1. Feel sorry for these horrendous little child actor shites. For having to utter such first-class codswolloping fuckness.
2. Save up my vile runny turds for a whole week. Then every fucking Sunday for a year mail my weeks-worth of liquidy faeces to PHD in a periodical and calculated rectile discharge protest.
3. Go through terrible painful surgery to get two giant fuck-off lumps of Wurtzide Boron Nitride attached to each fist. So I can (figuratively speaking Ben) pound all their faces into rivers of fucking gore.
4. Go and play Angry Birds in the piss-ridden toilet.
Oh God. That’s nearly as embarrassing as the time my Mum’s foreskin retracted over her bell-end. And got stuck. I had to go with her to the fucking doctors to get it sorted. And the doctor was my Dad, who was dressed as a fucking Woman.
At last. The cause I want to fight for.
Sign me up.
Hey Ben, have you seen this? It’s a kid’s tv show – think he’s some distant cousin of Roland Rat
http://www.rastamouse.com
Coincidentally, my son is off to the Rastamouse live show today.
Ben, remember Make Poverty History?
So many really thoughtful scripts were rejected in favour Richard Curtis’s celebrity chums clicking their fingers.
Choddy. Good to have a word for it.
Chodmongous:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFfIIW_xQq4
yo ben,
liked your book. interested to know how they keep you in the loop as to the number of copies sold at any given moment?
how many so far?
keep up the good work.
They don’t really.
I’m on my third email to my agent trying to get some joy out of that question.
When I know I’ll let you know.
Proof the turd-curdlingly terrible Choddy format can be applied to other shit-licking films.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P81bb0Tzwbo&feature=youtu.be
After watching this I don’t know whether to;
1. Feel sorry for these horrendous little child actor shites. For having to utter such first-class codswolloping fuckness.
2. Save up my vile runny turds for a whole week. Then every fucking Sunday for a year mail my weeks-worth of liquidy faeces to PHD in a periodical and calculated rectile discharge protest.
3. Go through terrible painful surgery to get two giant fuck-off lumps of Wurtzide Boron Nitride attached to each fist. So I can (figuratively speaking Ben) pound all their faces into rivers of fucking gore.
4. Go and play Angry Birds in the piss-ridden toilet.
And if you don’t what Wurtzide Boron Nitride is.
Fuck right off.
Yours, The CockWriter
Publish me Ben. PUBLISH ME!
You publish your self-aggrandising comments. I’d block you if I were you.
I said FIGURATIVELY pound them to a pulp.
Oh shit.
You did publish it.
I take it back Ben. I take it back.
Oh God. That’s nearly as embarrassing as the time my Mum’s foreskin retracted over her bell-end. And got stuck. I had to go with her to the fucking doctors to get it sorted. And the doctor was my Dad, who was dressed as a fucking Woman.
Awkward.
Behold… the holy grail of Choddyness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=P81bb0Tzwbo
Hey Ray Charles.
Open your eyes. I already posted that.
Yours,
The CockWriter
Need an ‘out’ if this is the future.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P81bb0Tzwbo
Too slow…