Irish Teenagers’ Mystery Sex

The [UNICEF] report on sexual health and behaviour [of Irish teenagers] found:

– 82 per cent had had full penetrative sex while 10 per cent said they didn’t know what type of sex they had had.

Obviously this is a new kind of sex invented by the Catholic Church. It involves having full penetrative sex without actually touching your partner’s or you own naughty bits.

Yeah, that explains it. I think.

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Cardinal Sin

For Sale Two Teenagers, Hardly Used

A woman in America faces trial after selling two children in her care for $170 (about £100) and a white cockatiel.
I dunno, sounds like a plan to me, so here goes.

FOR SALE

TWo Teenagers, 1 male, 1 female.
One careful owner
Good condition, certainly not worn out or over worked, although female has yet to develop a sense of direction.
Extras:- inability to get out of bed
rapacious appetite
incredibly untidy
selective deafness
expect to be waited on hand and foot
exceptional levels of rudeness to adults in
household
charming, polite and witty to adults outside
household
Very clean, enjoy long periods in the
bathroom grooming
reasonably housetrained although they both
appear to have an aversion to putting lids
down on toilets, tops on tubes of toothpaste,
spot cream and shampoo and conditioner
Full vocabulary including abbreviations CBA;
WTF; OMG and like whatever.

All reasonable offers considered.
No time wasters.
Will NOT accept a cockatiel, cats would argue over who got to eat it.

How To Embarrass Your Teenage Daughter #163

1) Go to a large DIY store.

2) Send her off to the paint aisle.

3) Wait patiently for ten minutes.

4) Have a quick look up and down the neighbouring aisles to see if you can see her.

5)Go to the customer service desk and explain that you have mislaid your child.

6) Supply the information that she (currently) has purple hair, is wearing a black top and black leggings, has stripy foundation on her face, is 5 foot six, and is 17 years old.

7) Stand by as they put an announcement out over the tannoy.

8) Wait for red-faced teenager to be escorted to customer service desk by kindly assistant.

Shock! Horror! You Mean It Wasn’t True?

Little Alfie Patten, thirteen going on seven year old, is said to be devastated that DNA tests have proved he is not the father of ‘girlfriend’ Chantelle Stedman’s daughter, Maisie.
Alfie claimed, or at least whoever was manipulating him did, that he had been going out with Chantelle for two years, that she had been a virgin and that he was the only boy she had slept with.
However there then followed a parade of teenaged boys claiming that they had slept with Chantelle, at her home, with her mother’s knowledge and implicit consent.
A bit like that scene in Spartacus really.
“I slept with Chantelle nine months ago.”
“I slept with Chantelle nine months ago.”
“I slept with Chantelle nine months ago.”
It was at this point that social sevices stepped in, right on the ball, as usual, and an injunction was obtained banning any more reporting on the story. DNA samples were taken from all the boys involved and it now turns out that a lad called Tyler Barker is the father.
Tyler would have been fourteen at the time of conception, which is really a tad young to be doing anything more than sniggering over your Dad’s secret porn pile, wouldn’t make half such a good story.
He also looks like a typical teenager, spiky hair, cheeky grin, a bit of a twinkle in his eye, not nearly as interesting as the almost infantesque Alfie.
Makes you wonder about the motivation for bringing the story of Alfie and Chantelle onto the front pages really, doesn’t it?
Was it public interest or was it the lure of The Sun’s chequebook and the chance for the infamous fifteen minutes of fame.

Suffice to say I’m sure anyone with half a brain was, like Boggartblog, extremely sceptical of the claim in the first place.

THE DAILY STIRRER
and don’t forget all the other Greenteeth Multi Media pages…
Greenteeth Multi Media
bogboggart
Greenteeth Comedy Pages
A Tale Told By An Idiot

Wonder of Woolworths and the The Pick And Mix Recession.

It is turning into the pick and mix recession, bad news is hitting some hard but bypassing others. As some banks go under and others get bailed out, as the car makers beg for a bailout while makes of wind turbines are protected from the chill winds of the credit crunch by subsidies, house prices tumble while heating costs soar.

The only recession proof industries, according to Tony Soprano, are gambling, prostitution and organised crime but even so purveyor of shite usually prosper. It is a measure then of how bad the current recession truly is when we learn that the nation’s favourite purveyors of pure unmitigated shite, Woolworths, have gone belly – up.

Throughout my life and the lives of my parents Woolworths has been a High Street institution, the number one supplier of cheap tat. Now they find themselves squeezed in the jaws of the credit crunch and impaled on the twin horns of global Wal-Martisation and the availability of cheap imported tat from China. Say what you like about Woolworths tat but it was good, sound British tat. Our tat is the equal of any in the world and we should defend it.

Not only did Woolworths successfully sell shite, they made it acceptable for middle class people to shop there, giving a veneer of respectability to a bag full of rubbish by enabling people to strike a virtuously thrifty pose against the chavviness of other cheap retailers.

Two things stick in my generation’s assembled minds about Woolworths, the records and the pick and mix. The records were terrible own-label cover of big hits of the day attributed to unknown singers with ludicrously uncommercial names. An Elvis Presley song might be covered by Stan Gomersall or somebody, one Cliff Richard sound-not-very-much-alike was later revealed as Tony effing Blackburn. This is a measure of how uncool Woolworths records were. To own a Woolworths record was social death for teenagers. I even heard that someone called Reg Dwight had covered hit for Woolworths. How could anybody with a name so dull have any musical talent?

The Pick and Mix counter was a different matter altogether. Bizarrely flavoured and coloured sweets, chocolates and candies were displayed in plastic bins, customers collected a bag and moved along the display adding a few of these, a few of those until they had collected their own bodyweight in the various concoctions of sugar and toxic chemicals many of which were so unnaturally coloured one felt they would probably glow in the dark. The colours and the foul aftertaste did not change the fact that Woolworths Pick – and – Mix was gloriously addictive. Where will sugar addicts get their fix if the chain closes. Sorry about that rhyme, I’m not up for poet laureate, it was entirely accidental. I’m not mental, a job like that is inconsequential.

As addictive as the pick and mix choices were, the records were equally repellent so we who sucked saspirella tablets while listening to tuneless and lacklustre recordings of Satisfaction or Please Please Me will not come over sentimental. Woolworth promised much but in the end neither pleased not satisfied. A metaphor for life really.

Goodbye Woolworths, we’ll miss you but not much.

Odd Socks The Cause Of Teenage Angst

I was on the phone to our dear old Mum the other day and the conversation turned to my offspring.
I launched into my habitual moan about BBC’s lifestyle, lying in bed ’till 11 or 12 o’clock, or even later, stumbling into the office mid afternoon, disappearing off to the pub at about 9pm and not coming home ’till 1 or 2 in the morning, just the usual teenage behaviour really, and my moaning about it is just the usual parent behaviour I guess, after all we used to stay out till the small hours, however we did get up to go to work, but there were plenty of proper jobs about in those days.
Anyway she listened to me banging on and then she came out with, “It’s all your fault he’s turned out the way he has, letting him wear odd socks when he was a toddler and talking to him as if he could understand!”
Stunned silence from me, yes I did talk to him as if he could understand, because he could, but let him wear odd socks? Never!
I reckon she’s getting BBC confused with The Rolling Stoned reporter, after all Ian’s a bit of a rebel when it comes to socks.

I’m Moving to Nebraska

The global economy continues to melt, which is obviously an unforseen effect of global warming, although you have to say that with everything getting warmer we all should have seen it coming.
Gordon the Terrible thinks he can convince everybody to follow his flagship economic rescue package and so save the world. Hopefully les powers that be will not forget that during the previous 11 years it was Gordon at the helm of our financial ship and we’re in no better state than anybody else. Just wait until the world finds out that Gordi has been investing our hard earned taxes in Iceland, what you didn’t know?, why do you think he so vociferously asked Iceland to give it back the other day?
Anyway that’s not the reason I’m moving to Nebraska, I fear they are in an even worse situation than we are and very shortly they are going to have a plonker for President, yet again. (I have to say America, just look at what electing Tony Blair did for us,and for the other candidate you’ve already had W for nearly eight years, you don’t need to go through it again.) Vote for Yogi Bear or somebody like that; Tom with Gerry for VP, T.C. and Choo-Choo, Officer Dribble for Attorney General there must be oodles of viable candidates out there, it’s a big country.
But I digress, you need to know why I, and probably very soon, thousands of others like me, from all over England, will soon be moving to Nebraska.
You know that in certain countries they have “baby safes” at hospitals and convents, where mothers can go and deposit their unwanted babies, anonymously, with no fear of legal or social reprisals?
There’s a little door in an outside wall, which opens onto a space furnished with a crib and blankets. The mum places the baby in the safe and closes the door. This activates an alarm within the convent or hospital and the baby is collected and taken in to be cared for. Civilised innit?
Now apparently in America, all ot the individual states have passed legislation allowing for the same principle, parents can place unwanted children in the care of the local hospital. Some states will even accept children up to the age of five or six.
But not Nebraska. Oh no. For all of you out there who procreated back in the ’90s, Nebraska is the place to be.
They have raised the age at which children can be taken to the hospital and left, no strings (particularly apron strings) attached,
just leave your kids and walk away, no further contact, ever
no charges of abandonment or neglect, just get back on with living your own life,
tempting isn’t it?
well Nebraska have raised the age limit, as I was saying
up to……EIGHTEEN !!!!!!!!

Yo!

Sir Hector Gobbett-Broadsides on Child Labour