Tale's of a modern day twat - The ultimate DVD collectors item. But with no extras
In an effort to clear up confusion, write one of the longest QOTW responses and lay claim to the ultimate pearoast, I have cobbled together the 4 parts of my “Tales of a modern day twat” story. This is not a re-write and therefore it does not contain a Honda Accord. Sorry for this. Length is a gift, please accept this kindly.

This is some loosely based facts and stories about a guy who claimed to be my boss.......... He is called Paul Fright and is, was, and always will be a complete turd.

Paul would take great pleasure in seeing someone else make a mistake (drop something, trip over, soil yourself etc) by standing near the person, arms folded, shaking his head with a huge shit-eating grin on his face before unleashing some frighteningly cutting and witty remark along the lines of "I don't think you wanted to do that!" Before bowling off and tell all and sundry what a prat you were for fucking up.

He droned on and on about "Uni" and how wacky it is to be a student, have no money, get blitzed on booze every night of the week and have an abundance of sexually active ladies running around him, while at the same time looking like a complete penis with ill-fitting trousers, thick glasses and a laugh that sounds more like a sedated hyena than a human being; working every day God sends, then going out for a night on the town in work uniform, having 4 pints of piss-weak beer and then go of his nut puking over his only work-clothes and then getting blasted by every single girl he comes into contact with, eventually getting raped by two burly overweight men in an alleyway before stumbling home to get a bollocking off his Mum for getting in late.

Sunday afternoons in the Fright household consist of hefty religious gangbang sessions where the family all sit around admiring how great they are while pondering how far his dad can get his fist up his old dears Gary glitter. This is swiftly followed by some hairy-handed adolescent activity in his darkened bedroom with nothing more than a torch and his dad's second hand copy of scouts monthly. After many seconds of vigorous hand shuffling he spills his "Cuntridden" spunk over his hand and then lets the family dog lick it off.

After appearing in court on charges of sexual deviance and pissing off the judge so much that he thinks twice about the use of capital punishment, he swans into work with a swagger that suggest pre teen buggery has taken place in the last few minutes, on his day off. Wearing the most god awful attire (usually consisting of the shittest market stall trainers, the tightest drain pipe stonewash jeans that look like something bon jovi would wear while laxing round the gaff and a t-shirt that would probably say something along the lines of "look busy, Jesus is coming") to tell one and all that they are doing everything wrong no matter what their boss has told them and then proclaim that things you are doing are never going to be as good as the things he has achieved in other places.

He leaves work after an hour of pissing everyone off to the point of bloody murder and strolls gentry down to the nearest church group to offer his mundane drivel to nearest poor sap who is willing to lend a misplaced ear. After a fragrant attempt at luring a young boy into the toilets he leaves with his tail between his legs and off to fight another court order.

On finishing his 89-hour shift at work, Paul then swings past the local orphanage to laugh at the children. He starts to take his spying a little too seriously when he is caught hanging from the 3rd floor window with his trousers round his ankles, cackling manically, with his glasses all wonky.
In the police-cell Paul meets a charming man called Dave, who is 7ft tall, built like oil tanker and has the word "Dave" tattooed backwards on his head. After several minutes of silence, Dave stands up and bangs his head on an overhanging pipe. The resultant roaring laughter from Paul infuriates Dave to the point where he threatens to turn his entire body inside-out and bugger him in the face if he doesn't shut his stupid horse-mouth. Paul, in a moment of weakness retorts that Dave "looks like he's been through a hedge backwards, and is gay." But Before Dave is able to tear Paul's DNA out a policeman enters to take Paul away for processing.

Once bailed from the cells Paul takes a long walk home, mincing along like a right pranny and notices a dying sheep in a field, mewing intermittently with its eyes rolling back in its head and all maggots and flies penetrating the already decaying flesh.
After contracting genital warts and the plague off the dead sheep Paul decides his best plan of action, rather than going to a doctor for antibiotics, is to burn off the warts with some lighter fluid and a match. Inevitably, he sets fire to his entire crotch and runs panic-stricken into the local Nuns-Against-Arson meeting at the school hall. He is chased by a gang of pissed-off nuns who corner him and begin to bat at his bollocks with lead-piping to put the fire out and to release his tiny dick from the hands of the devil. Unfortunately Paul flies into a fit of rage upon hearing one of the nuns whisper something to the effect of "Look at the size of that tosser's willy. You couldn't plug a pin-hole leak with that." And savagely beats 3 nuns to death.

His actions alert the police and he tries to hide from them by dressing as a baby but this only creates further problems as he finally found by the SWAT team, in a nursery, wearing only a toddler's nappy, crying and defecating wildly. His embarrassing attire is made all the worse when he is kept wearing it all night before being thrown into a cell. With Dave.

Upon realising his unbelievable good fortune Dave, who by now has the has the sexual frustration and anger of a bachelor rhino on Viagra who has lost the use of his limbs, grins from ear to ear as the odly dressed and shit smelling Paul Fright is dragged into Dave's cavernous layer. The resulting hours of endless violence, torture, nasal buggery and humiliation towards young fright do not dent that thick skinned outer layer that surrounds his socially unaware soul. He lays in bed that night thinking that this kind of abuse does not hold a candle compared to what he gets at home. As a fait tear drips down his cheek, the slight flicker of an erection from his penis, what can only be medically described as "pathetic", gently arouses him as he plots his future.

During his trial he decides to represent himself in court as no self-respecting lawyer would touch him with a fifty-foot shit stick. After many hours of endless monotony and court attendees subtly and repeatedly coughing the word "cunt", the jury turns in a verdict of not guilty. When the judge said "what the Fuck" the Forman of jury replied "releasing a man like this back into the community can only serve in the aid of social evolution of our nation. Upon meeting him everyone will be aware of what a complete and utter cunt he actually is and will turn there life around on the spot". With these words resonating around his ears he stands up, folds his arms and laughs like chimpanzee with his balls caught in a metal vice.

With justice served Paul wonders merrily down to the nearest Starbucks for a coffee still wearing the same shit and piss stained clothes. In a sarcastic and moronic tone while playing with his glasses with one hand and fluttering his eyes in a way that suggests a stroke is imminent, he orders a double grande,moccachino,frappechino,espresso with Soya milk and fair trade sugar. Blissfully Unaware of the persistent giggling and hushed name calling that is going on behind the counter he sits down to read is copy of "modern railway collector".

To relieve himself of the stress of relentless court appearances and arrests, Paul decides his best option is to take a short holiday in Beirut. He orders his tickets for an Easy-Jet extra-economy seat (due to his chronic tight-fistedness) and proceeds to board the plane. On finding his extremely small seat (with hay instead of cushions, and a pocket fan with shit smeared on it instead of air-conditioning) he found himself sitting squeezing in between two tramps. Both tramps appear confused due to excessive quantities of alcohol and meth-amphetamines in their system and proceed to drill Paul with random conversation. Unfortunately for the tramps they touch upon the subject of child-molestation on which Paul is an expert. After 3 and half hours of lurid details involving Paul and St Josephs-Boys-Under-12 choir group, the tramps decide to move seats, leaving Paul to stare out of the plane window over the war-torn capital of Lebanon. As the plane touches down Paul decides to go for a jaunt around the city but is instantly pulled up by immigration for numerous sexual offences committed in Britain. However after explaining it was all an accident, the officials let him go into town.

Paul, being a monumental wanker, heads straight for the porno theatre for some continental thrills. 10 minutes into the sex show, Paul manages to entice one of the ladies into a secluded booth, and attempt a bit of 'romance'. Upon finishing his liaison the lady reveals herself to be an old man, and the numerous photographs he had just taken of them together could only be bought for a high price. Paul, being a legendary skin-flint, refuses to pay up and a fight breaks out, with the transvestite old-man beating Paul with a foot-long shit-encrusted dildo whilst Paul attempts to pull his trousers up. The cheap-as-shit trousers Paul has on falls to bits, and he is left running through the Lebanon streets in only a pair of Postman Pat boxers and white socks, with two different sets of cum and shit pasted all over his body.
The ensuing riot that kicks off as a result of the grievous act of heresy of Paul's running through the street leads to an international incident, with Paul at the front line. After pleading ignorance and crying to the judge he is let off with a fine.

Paul then beats a hasty exit back to England, whereupon he is flogged by the public for being such a knob. In the melee at Luton airport Paul's glasses are broken leaving him as blind as teenage boy who has just discovered the internet. His disorientation and latent stupidity leads him to a meeting for right-wing extremists at the local church. His inappropriate laughter during one of the fascist leader's emphatic speeches draws attention to the 100-strong band of skin-head thugs. When someone asked "What the fuck was that garish sniggering?" Paul shouted, hilariously to his own mind, "Your Mum." As Paul was unable to see where he was or the company he was sitting with, he was equally unaware of the impending violence that was coming his way in the form of hammers to the knees, Dr Marten's boots to the testicles, and bolt-cutters to his tongue.

Strangely, Paul survived this onslaught and woke up in hospital the next morning in a full-body cast. He tried to ask one of the nurses if she could cut a hole in the cast so he could use the toilet, which she duly did. She accidentally slipped her scissors right up his bell-end when cutting the hole, after Paul made a woeful attempt at chatting her up. When the nurse bandaged his puny dick up she revealed someone had come to meet him. His eyes pricked up when he was told he had a visitor. After a few minutes a familiar lady entered the room and threw a couple of photos onto his bed. Unable to move and having difficulty breathing, Paul began to fear for his life when he realized it was the old man from his trip. Luckily for Paul he hadn't visited to kill him, but felt concern as the old man gradually lifted a smile from his lips as he unzipped his trousers. "Convenient hole you've made for yourself there." The old man said as he pulled the bed curtains around Paul's bed.

After leaving hospital with minor anus burns and penis abrasions, Paul decides to have a change of appearance due to the fact that everyone wants to either kill him or have him hung, draw and quartered in public. Upon realising he has no cash he goes off to the cash point to withdraw some wonga. After spending twenty minutes at one machine organising his savings, mortgage and loans he had irritated one old pensioner to the point where she threatened to stick her walking stick where the sun doesn't shine and kick seven shades of shite out of him.

Leaving the cash point with only a tenner, Paul could her the words "fuck off you tight-fisted malingering cunt" being loudly and violently screamed at him by a gang of valium and HRT addicted pensioners. Being an ignorant and misinformed arrogant knob, Paul thinks they are shouting at a bunch of school kids who where laughing there heads off across the street. What Paul did not realise is that the teenagers were gut laughing at the incredibly noticeable shit stain of the back of his "cheap as shit", white, drainpipe trousers.

However, after spending some time out of the country waiting for the "heat to die down", Paul is blissfully unaware of what style is going down with the kids. He decides that a certain level of research is in order and makes his merry way along to the local bowling alley to pucker up on his fashion knowledge. Being tighter than a ducks arse, Paul uses his crumpled up bus ticket to get a cheaper lane. He purposely asks for the lane next to a group of girls who are celebrating there friends fifteenth birthday, but what caught Paul's eye was the distinct lack of adult supervision.

When it comes to these sorts of things Paul is quicker than a rat up a hippies flairs with cheese tied to his knob. But just before he went to his lane Paul buys a drink, with his arms crossed and I his usual cockfesting sarcastic voice he asks for a "yard of your finest ale please innkeeper", in an equally ironic sarcastic tone the spotty faced teenager behind the counter replies "not before I've seen your finest rectangular ID please, TWAT". Being the though fledged dick that he is, Paul digs out old uni card and invariantly dropped a shit load of pictures out of his wallet that look like a rather ugly man shoving a oversized, shit stained black dildo up the rectum of a man in a dress. After some hefty conversation that went along the lines of:

"your a twat"
"what was that prey just said?"
"your a twat, now get fucked and die"
"excuse me my good man"
"I'm not your good man, What part of fuck off don't you understand?"
"pardon comrade"
"just fuck off and take your cunting drink"

Paul was walked away thinking that the service is nothing to what his Iceland days were like, Paul made his way to his lane holding his piss warm carling that has been blatantly spat in by the barman. While looking for his right size ball he was standing next to some blokes and Paul happened to make his usual off the cuff nosey, cuntish comment. "selecting your weapon are you gentleman" to which was swiftly replied "piss off you nonce".

Paul knew he had a real skill at bowling due a miss spent youth hanging round bowling alleys with church groups and work outings EVERY FUCKING Friday night and in later life as a male prostitute looking for business from rich sweedish business men. He knew this was his chance to impress the young ladies on the adjacent lane with his three finger skill. upon bowling a strike on his first go he was expected a certain level off accolade from the girls but he was greeted with laughter and looks of disgust from the girls. Because Paul is a monumental tramp of the highest order, he was wearing the same clothes he was wearing in hospital and was completely unaware that all the stagnant cum stains that the dirty tranny had left on his black trousers were standing out under the neon lights like a "Black man in a Klan rally".

Realising that he cool factor was at minus one million Paul promptly finished his game and left for the arcade............

I have never seen him since he got fired for sexual harassment, i hope i never do.
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 20:48, 5 replies)

erm
I don't know what to say. I'll click for the length if anything.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 21:57, closed)

tl; du

(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 23:51, closed)

Shouldn't the title of this be "Circe"?

( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 23:58, closed)

Mildly exaggerated?
In any case, well told! *clicks*
(Cloudane, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 1:18, closed)

Fantastic. I remember reading something about all this in the reputable tabloids....
(ihaveab3tanamenow, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 10:00, closed)