Slimming world is a cult 

So… everyone is aware what I think of fat people. Not all, but most moan about how bad their life is while shovelling burger and chips in their fat mouth. I have instagram, and daily people who are on a diet plan are posting pictures of their “healthy meals” and how good they are at sticking to the plan, but yet never seem to lose any weight. Partly because the meals they post are usually pictures of pizza or curry or cake, but they call it a “cheat day” every day seems to be a cheat day for those lumps, most of whom have a body like a dropped lasagna. So I decided to piss off a load of these people by showing off my own diet plan. 

Arguing is healthy in a relationship 

 

 

So I was thinking about past relationships, and in general how societies nutters tend to gravitate towards me. As my mum says I “just have one of those faces”, when I remembered a few arguments I had while In the doomed relationships. 

 

1

My ex girlfriend Rebecca could not, and will never be able to cook. She was capable of the process of cooking (sort of) but cannot cook in the same way that an octopus cannot ride a bike; it has enough arms to reach the pedals and handlebars but the result will rarely be a successful journey from A to B. She was also a vegetarian. You have to be careful what you say these days, apparently you’re not allowed to call a certain group of people queers anymore. You have to call them Vegetarians. I don’t have anything against Vegetarians, but the way I see it, our food shits and pisses on there’s. 

I once looked over Rebeccas shoulder to discover her crumbling Alka-Seltzer tablets, or the cheaper supermarket alternative, into a meal she was preparing because “they are salty and we ran out of salt.”

 One Friday night, Rebecca stated that she was making nachos for dinner so I was surprised to say the least when she placed a bowl and spoon an hour later. “What’s this? I asked.

“The nachos were a bit runny so I added a few cups of water. It’s nacho soup,”

“Is there even such a thing?” I asked. “And what are these bits in it?”

“They’re the crisps,” Rebecca replied defensively as she sipped a spoon of Nachos and made a long “mmmmmm” noise. “I put it all in the blender so there shouldn’t be any big bits.”

“I’m ringing for pizza,” I said.

 “Typical,” replied Rebecca, “you never appreciate anything I do.”

“That’s not true” I responded, “I appreciate everything you do but if I ordered a hamburger at McDonald’s and they handed it to me in a cup with a straw saying ‘Sorry, it was a bit runny so we threw it in the blender and added two cups of water, it’s Big Mac soup’, I would assume the restaurant was entirely staffed through some kind of special needs employment initiative. If they asked me, “Do you want fries with that?” I sure as fuck wouldn’t reply, ‘Yes, mix them in.'”

“It would probably be quite good,”  “but you would never know because you are too much of an asshole to taste it. Even if the guy at McDonalds spent an hour in the kitchen making it for you and burnt his thumb on a saucepan.”

2

While I was on the phone to my mother, as it was Mother’s Day, my mum jokingly, knowing full well what I am like asked if Rebecca  found me annoying or amusing. Of course I said she found me a total hoot, Rebecca yelled from the kitchen clearly audible to my mum and no doubt half the street, “Don’t fucking lie.” My mum asked me “Was that Rebecca?” to which I replied, “No, it was the television” and Rebecca yelled out again “No it wasn’t.” On one occasion, I decided we should call in sick, so that we could spend the whole day in bed together, On Monday morning, as I was about to call my boss, using my best sick voice to explain how I could possible of attracted Ebola, Rebecca was watching a program called Breaking Bad in bed while I was making the call in the next room. Not realising I was on the phone to my hard asse boss, she yelled “We should build a Meth-lab in the garage.”

3

I came over to visit Rebecca after work one Tuesday, to discover a framed photo of our dog on our living room wall. I like our dog but when I am home, so is the dog. I don’t need to see photos of it. Especially if the photo shows the dog sitting on the couch that is immediately below the framed photo and the dog is actually sitting on that couch at the time.

Sitting down next to the dog, I grabbed a magazine from the table and flicked through until I came to an interview with tom cruise. The facing page featured a photo of Tom  in a suit, sitting on a chair with one leg crossed over the other, holding a glass of red wine. Ripping out the page, I replaced the photo of the dog in the frame with it.

When I met Tom cruise in a bar in Los Angeles, I asked him what annoyed him most about being famous.


“That’s easy,” he replied, “It’s all the libellous things that people write about me.”

And then he got down on his knees and sucked my cock. 

Arriving home a short time later, it took Rebecca less than fifteen seconds to storm into the kitchen brandishing the frame and demanding, “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s Golden Globe award winning actor Tom cruise” I replied.

“Yes, I know who Tom cruise is, Where’s the dog?”

“It’s sitting on the couch,” I replied, “It’s always sitting on the couch. And having a photo above the couch of it doing so is weird. We may as well put a photo on the wall of all three of us sitting on the couch and then sit on the couch and look at it. Or put up a mirror.”

As she stormed back out in search of the missing photo, Rebecca said over her shoulder, “It’s not as weird as having a photo of Tom cruise  on the wall.”

“I like Tom cruise,” I replied.

“Well I like the fucking dog,” Rebecca yelled back, “If you love Mr cruise so much why don’t you marry him instead. Then you can put up hundreds of photos of him.”

Which is a ridiculous statement because if I was married to Tom cruise and saw him everyday, I obviously wouldn’t need photos of him on the wall to look at. Also, if I was married to Tom cruise and we had a bare wall, we could probably afford a professional interior designer who knew what they were doing.

 

About me

I’m still deciding what to write for my next post, in the mean time here is a bit about me.
Hello I’m Ben,

 I read a blog once by someone who had bought a scarf and she went on for about three hundred paragraphs about her scarf and where she bought it and how it made her feel. Penned apparently by throwing a keyboard into a box full of squirrels and running the results through a quick spell-check. The last time I bought a scarf I wore it. End of story. I didn’t write a novel about it.


I keep telling myself that I should get fit but then I see people that I know and work with starting exercise routines and they become boring and talk about ‘reps’ and read out the amount of calories from food wrappers as if anybody cares. A year after going to the gym and becoming experts on the amount of water they should drink in a day, they are just as flabby as when they started but less interesting.

As I am constantly told I am too skinny, last year I paid £35 to join a gym. I attended twice. The first time for almost an hour, the second for only fifteen minutes when it dawned on me that a) the level of fitness of the people attending the gym was inversely proportional to the level of intelligence and that b) my instructor was not wearing anything under his Spandex bike pants and the wet semen spot would, in all probability, brush against me if I stayed there any longer. In hindsight, the money would have been better spent on takeaway food, alcohol and drugs. I am fairly fit due to regularly thinking about jogging and I once performed a jumping jack. It was unintentional and involved a spider on the bath mat but still counts. 


I enjoy cooking,  (except quorn, I refuse to eat something that looks so much like cat litter). My last girlfriend could not cook cook. She was capable of the process of cooking, but she cannot cook in the same way that an octopus cannot ride a bike; it has enough arms to reach the pedals and handlebars but the result will rarely be a successful journey from A to B. I once looked over her shoulder to discover her crumbling Alka-Seltzer tablets into a meal she was preparing because “they are salty and we ran out of salt.”


I like to watch films cuddles up under a duvet eating junk food on a cold rainy day. 

Recently, I was tricked into watching The Notebook which was about geese. Lots of geese. It also had something to do with an old lady who conveniently lost her memory so she could not remember being a whore throughout the entire film.


If I had a monkey, I would teach it to sing Kylie Minogue songs. Then if Kylie passed out on stage again I would be able to save the day by having my monkey finish the concert for her. The concert promotors would probably give me free tickets and promotional gifts. Kylie would be so thankful that she might send me an autographed photo and I could sell it on ebay for fifty pounds. I would buy drugs with the fifty dollars. Not for the monkey, for me.


 I do have a job (surprisingly) one of my old bosses had short man syndrome. I knew my first boss was going to be trouble as soon as I met him. He was small, and short men are almost always angry, horrible things. A woman being short is seen as cute, but a short man will never forgive the world for such a cruel blow. Small men hate normal sized humans. They wish them cancer and car accidents. They dream about being the size of an office block and stomping on all the normal sized people. Small men have fat wives with tight curly hair, and they are angry about that as well. I am sure there are many advantages of being so small. ASDA has and excellent range of boys clothing at competitive prices. If I was small I would buy a cat and ride it.  now I am the highest earner in my office, Except on Mondays when I am the drunkest. Although I spend most of the day playing a game called ‘staring at the wall wondering what happy are doing’ and answering calls by either ending each sentence with ‘over’ like I am talking on a walkie talkie then making the ‘kchssssch’ noise or pretending to be a confused Chinese woman.


Each Tuesday I held a disco in my bedroom with strobe lighting and special guest. As my wardrobe door has a large mirror on it, it looks like someone is dancing with you. I once dressed as a lady and it was almost exactly what I imagine dancing with a real lady would be like. Unfortunately, I kept worrying about falling, hitting my head and being found dressed that way so she left after only a few dances and a brief kiss.






  

Things my girlfriend has said this week….

“She only blinks with one eye” “Erm I think she’s winking bedders” 

” Lou Bega sang ‘mango number 5″

“the Sopranos is about some Mexicans”

“What’s the plural of Doritos?”

Me: “it’s @brianblessed”  Her  : “is that the fish finger man?” Me “no Bedders that’s captain Birdseye” 
“Why did they never make Titanic 2?” 

My blog highlights

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https://roman853.wordpress.com/2015/03/22/working-9-to-5-ish-2/
https://roman853.wordpress.com/2015/03/28/arguing-is-healthy-in-a-relationship/
https://roman853.wordpress.com/2015/03/23/bus-wanker-2/
https://roman853.wordpress.com/2015/03/23/daves-first-pof-message-2/
https://roman853.wordpress.com/2015/03/23/dave-does-dating-3/
https://roman853.wordpress.com/2015/02/04/in-my-defence-4/