Hello, punters, and welcome to a peep-hole on Minge. I was thinking of a glory-hole, but it's just not proper, is it?
Here, today, we find Minge in the same old threadbare jeans as we always do. He wears them to make him feel good about himself as they're a 32" waist. He also thinks they're trendy and are hopefully knocking one or two years off of the forty years old people usually guess when his age is in question.
Today, dear reader, sentence construction is not his strong point.
The socks are stripey. They make him feel funky. The underpants are white CK briefs. They stop him from feeling a sexless frump.
Over the top of a Madonna white reinvention tour t-shirt, we find him wearing a grey jumper received as a Christmas present almost a year ago. Contrary to its perceived quality, garnered chiefly by its expense, it's quite bobbled. He will not stoop so low as buying a de-bobbling device since he feels only middle aged housewives would even consider such a purchase. Instead, he picks them off by hand when there's nothing better to do and scatters them, willy-nilly, about his abode.
Let's have a look at that gnarled old face, now, dear reader. Notice the brown eyes. His parents both have blue eyes. The milkman delivering to his parents' home in the early 1970s had brown eyes. His Mother claims not to have had sex with her husband for a good year before Minge was conceived. Do I have to spell it out?
The eyes are one thing, but the eyebrows are another. Look how sparse and patchy they are, baby. Any hair longer than the others must be removed. Others are pulled out during periods of worry or upset. Some people bite their nails to the quick, some self harm, others simply cry. Minge pulls the hairs out from his eyebrows. Plucking into a beautiful crescent could be quite gay. Massacring them into something a bag lady might be ashamed at having is awful.
The hair is bleached in some wild attempt to make it look like there's more of it. The desperate, bald old queen. It's sad, really, isn't it, my darling?
The beard goes unshaven for yet another day. Typically, shaving takes place perhaps only twice a week. Not because there's no reason to shave, dear reader, no, simply because Minge is a lazy bugger who can't be arsed.
He is clean, though, showering daily. He was under the fine drizzle of his electric excuse for a shower this morning at 09:00 for at least ten minutes. The shower gel may be Armani, but it's not environmentally friendly. Tut, tut.
The finger nails are short and bitten. This is not a nervous habbit, he just hates long nails (perhaps he was a lezza in a former life?) so bites them down. It's easier than searching for nail scissors or clippers. He'd like to know why nail scissors don't work when a right handed person is trying to cut finger nails on their right hand.
He's been listening to Pandora for the past forty minutes but is tired of that, now. It must be time for Liza. She always makes him feel chirpy. He wonders if Liza could make anyone feel down?
After a visit to his GP this morning, he's more worried than ever about a lump on his tongue, he's also been feeling sad about the death of poor Babsy and is having problems with inappropriate and uncomfortable thoughts. Pie charts play a large part in this problem. Not everything can be represented as a pie chart, you know, dear reader. He's also concerned that for the past three nights, he's had dreams about Anal. Not the act, the black man as seen at the bowling alley last Friday.
I don't want you to come away from this blog at all worried, now, dear reader. Fret not. Those jeans will be washed tomorrow and for one, maybe two days, other trousers shall be worn.
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