I truly appreciate your efforts to get us to the top of the list, I just don't think the Zinger Pie has what it takes to get us there...
Just have a look at it. Personally, I think your food stylist should've gone to Specsavers, unless of course, they were going for the "weeping vagina on a poster in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic" look. Honestly, if someone asked me to draw Paris Hilton's vulva, It'd look eerily similar to this, but with more rust-coloured discharge... and more penises in it.

I'm guessing that the product development team in charge of this monstrosity, consisted of two stoners debating which foodstuff most effectively tames the munchies - pies or KFC. As fast-food pioneers, surely you can come up with better ideas than this. I mean, it's not exactly groundbreaking is it? It's just a pie, that seems to have somehow contracted the Ebola virus. What happened to the innovative concepts, like serving 21 pieces of fried chicken in a bucket, and the Double Down, or as I like the call it, the "FUCK YOU INSULIN!" burger.

Come to think of it, my portrait of Paris' genitals would probably look more like this one. I bet she's had a few "Double Downs", know what I'm saying? Anyway, sorry for jabbering on all this time. What was it that you wanted to chat about?

Cheers,


Rich Wisken.

KFC Zinger Pie Review: Part I


Dear KFC,

Imagine that I've been stranded on an uninhabited island in the South Pacific for a very long time. Then one day, one of your Zinger pies falls from the sky into my malnourished hands. Do I:

A) Eat it

B) Give it to my best friend, Wilson


C) Stick a coconut up my bum


D) None of the above


If you answered A, you clearly haven't consumed one of your own Zinger pies. If you had, you'd know that it's physically impossible to let that pastry-encased abomination pass your lips a second time, no matter how famished you are. That must mean the answer is B then, right? Wrong. Presenting this inedible atrocity to my best mate, even if he is just a personified volleyball, is a terrible idea. Wilson would probably tell me to go fuck myself, which would cause a friendship-ending argument. So obviously the answer is D, although inserting the seed of the Cocos nucifera palm into my rectum comes a very close second.
The pie's pastry, like Clive Palmer's recent political campaign (and possibly penis) was thick, flaccid and completely unpalatable. However, I was hopeful that the contents of the pie would be, as every idiotic Masterchef contestant would say, "The hero of the dish". Unfortunately the pie's filling was far from heroic. At best, it resembled the scum scraped off a caged-hen farm floor, mixed with a healthy dose of projectile vomit, à la the chick from The Exorcist.
exorcist photo tumblr_mn5se1dVXU1s7t55so1_500_zpsd43205b6.gif
Ironically, today is R U OK? Day. Prior to tasting this nauseating concoction, I was just fine. Now, I'm not so sure. It'll take some time for my tastebuds to forgive me, but at least throwing the rest of the unconsumed pie into Darling Harbour was very therapeutic. In all seriousness though guys, the Colonel must be turning in his grave. Stick to deep-frying factory-farmed chooks, because your Zinger pie is worse than Michael Slater starring in one of your commercials with the Madden twins... and that's fucking terrible. 

Obese regards,

Rich Wisken.








Dear KFC,

Imagine that I've been stranded on an uninhabited island in the South Pacific for a very long time. Then one day, one of your Zinger pies falls from the sky into my malnourished hands. Do I:

A) Eat it

B) Give it to my best friend, Wilson


C) Stick a coconut up my bum


D) None of the above


If you answered A, you clearly haven't consumed one of your own Zinger pies. If you had, you'd know that it's physically impossible to let that pastry-encased abomination pass your lips a second time, no matter how famished you are. That must mean the answer is B then, right? Wrong. Presenting this inedible atrocity to my best mate, even if he is just a personified volleyball, is a terrible idea. Wilson would probably tell me to go fuck myself, which would cause a friendship-ending argument. So obviously the answer is D, although inserting the seed of the Cocos nucifera palm into my rectum comes a very close second.
The pie's pastry, like Clive Palmer's recent political campaign (and possibly penis) was thick, flaccid and completely unpalatable. However, I was hopeful that the contents of the pie would be, as every idiotic Masterchef contestant would say, "The hero of the dish". Unfortunately the pie's filling was far from heroic. At best, it resembled the scum scraped off a caged-hen farm floor, mixed with a healthy dose of projectile vomit, à la the chick from The Exorcist.
exorcist photo tumblr_mn5se1dVXU1s7t55so1_500_zpsd43205b6.gif
Ironically, today is R U OK? Day. Prior to tasting this nauseating concoction, I was just fine. Now, I'm not so sure. It'll take some time for my tastebuds to forgive me, but at least throwing the rest of the unconsumed pie into Darling Harbour was very therapeutic. In all seriousness though guys, the Colonel must be turning in his grave. Stick to deep-frying factory-farmed chooks, because your Zinger pie is worse than Michael Slater starring in one of your commercials with the Madden twins... and that's fucking terrible. 

Obese regards,

Rich Wisken.







Thứ Hai, 22 tháng 9, 2014

FOR SALE: 2005 Peugeot 206 CC

A friend of mine from high school has asked if I could write an ad to sell her car. Since my Brumby ad, I've had over 400 requests from people asking me to do the same for them. I tell all of these people exactly the same thing, "Fuck off and leave me alone". However, this particular young lady is a great person and a lifelong friend, so it was a no-brainer for me to help her out. I've been given total creative control. Hopefully she isn't disappointed...
FOR SALE
2005 Peugeot 206 CC
(1 Female Owner)

Are you having trouble finding someone to satisfy your depraved sexual desires? Don't worry, so was I. That was until I purchased this 2005 Peugeot 206 CC. I can't be 100% certain, but I'm fairly sure that CC stands for Cock Collector. Why? Because ever since I bought this baby, I’ve been under more sheets than the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, by the end of the first week, I was walking like a newborn giraffe with polio.
Being a French company, Peugeot ensure that filthiness is a stock standard feature in all of their vehicles. If you're the lucky new owner of this cock-rocket, thousands of men with big helmets will try to invade you, and just like the French - you'll surrender. That's right, in no time at all you'll have more humps than Gérard Depardieu's nose. Vive La France!
So why am I selling such a valuable asset? Well, I knew it was time to reassess my priorities after my vajayjay won a Grand Canyon lookalike competition. I’ve decided to start a new life at the Vatican, spending the next few decades under a vow a celibacy. Hopefully after this period of rehabilitation, my lady bits will no longer look like two elephant seals in a passionate embrace.
Not only is this weiner-wagon registered until October 2013, it also holds a valid NSW brothel licence (a government requirement due to the amount of sexy times that's taken place inside her). As the new owner, I'd recommend giving the seats a good high-pressure hosing, as the upholstery currently resembles Jackson Pollock's, Blue Poles. One thing I wouldn't recommend, is shining a UV light over the interior, unless of course you want to recreate a scene from CSI.

Features:

Automatic air con/climate control (coz' it's hotter than a one of Nelly's house parties)

Extra powerful windscreen wipers (for more viscous fluids)

Manual transmission (grip that shaft, girlfriend)

Leather steering wheel (just like my gimp suit)

Dual airbags (yes, the car too)

Price: $9,750

*Free Vengaboys Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom CD single*

If you think you're woman (or gay male) enough to handle this one-eyed monster magnet, email me at cockcollector@hotmail.com. No time-wasters! Only serious phallus fiends need apply.





A friend of mine from high school has asked if I could write an ad to sell her car. Since my Brumby ad, I've had over 400 requests from people asking me to do the same for them. I tell all of these people exactly the same thing, "Fuck off and leave me alone". However, this particular young lady is a great person and a lifelong friend, so it was a no-brainer for me to help her out. I've been given total creative control. Hopefully she isn't disappointed...

FOR SALE
2005 Peugeot 206 CC
(1 Female Owner)

Are you having trouble finding someone to satisfy your depraved sexual desires? Don't worry, so was I. That was until I purchased this 2005 Peugeot 206 CC. I can't be 100% certain, but I'm fairly sure that CC stands for Cock Collector. Why? Because ever since I bought this baby, I’ve been under more sheets than the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, by the end of the first week, I was walking like a newborn giraffe with polio.
Being a French company, Peugeot ensure that filthiness is a stock standard feature in all of their vehicles. If you're the lucky new owner of this cock-rocket, thousands of men with big helmets will try to invade you, and just like the French - you'll surrender. That's right, in no time at all you'll have more humps than Gérard Depardieu's nose. Vive La France!
So why am I selling such a valuable asset? Well, I knew it was time to reassess my priorities after my vajayjay won a Grand Canyon lookalike competition. I’ve decided to start a new life at the Vatican, spending the next few decades under a vow a celibacy. Hopefully after this period of rehabilitation, my lady bits will no longer look like two elephant seals in a passionate embrace.
Not only is this weiner-wagon registered until October 2013, it also holds a valid NSW brothel licence (a government requirement due to the amount of sexy times that's taken place inside her). As the new owner, I'd recommend giving the seats a good high-pressure hosing, as the upholstery currently resembles Jackson Pollock's, Blue Poles. One thing I wouldn't recommend, is shining a UV light over the interior, unless of course you want to recreate a scene from CSI.

Features:

Automatic air con/climate control (coz' it's hotter than a one of Nelly's house parties)

Extra powerful windscreen wipers (for more viscous fluids)

Manual transmission (grip that shaft, girlfriend)

Leather steering wheel (just like my gimp suit)

Dual airbags (yes, the car too)

Price: $9,750

*Free Vengaboys Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom CD single*

 
If you think you're woman (or gay male) enough to handle this one-eyed monster magnet, email me at cockcollector@hotmail.com. No time-wasters! Only serious phallus fiends need apply.