The legends preceded it: chocolate so dark it ceased to taste like chocolate. Chocolate so intense it required cautionary statements. Chocolate so fine it cost £75 per kilo.
Such purity is exceptionally rare. A normal Cadbury’s Dairy Milk bar is rumoured to contain about 11% cocoa. The “Dark” chocolate Dairy Milk bar is just 40% cocoa. Connoisseurs must look to a more exotic manufacturer for their intense cocoa hit.
The Lindt Excellence line of fine chocolate bars is widely available in the UK. Dark chocolate versions with 85% cocoa can be found with relative ease at chains as plebeian as ASDA. Such ubiquity is not shared by the 99% bar. For it, one must travel to a Lindt chocolate shop or buy online.
At the shop, I was greeted by two pleasant-enough young women offering free chocolate samples to browsers. My goal clear, I declined their truffles and proceeded straight to the chocolate bar section. There, on the wall, I saw it: a 99%-pure bar of cocoa. One of the saleswomen regarded my choice with concern. She made sure that I knew what I was getting into, that I knew I should enjoy the bar slowly, at home, with proper reverence and plenty of water. Undeterred by the cautionary statements, I asserted my comfort with the chocolate and completed my purchase. On the way home, I picked up a more mundane 85% bar for comparison.
After consuming just three squares of the 99% bar, I felt it was time to bring the experience to an end. The richness of the chocolate was leaving me satiated, and I didn’t want to waste either bar when I was not in the proper mindset for full enjoyment of the act.
If you get the opportunity to try high-quality, high-purity chocolate, I recommend that you indulge. If nothing else, you will gain a new appreciation for the rift between British commodity chocolate and what is possible from the world’s elite chocolatiers such as Lindt.
Some chinaman has skimmed my debit card. I lost £935 to some ching-chong scammer. I wouldn’t actually give a shit if my bank were happy to refund it immediately, but they aren’t. Alas, I have to wait WEEKS while they “investigate” what happened. It’s nice to know they stopped my card immediately though, thanks for that. How about stopping it happen in the first place? Apparently, just in case I flew out to Malaysia myself and spent £935, they have to “investigate” it. So instead of me being defrauded, it’s possible that I might be trying defraud the bank, by defrauding myself, although I’m not actually defrauding myself. Oh, fuck off. I don’t even know what you can buy in Malaysia for £935 GBP.
I am fucked now. My rent is due in less than 8 days. I can’t borrow the money from my parents because they are skint. My friend Gary is ignoring my txts. This is fucking bollocks. My credit rating will get skull-fucked very soon.
Anyway. In other news: VeryVulgar.com is proud to present: Criminals with tattooed faces!!
This is Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D (scary). Exhibit E. Exhibit F.
I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents’ swimming pool. With one deep breath, I’d kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I’d sit down there for two, three, four minutes. Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I’d do this all afternoon. After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That’s why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my mum.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she’s just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it’s never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of doing this was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it. As the French would say, Who doesn’t like getting their butt sucked?
One minute I’m settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbour, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I’m grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute I’ve got enough air and my dick’s in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister’s got ballet. Nobody’s supposed to be home for hours.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. It’s then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can’t. I can’t get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you’re going down. Every year, tons of people do.
People just don’t talk about it. Not even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I’m kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I’m maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn’t make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool drain and it’s holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake’s thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That’s the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that’s never seen the light of day, it’s been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me. So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It’s maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butt-hole. With another kick, I’m an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I’m an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It’s the kind of horse¬pill vitamin my dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega three fatty acids.
It’s seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It’s not a snake. It’s my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call prolapsed. It’s my guts sucked into the drain. Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That’s about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we’re all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unravelling my insides-until it’s got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
That’s all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravelling out my ass, me holding on to what’s left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.
It’s a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What you have to do is - you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.
It’s not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat shrimp.
It’s hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I’d got in trouble or how I’d saved myself. After the hospital, my mum said, “You didn’t know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock.” And she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…
I need that like I need teeth in my arsehole.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don’t digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I’m lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I’ve never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then my dad just said, “That dog was fucking nuts.”
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, “We couldn’t trust that dog alone for a second….”
Then my sister missed her period.
Excerpt of “Guts” by Chuck Palahniuk
I don’t know why I am putting these up here, I really don’t. If you’re interested in such things, I guess that’s your bag. Personally, I find it fucking rank, especially the last photograph. Why would anyone say they have an 8″ cock and then on the exact same page include a photograph depicting the opposite?! My schlong isn’t massive by most measures, but I’d never boast about goods I am NOT packing.
I’m putting these here because I thought It would allow me to add something back to the “blogosphere”, it’s about time I gave something back after all!!!! Precious few people appear to have these in their possession, for some fucking reason! So share away…
In other news: Quit Complaining About Your Job!!
Photo 1 | Photo 2 | Photo 3 | Photo 4 | Photo 5 | Photo 6
Not much to post right now, other than a few photographs of cigarette packets that you may or may not have seen before.
St Peter & The Holy Water
A train hits a bus-load of catholic school girls and they all perish. They all wind up in Heaven trying to enter the pearly gates past St. Peter.
St. Peter asks the first girl, “Karen, have you ever had any contact with a penis?”
She giggles and shyly replies, “Well I once touched the head of one with the tip of my finger.”
St. Peter says, “OK, dip the tip of your finger in The Holy Water and pass through the gate.”
St. Peter asks the next girl the same question, “Karina have you ever had any contact with a penis?
The girl is a little reluctant but replies, “Well once I fondled and stroked one.”
St. Peter says, “OK, dip your whole hand in The Holy Water and pass through the gate.”
All of a sudden there is a lot of commotion in the line of girls, one girl is pushing her way to the front of the line. When she reaches the front of the line, St. Peter says: “Sharon! What seems to be the rush?”
The girl replies: “If I’m going to have to gargle that Holy Water, I want to do it before Mandy sticks her ass in it!”