Huddled under a duvet a light seeps out from under neath as a lonely little boy reads yet another story of fantastical events that will never come to fruition.

He really wants them to though, so much so that he is prepared to do anything to make them a reality.

It’s sad that this is the path he will now choose for a lifetime of greasy hair, slimy skin and such a gross case of virginity that even a weekend of debauchery in Vegas with crack whores with boundaries so confused due to their childhood in Roscommon that they will do anything just to feel like they’re not empty inside except touch his withered lightsabre penis and leaving him to hope that his mother will leave her colostomy bag out one night just so that he might get the scent of a woman.

He’d love it if his penis was a lightsabre, because then it would glow when he wanked and the sound effects he’d make wouldn’t be so weird.

When he was found at the orphanage years before by an alcoholic who would rather drink paint thinner than feed or educate her soon to be new son, the nuns were glad to be rid of him.

“We are a holy God fearing bunch, but even we can’t stand the snivelling little cunt scraping.  Please take him off our hands and we’ll turn our backs on the fact that you clearly can’t raise a child”.

And so she did.

She took him home to the trailer as an excuse to claim child assistance from the government.  She couldn’t afford the rent of a trailer park so she and her trailer squatted in the car park of the local shopping mall.  Day after day she would leave her son on the steps of that trailer to be molested by the local dogs while she’d blow her pimp for a bottle of Jack Daniels.

It seemed like the life of our little orphan just couldn’t get any worse.  One day the cinema in the shopping mall he called neighbour, had a showing of a film that to this day remains over rated.

This mattered not to him, for he was now in the middle of something that wasn’t a booze fueled cock orgy that he would have to film for his mother’s masturbatory joy.  This was something different.

This was Star Wars.

Day after day he would watch as queues of people would line the pavements and wait with such enthusiasm to see a film that would barely legally rob the actors of the rights to their own likenesses.  He wanted to be a part of it and taking a page out of his mothers book, he got what he wanted by dropping to his knees in front of the security guard and gulping down a salty load.  This earned him a screening to the film that had captivated his imagination all this time.

He left the theater feeling exhilarated.

Here was a film with hope.

There were no alcoholic mothers, no condoms to rinse off for his passing “fathers” to stop from getting a well deserved beating.  This was a film that gave him a new father figure.

That man didn’t want to know.

Our little orphan would write letters explaining of his love to this man and how he aspired to join the man on his ranch.  The man never replied, as he instantly identified this boy as a crazy whack job.  This was mainly due to the fact that the boys letters were written in ink that had run because of the copious amounts of teenage sperm that blotted his writing pads following sessions of dreaming of even being in the same room as his new fantasy father.

This angered the boy.

Why wouldn’t the man agree to be his father, or even reply to his letters?  Even with gifts of photos of him dressed in a gold bikini, the man wouldn’t agree to meet the boy.

He vowed to then make the work of the man known to those who really didn’t give a flying fuck.  If he relented and taught the world about the greatness of George Lucas then he would soon be adopted into the family   and relish in the failures and disappointments of all future works by the Georgemeister.

He would need a name.

“Spunk bucket” had a nice ring to it, but George Lucas already had the copyright on that as his Wednesday night Gimp alias.

He was in the dark, a lone warrior in the fight that no one cared about.

He would teach the world about the errors of not liking Star Wars the way he did.

He would become an insufferable cunt and there was only one way to truly emphasise it, to hyphenate and capitalise each letter of his name.

Beware the scurge and the cuntitude of :

S-U-P-E-R-S-H-A-D-O-W

His powers to annoy are great, but mine of retaliation are greater.

Filthy Butt Fun Award

It’s been a little while since I announced a new monthly incentive for you to get filthy for a prize.

I have had quite a few entries, more than I thought I would to be honest and most of the entries I’ve had have been right filth.  Kudos.

Some people think they will get credit for refreshing my memory of my own past work but that’s flat out cheating and I will take you out back, bend you over and test out my new sandpaper dildo and vinegar lube if you keep that up.

Don’t think you’re filthy enough?  That’s crap too, we all have the potential to be mank bags.  Embrace it.

If you spot something else that might be up my street, nominate it.  You might win a prize just for bringing it to my attention.

Have a go.

To whet your appetite, have a scour of the lovely people sponsoring the whole thing OVER HERE and have a look at what you could win.  Depending on how filthy the piece is, you may just get to choose your own prize.*

The first ever winner will be announced during the week and will receive their prize shortly after.

Get to it, filth mongers.

* (T & C’s) Depending on how much of a horn it gives me and the sponsors.

Bash the bishop

Flog the Dolphin

Mangle the midget

Tickling your Elmo

Squeezing the fat out of your sausage

Whatever you like to call it, masturbation is a great past time.  It’s what makes me a great wanker.

We all do it, some of us will do it more often than others and this will lead to coming up with more and more creative ways to dress the salad.

Fret not.

I have a list of things to do when your usual handful of moisturiser and her latest copy of Cosmopolitan has turned to ash from friction heat.

As always, men come first:

1.  Tenderise the beef

Look at it there, just staring at you all sexy like.  The filthy little pile of fuck minxiness.  It’s toying with you, letting you stew before inviting you over to play.

Next time the missus leaves you to make dinner, opt for a good old fashioned Irish Stew or casserole.  This means you can go out and eye up all the fillet steak you can handle before settling on a fine piece of diced rump.  Mmm rump.

Take it home and whack it in the microwave for no more than 45 seconds, just to take the chill out of it, stick in on a plate and skip the foreplay.   As your inject the beef with your beef injection just relish in the fact that not only have you just embarked on a new and exciting venture, but that you may have just discovered exactly where the inspiration for Surf n’ Turf came from.

She’ll never know what you got up to and depending on how freaky you get she might even comment on how tender it is.

You can agree, but make sure you say how tender it is, not was.

2.  Get a night security job

Ok, so if getting jobs was that easy these days we’d all be fucking sorted.  The kind of night security job you want though is in a shopping center.  The kind with loads of high street fashion brand outlets.

Why?

The Mannequins.

Mannequins rule, because they look awesome in anything.  Except, ironically the nip.  Dress them all up in the way you would imagine your very own audience would look, then use them as just that.  An audience.

With your sexy audience of voyeuristic plastic betties you can now strip off, and give your audience the show they’ve paid for and wank yourself into a seizure.  Relish in the fact that not only have you just embarked on a new and exciting venture, but that you may have just discovered the true inspiration for wipe clean dresses.

If you position the security cameras just right, you may just be able to sell it to one of the many sites that take CCTV videos of people having sex and give it the spin of a massive pervy model wankathon orgy.

Beware though, it runs the risk of getting weird if you then watch the video back and rub one out to yourself rubbing one out.

Don’t be a total freak.

Women, finish yourself off:

Flicking the bean

Double clicking your mouse

Fingering the porridge

Buffin’ the muffin

Button bashing

Now, I’m not a woman so I can’t pretend to imagine what would turn one on.  Apart from my naked throbbing giblets of course.

Having said that, if I was a woman and wanted to spice up my self love life the first thing I would do is find another woman and rub my delicate bits all over another woman.  Any part of her would do really.

Pending the progression of science into the possibility of me ever becoming a woman, I have a list of women and body parts I’d use to caress my lovely lady lumps with:

What’s that on your face, Nicola?

Oh right, it’s me.

I was watching the news the other day and the Americans were on about terrorism again and about how they will never be safe.

You know what I mean, they try to invent ways that the enemy can come and get them which, in my opinion just give the enemy ideas to work off.

This time they were on about how the terrorists will now try to poison their food imports.  This lead to a congressional debate as to whether or not they should put a ban on all imports and the mention of the unmentionable Irish pork scare last year was even mentioned.

Picture the scene:

“My fellow Americans, the world wants to poison us, but we are strong.  First they tried to give us mad cow beef and we said no.  Then they tried to give us sheep with foot and mouth, but we said no to bad breath and smelly feet.  Their latest attempt to send us pork with antioxidants or whatever those things are was a sneaky and fiendish ploy.  But we are on to them.  The CIA has learned that they are now placing poison into canned goods.  From this day forward we are placing a ban on the major imports of canned goods from Ireland.  These are, to the best of our knowledge: Guinness, Spam and Spam flavoured Guinness.”

That actually happened.  I didn’t just make the whole thing up.

But I give the people of Ireland more credit.  I have learned a few things in my time and one of them is that you should always give an Irish person more credit than you thought due.  Always.

Aside from the fact that we don’t care less what the Americans eat we certainly wouldn’t go out of our way to poison them.  Not unless there was a tax break or government incentive anyway.

Although if we were, I think we might do it with a little more flair than rat poison in the Spam.

We’d freak them out just by fucking with their heads.  Print fake labels that read “Shepherds pie – with real Shepherd”.  Although, how do you work out how many calories there are per 100g of Shepherd?  It would never pass through.

No, if we were going to do it, we might as well do it right.

Blow them up.

I reckon that we should start a massive business of alphabet soup exporting.  Americans love alphabet soup.  Then we load each can with TNT that would detonate and explode when ever a can opener came near.

It might spell a little trouble at least.

I feel like I’m not doing enough for the community.

I offer smut and bad puns and over elaborate build ups to mediocre punch lines.

I should be doing more.

I’m a nice fella after all….

Look at me there all full of laughter and the joys of life and shit.

I’m so full of happiness that I want to help others feel the same way and maybe assist in any problems my good readers may be having.

So, I am offering an Agony Uncle service to the site.

No problem too big or too small.

You can either write as yourself, or use the ever interesting “A friend of mine…”.  I’ll then publish the letter and my helpful and not at all snyde response.

Send your queries and problems to Uncle Maxi HERE.

or

Drop one off in the comments.

I’m here to help, and I don’t judge.  That’s for Jesus to do.

P.S.

Big up to Green Ink for once again making me look good with the snazzy pen work.