Ever heard of it?

I’ll bet one of you dirty fuckers has.

Spectrophilia is the fetish you’ll have if you desire to have sex with a ghost.  Funnily enough I can’t seem to find any examples of ghost porn on the internet, and if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s finding porn.

I wonder if it stops at ghosts, or if it goes further onto all things supernatural.

Fancy gobbling a gobblin?

Fucking a Faery?

Ploughing a Pixie?  If it was like the picture of Pixie Lott I saw in hot pants the other day, then fuck yeah.

How about giving a Leprechaun a Lumpkin?

It just goes to show that people will get off to anything.  Which is why I never get discouraged when I sit in front of my webcam pants-less and tugging away when trawling for net sluts.  Sooner or later I’ll have to cum come across a hot red head with her lesbian twin sister who gets off on seeing a fat, hairy dude on his third consecutive wank.

It can’t be that hard to conceive when you hear about people getting their jollies off of ghosties.  I can still do the old trick of sitting on my hand until it falls asleep, then having a wank that feels like it’s someone else doing it.  If I tell myself a ghost story while I wait for my hand to numb up, I could always imagine it was a ghost whacking me off.

I have to do something, I’m starting to find the supernatural a turn on myself lately.

Remember the crucifix masturbation scene in The Exorcist?  Just thinking about it now is getting me longer and harder than a Stephen Hawking long division quiz.

You may think I’m sick, but you should see the size of the butt plug covered in ectoplasm that just floated in to my bedroom.

Talk about bumping in the night.

I’ve just been shortlisted for a blog award!

Best Humour, thank you very much – sponsored by Maximise.

I know the Irish blogosphere will be awash with people going on about their being on the shortlists, but it’s never happened to me before.

Taking part and nominations mean shit people, I want the win.

Honesty is the best policy after all.

And if I win, I’ll be giving the best self centered acceptance speech around.

If I don’t win I’ll throw a bigger strop than Bill Murray and Eddie Murphy combined when they lost out at the Oscars.

Be warned.

Thanks though.

Normal transmission will resume shortly.

Holy baby Jesus, but it’s cold these days.  Well in the last few days it’s been ok, but before that my little balls have been safely nestled on the other side of my belly button to escape the cold.

Shouldn’t be complaining really as I shouldn’t be expecting it to be any thing other than fecking Baltic.  A friend of mine just came back from Australia.  She told me that one day she took a walk to the post office in 47 degrees.  47 degrees!

You know what temperature it is while I’m writing this?  Minus 6.  It feels colder though up here in the dark lonely corner of the country that I’m in.  It’s so cold that there’s a polar bear at my front door asking if there’s any room at the inn.  There’s not.  I don’t trust polar bears.  You know the sort.  They say they just want to warm themselves up and promise not to take up much room.  Before you know it, they’re wrapped up in all your blankets and have the Calor gas heater on 3 bars.  In a recession!

They drink all your cocoa and moan that you don’t have any marshmallows for it.  I ask you.  Marshmallows.  How many marshmallows do you reckon he comes across in the North Pole, or the South Pole or wherever he’s from?  My guess is not too many.

It’s not long either before he asks to use your phone and he calls his mates to complain about the conditions at your place.  He thinks you’re not listening in, but you can’t help it because Polar bears are well known for their loud telephone voices.

“YEAH, IT’S TERRIBLE HERE.  THEY’VE NOT A SINGLE MARSHMALLOW TO SPEAK OF.  OH, ARE YOU SERIOUS?  HOW MANY MARSHMALLOWS DID YOU GET IN YOUR COCOA?  THAT SOUNDS CLASS, IS THERE ANY ROOM OVER WHERE YOU ARE?”

Then he’ll come back in and sneer at the cocoa going cold and remark that his mate Dave, found a nice gaff over in Belturbet and they have geansai load of marshmallows.  And mini rolls.

You’ve had enough at this stage and tell the polar bear that if he doesn’t like it he can do one.  Here you are freezing your giblets off with your Calor gas heater on one bar and your substandard cocoa and all he can do is complain?  Take him out to the garden and show him the dog.  Your loyal companion out there in his kennel.  That poor little fecker would be in his every right to take you to an animal cruelty.  His normally cheery wet nose has icicles hanging off of it and he’s wrapped up in one of those emergency tin foil blankets.

Your pooch would be highly grateful for a spot in front of your heater or your fire.  Your pooch can’t even have cocoa or hot chocolate, it’d kill him.  Never mind the marshmallows.  Your dog can’t even use the phone and he wouldn’t complain about what his mate Dave had that he hadn’t.

I don’t trust polar bears.  You know what they do to hide themselves in the arctic?  They put their paws over their noses.  Sounds like I’m making it up, but it’s brilliantly brilliant.  With their black noses hidden behind their paws, they can creep up on unsuspecting eskimoes and steal their marshmallows.

You’d get so pished off with the bear that you’d ask him what the hell he was even doing around here in the first place.

He’d look a little sheepish and declare that he had to veer off the road and ditch his sled. (What else would a polar bear be driving, a Massey?)  You’ll ask him what happened.  You’ll do anything to get rid of him even if it means overhauling his entire engine.

He’ll smile and say he blew a seal, but that won’t do.  Not at all.

You’ll begin shouting at him to demand what he’s doing in your house.  Won’t do any good though, the last you’ll see of him he’ll be raising his paw to his face.

You won’t be able to see him anymore, but you’re phone bill will tell you he’s always there.

I have weird dreams sometimes.  Sometimes they happen just as I’m dropping off.  Sometimes they happen as I’m about to wake up.  Sometimes they’re influenced by my last thought or by the most significant event of the day.  This doesn’t make me different to anyone else I suppose.

I wonder what goes on in the human brain when it dreams.  One minute you’re driving down the M50 and the next you’re in your dressing gown and soaring over the mountains of some far away country.  Other times you’ll be watching TV before you find yourself in the middle of a gangster shoot out more at home in a game of Grand Theft Auto.

Just like this dream I had last night.

I ran into an old friend.  It was like we’d just picked up where we lost contact all those years ago.  We immediately forgot all the bad times and just remembered the good ones.  We went for drinks to catch up and even in my dream I took a quiet smug joy in the fact that I was doing ever so slightly than she was.  We went back to her place because she had to pick her daughter up from school.

We drank coffee and caught up some more.  She looked at me and asked if I had ever thought about that day that we nearly kissed.  I said I had, but thought about how much better it had worked out that I didn’t.  She wasn’t happy with her husband.  He was a slave to his job.  He was an ivory dealer.  Weird in Ireland, but not in a dream.

He’d be gone for months at a time and her daughter was getting to the stage where she didn’t even remember her father.  In the living room we heard the tinkle of a piano as her daughter went through her weekly lesson.  It brought a tear to my long lost friend’s eye.  Her husband had used some of his bounty to fashion the custom piano and it just reminded her of happier times.

Times when they’d have dinner parties that would finish with a sing song around the piano and he’d tell her that everything would be alright.

I stopped feeling smug and felt sad for her.  I kissed her cheek and left the house.

Instead of stepping into the street however, I found myself on an African plain.  Surrounded by nothing, but only for a minute.  Before I knew what was happening a stampede of elephants came storming past nearly killing me.  Their calls to each other deafened me and echoed around the trees for miles.  Then a fully loaded Land Rover followed the herd as gunshots rang through the air mixed with cackles of laughter from all on board.

I ran after them and caught up with my super fast dream running.  There in the drivers seat was the husband of my friend.  How did I know him?  I’d never seen him before, but I just knew who it was.  Among all the commotion of the hunt I asked him why he’d left his family behind for this life.

Without missing a beat he told me that the elephants understood him better than any woman ever could.  Their trunks felt so wrong but felt so right.  Their tusks could reach places a woman would never go.  He had to leave them behind, for they wouldn’t understand.

Even for a freaky dream, this all made sense.  Sort of.

I woke up shortly after that and wondered what it had all meant.

If I ever do run into that old friend, would she be unhappy?  Would she be a single mother looking for a friend, or something more?  Would I be teleported to a different continent to confront her husband with a fetish for large game?

I dunno what it means.

Maybe it’s all irrelephant.

Click on her name for more pics

It’s been a while since I’ve done a wank of the week, or anything else here, for reasons you already know.  This magnificent choice comes in from Morgor.  You read my mind.

I remember way back when Milla was a reporter/fashion correspondent.  She was a model as far as I know.  Didn’t matter what she did for a living, because what she did for me was help me discover my manly duties.  Wanking being the one I spent the most time perfecting.  Still do.

There she is in all her lovliness.  Look at those patent red boots and her sideboob.  You know why I love patent red boots?  Because they’re shiny and slutty looking and they wipe clean.  You know why I love sideboob?  Because they give the world reason to make wipe clean patent red boots.  I like to unload all over them, in other words.

Jesus she looks like she’d eat you up in between killing zombies.  That’s fine with me.  Once I’d done a bit of munching on her I’d die happy having a gross puss oozing brain eating zombie nosh my knob off.  That might be quite kinky actually.  All the while our Milla here would be dipping her fingers into those purty white panties and giving herself pruned up fingers.

On a beach with a bikini that opens with just the pull of a couple of tiny bows.  That’s not safe.  A pervy cunt could walk up, flash his massive four incher before yanking those bad boy bows and showing her nips and clunge for all to see.  Or for him to see anyway.  I know what you’re thinking, what are the chances of that happening?  Not likely I’m afraid.  Her agent won’t tell me when she’s likely to be on a beach with a minimum security bikini on.  Typical.

I love Milla, not only is she a wankatronic android from the planet Cumsponge, but because she loves skimpy clothes.  I don’t know if you could call what she’s wearing clothes exactly, but it’s just grand.  She also sports the occasional purse.  You know what’s in that purse?  A mind control ray gun that turns you into her sex slave.  And a retractable 3 foot android detachable cock.  Because sex slaves shouldn’t be the recipient of the pleasure.  But I would because I’m sneaky that way.  “Oh no, mistress overlord Milla, please don’t violate me with your space schlong”. Little would she know.

And here for no other reason than I found a topless picture of Milla, is a topless picture of Milla.  Some would say that it makes her look like a whore.

Personally I think the blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick have that end covered.

Wanktastic.