Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Good Night, and Good Luck

The following is for those who have upcoming exams or are in between them; these feelings and actions are of the complete norm:

(Note: Exclude yourself to this list if you either listen in class, study regularly, plan on being a dead beat or just don't give a fuck.)


1) You carry a stanley knife with you at all times to self-inflict pain.
2)In order to gain knowledge you would suck the lactating breast off of your teachers saggy arms, and the worst bit is it sounds incredibely fair.
3)Spending the equivalant time of your exams inside a rubbish bin is reasonable.
4) You could cry from the pain and foreboding exam but you choose to laugh hysterically
5) Every single time the superviser looks at you drool happens to hit your exam paper.
6) Even if you aren't cheating a superviser's death glare can drive you into a paranoid frenzy
7)You have enough time to write the 50 states of America, the American presidents and chip off your nail polish.
8) Avoidance is key in the fear of fail.
9)Mutiple choice answers give you mutiple orgasms.



now you do what they told ya


Similie of the post: He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Cool Kids Never Have the Time (to read shit of this length)

Okay, we aren’t gossip mongrels. What's written here is pretty much the fruit which has spawned from our loins or else it is just some form from pop culture, calm the fuck down, there’s no place for B, S or J here.

So here's an idea, "The Nicest Thing". We call bullshit on Kate Nash's song of that title. Under lists of BlogBear and Dirtbag's nicest things versus saddest it'd definitely fall beneath the latter. Having someone suck on your earlobe shits on it in terms of the nicest. Honestly, an eargasm, but not in the way Kim Gordon would mean, is the mother of nicest things.

Now how's this for the possible rankest thing:

Just the other evening Dirtbag's thumb became persistently itchy and so naturally she scratched it against her front teeth. Not long after she rubs her lips with her index finger then upon examining her finger she realises that there's some kind of small thing there. Well turns out it’s a mosquito, dead, with his own little crime scene on her finger. Dying surrounded by someone else’s blood, there’s really no other way to die and really nothing else quite as feral.

Blogbear calls bullshit to that being the most feral thing in realisation that dirtbag has witnessed worse.

Now THIS is the most feral thing:

In a hotel bed in camdodia amidst sheets and legs beside her friend imagele (named after a horse) Dirtbag once woke up to the sound of cats dying. At first she thought it was a baby crying but then it became undeniable, she could hear the death cry of a fuck load of cats from being beaten to the ground, contained in a large hessian bag. In the alley next door there was possibly the seediest bar in the world and so perched on the window sill Dirtbag felt quite comfortable having looked out onto the night’s habits and inhabitants many nights in a row. When usually she had tuned in to watch “Broken Bricks” in all its gritty glory with Satanism message boards, a scrawny drunk owner in a Manchester United shirt, fights out front and two Khmer children whom worked there and retreated to bunk beds, visible to Dirtbag through a window, and not always slept alone, tonight she got the blockbuster appearance of a Dario Argento’s reverse of which ever local cat lady you’d like to imagine. When she was through with beating the cats she opened them out it to this fucking caldron like thing, a massive pot, full of boiling water. The night's effect was starting to get a little dodgy now as it got later into the night/furthermore into the next day and so Dirtbag could see that the cats still wore their skin along with its fur. She watched as the woman stirred the pot all through the night then as she set up shop, literally, and begun to serve her stew to people in the morning. Phenom Pen’s locals actually ate the shit for their breakfast, some delicacy you got there Cambodia.






Anyways, we should put some effort towards defying our titles, this is BlogProcrastinatorBear and DirtCuntBag right. Time to go shake off our bad reputations. yo ho, yo ho, it's off to work we go...


oh but first, how much do you miss this guy
well we sure do.



And last but not least: Simile of the post: She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Whatcha bloggin' at BlogBear?


Good evening Personhood,

This is Dirtbag and BlogBear here, your none and only source into the un-scandalous lives of the scum of the earth. Top story on our page? Questions may arise about the state of dirtbag's hands, completely taped over, and it is fair enough that people will conclude to the next plausible and very possible reasons:

1) Dirtbag gave hand to a man with a rose for a penis. For those who do not have a vivid imagination we shall describe to you this delicious meal. The penis began with a beautiful pink rose head like velvet petals which sent Dirtbag into an orgasmic frenzy hence why she gave it hand, little did she realise that it possessed a shaft of thorns. Alas her hands bled like the mark of a rub and tug virgin.

2) hollysgotablender@hotmail.com

3) In a plea of courtly love Dirtbag took up boxing for BlogBear (BlogBear loves Million Dollar Baby and finds a 66 year old Morgan Freeman sexually appealing).

4) Dirtbag was lonely without BlogBear last night so she tried to pleasure herself by fingering which wasn't enough for the hussy that she is so she double fisted herself until she realised she possessed vagina dentata. Visual interpretation: Rebecca/Sibyl meets Kill Bill Volume 1/Jaws.

5) She's a cuntface.

6) Here's how it really went: Dirtbag punched some random real good who called bullshit on her existence, so she goes to punch them again but hits a wall instead. The Bullshitter's whore knocks Dirtbag over with her come-fuck-me boots into a dangerous pile of broken bottles.

Make up your mind and say what you will but it's defiantly one of these reasons.


Doesn't BlogBear love it when:
  • she wakes up at 1:10pm and realises half of her day has gone and all those ambitious plans have also gone to shit. (Yeah but doesn't Dirtbag love it more when BlogBear doesn't wake up till 4:00pm despite many phone calls to landlines and mobiles. Especially when she was sent off by a cab that night and nobody had heard from her since. Yes Dirtbag loves the near certain death of BlogBear.)
  • Dirtbag acts like BlogBears needy girlfriend, what with the constant calls and moans.
  • she has to write an English Lit. essay which is over a month late (where she proves to be better than Dirtbag who has not written any of hers), conquer a never-ending list of Maths homework, know more than she would like to know about her circulatory and digestive system, a Drama assignment where she has to make miniature fridges and chairs (this is where being a ratio-perfectionist really doesn't come handy for time), a Philosophy assignment that will enlighten your perspective on whether a computer can be a person, a History essay that is long over-due on how 'the economic and social policies of successive Republican Governments allowed for the world of inequality intolerance and squalor' towards the African Americans during the 1920s' (please do not be impressed for this is pretty much all Blogbear has done. (also the reason why Dirtbag doesn't do any social sciences: 'Pol Pot and Robert Mugabe are different because one is white and the other is black' the teacher than corrected her in-class essay with "Pol Pot was not white")).
  • she knows this is a load of crap and no one is going to read this.

Simile of the post thanks to our good ol' American highschoolers: He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

Note to reader: Our blog is an art of 12 years of familiarity, seven years of friendship, three years going steady and one year of mind-boggling sex (mind-blogging sex for the pun-needy) . There's really no one else to blame but yourself when you don't understand us. Don't wanna sound cocky but whats google for?