Just don't tell the daily mail...

Do something on Christmas for the blog." I was told.
"Yeah sure." I thought. Why not? It's not like some Christmas fun is going to land me in a load of deep shit or anything, is it?
Or is it?
So I wrote a load of words and that about Christmas Dinner. Having done that I took it upon myself to pile some humourous links into it too.
Click on the word chocolate, and it took you to a picture of a baby covered in chocolate.
Click on a Turkey, and it took you to a picture of a turkey pecking president Bushes balls.
Click on the word Bitch and it took you to a picture of a half naked lady with a Santa hat on nearly doing something with a beer bottle.

oops.

A couple of you complained on the forums about that particular shocking image.
I'm not going to defend myself. You were offended. It was removed. Sorry.

I thought that I could blog with wild abandon because one of our bears is having sex with a sheep. And you seem to like that.
Like I say. I'm not looking to defend myself. It's a bit of a shocking thing to come (or cum) across, but there's nothing more on show there than you see on the average bear.
All you can see is the nipples. (the internet contains other images where you can actually see stuff "going in")
Is there a sort of bear filter in play here?
You may like to see a bears nipples, but not a ladies?
Please let me know. I'm not looking to piss you off. (if it wasn't for you guys I wouldn't have a job.)

Here's my "artists" impression of the offending image through the bear filter...
And be warned. The original is underneath it. Do not click that weird line if you are likely to be offended by the image. I just thought that I had to put it there so that those who wish to judge can judge.

To my mind the offensive elements of the image are the blue eyeliner and the clear plastic heals.

Then after that I caused further offence by being racist...

A couple of weeks ago I was watching a Youtube party on MTV. They, and loads of really famous people were celebrating youtubes success, and they were asking the famous what there favorite youtube vids were.
One of these guys was Wyclef Jean of Fugees fame. He said that his favourite video was Charlie Brown Kwanzaa.
Now there's no link here for that. If you want to see it you need to make a proper effort. You need to go over there, and find it. If you do find yourself watching it it won't be by accident.

I caused offence. And I can see why. Sorry.

I thought that you'd all be unoffendable. Turns out the repeated use of the "N" word does cause offense.
In my own twisted world the "N" word is very offensive if spoken by a white person. I personally don't find kwanzaa offensive because it's been dubbed over by black people.
I like listening to gangster rap (even though I'm possibly the whitest man alive) Dizzy, Dre, and snoop all use the "N" word a lot, and that's fine in my eyes.
But I'm white. Am I allowed to like it?
Wyclef Jean of Fugees fame likes Charlie Brown Kwanzaa.
But I'm white. Am I allowed to like it?
I thought it was funny because in it Charley Brown's a pimp, and does loads of swearing.
I should have at least warned you. I know that now.

Again.
I'm sorry for any offense caused. The first and last thing we at Bad Taste towers want to do is cause offense.
(That is why if you click on the word bitch in the post below you will be taken to a picture of a little fluffy kitten. Aw. Bless.)

Happy Xmas

Ah Christmas.
Again!
We seem to do this every year now. We dig ourselves a little deeper into debt to buy a bunch of stuff people don’t want, and what do you get in return?
Shower gel.
What are they trying to say? Or am I the only one who gets shower gel? It’s just me isn’t it. I smell.
The tradition of giving gifts at Christmas started with the three wise men giving their gifts to the baby Jesus. Their names were Gaspar Marks, Melchior Spencer, and Balthasar J. Argos.
Bastards.
If they’d just given Alcohol then that would be the tradition now, and I’d be able to get pissed all the way through to April. As it is now I’m going to be able to smell nice though to April.

It’s not all about the giving and receiving of socks and shower gel though. There is eating too…
My Breakfast on Christmas morning will usually consist of a fist full of nuts, one of the kid’s selection boxes and a tangerine. Lunch will be something light like another selection box, some of the chocolate decorations off the tree, some more nuts. Another tangerine. A bacon sandwich with a quarter of Christmas cake smothered with Bailey’s Irish cream for pudding. (Bailey’s is a cream). I am then wheeled over to my chair where a bowl of Cadbury’s miniature heroes can be found within arms length. These aren’t easy to get down past the nuts, the orange, the bacon and the cake. So it’s at this point I like to start washing the bite size confections down with a can of beer. Or if I’m feeling particularly festive, a can of sherry. It’s important to go easy as one can often find ones self in trouble when it comes to the CHRISTMAS DINNER.

“Dinner” doesn’t really convey what you’re up against here though. It’s like referring to Everest as a hill.
There’s roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, baby potatoes, baby roast potatoes. Carrots, sprouts, cabbage, peas, Yorkshire pudding, and parsnip. There’s roast pork, sliced ham, roast beef, applesauce, and sausages, and sausages wrapped in bacon. (Because a sausage isn’t quite meaty enough), and cranberry sauce. Some little scotch eggs too.
Then of course there’s the Turkey.
But is it a turkey? The thing we got last year was so big I suspect it was the product of a union between an ostridge and raptor.
There is no way to eat all this. It’s impossible. Impossible without gravy to lubricate the tubes. And a can of lager, and a sherry, and a bailey’s.
The tablecloth is there for one reason. To hide the fact that everyone has their belts undone.
The short gap between turkey and pudding is filled with witty conversation and eggnog.
No body wants it. No body needs it, but it’s brought in all the same.
Pudding.
Pudding was invented because your average dinner isn’t big enough to fill you up, but then again the average dinner doesn’t cast a shadow. (Any bigger and there’d be mountain goats on it hopping from roast potato to parsnip.)
There’s chocolate cake, arctic roll, and éclairs to get through before the Christmas pud is rolled out of the kitchen, up a ramp, and on to the table.
You can’t fit it in. Your full. Your stomach is full. Your neck is full. You’ve got potato in your cheeks and you have a little sausage under your tongue. Any more food and you’re going to have to resort to filling up a lung with Christmas pudding.
It does look nice though.
It takes a while to get away from the table. You know it’s going to be an effort. You don’t make the effort for the Queens speech, but you do for Wallace and Gromit. The three yard walk brings on the meat sweats. You fall back into your seat, look over to your right. The bitch has filled up the Cadbury’s heroes bowl again.
She’s trying to kill me!

Happy Christmas.