Spasticology is the study of spastic behaviour,
Unlike Spasteologists, who discover these people with spastic nature.
Unlike Spasteologists, who discover these people with spastic nature.
Room One O Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime
- Thread starter Plechazunga
- Start date
- Status
I didn't realize the field of Spasticity was so diverse to have 2 separate fields of study!!Salvation said:
Sincher seems to have gone AWOL.
Nominate someone else Plechtard.
Nominate someone else Plechtard.
No I haven't. I was composing. Have that.
I can't tell you just how much I hate,
When rushing to work (I'm usually late),
To switch the local radio on,
Only to hear a fecking Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime
Spraffing away, on this, on that -
This fecking spastic ‘breezy’ chat,
About the weather, or news, whatever
I think they think they're cocking clever,
But let me tell you - no they're not,
They should be knifed, or maybe shot
Or maybe flayed, and then castrated...
…I thought all this, then masturbated,
The rest of the day, and all of the night,
And then knew I was fecking right,
Cos the sounds that came from hand and cock
When I came into my old grey sock,
Were considerably more bright and clever
Than any cnut on local radio – ever,
So please Plech, hear my plaintive song,
Chuck Local DJs in 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
And once they’re in, I’ll let them natter
With FIFA cockend, Joseph Blatter,
Or Sepp, as he’s known, the obvious gay,
Who justifies his massive pay,
By talking such unutterable shite,
Like scousers trying to say ‘Dirk Kuijt’
And adding twattish regulations,
Like punishing goal celebrations;
Banning all draws – that’s another aim,
‘Let silver goals decide the game’
You what? For feck’s sake, please just die,
With silver pins stuck in each eye,
Or eaten whole by a red setter,
Your view of football would be better
If blind, and dead, and yet I’d settle
For impaling you on a piece of metal,
Or even, throwing you headlong,
Directly into 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
For my third choice, I’ll be more brief
Like a hooker giving hand relief
But only for five fun-packed seconds,
Until the next hot punter beckons,
She only fits in five quick wanks,
‘Yeah, thanks!’ As shit as High Street Banks,
Who won’t give you the time of day
Although they take your hard-earned pay
And give you really shit amounts
Of interest, in their wank accounts
You know I’m right, you know they’re wrong,
Just fling ‘em into 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
And next to last, not watersports,
They’re shit and pissy though – Airports
It’s like the worst twats in the world
Into one place have all been hurled
To wait for a retarded plane
And slowly, surely, go insane
‘Did you pack your bags yourself?’
‘No, I employed a tiny elf’
‘Do you have a bomb in your bag?’
‘Yeah, just for you, you fecking slag’
It makes me mad to write about ‘em
The world is better off without ‘em
So, please Plech, don’t delay too long,
Just send ‘em into 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
And finally, if you decree
That the level of spasticity
Of any of those is not enough,
Then my final vote, though this is tough,
Is to you, Plech - you’d have to be
A fecking Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime if you can’t see
The spastication of my list
You’d either be insane or pissed
To reprieve them from that hellish place
Where Drogba sucks on Kenyon’s face
And Keegan has a game of Jenga
With Sven, and Tord, and Arsene Wenger,
While Diarra, or should I call him Yatta,
Sucks off the devil, and then Sepp Blatter.
So don’t too anything too drastic,
Declare all four of my things spastic.
I can't tell you just how much I hate,
When rushing to work (I'm usually late),
To switch the local radio on,
Only to hear a fecking Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime
Spraffing away, on this, on that -
This fecking spastic ‘breezy’ chat,
About the weather, or news, whatever
I think they think they're cocking clever,
But let me tell you - no they're not,
They should be knifed, or maybe shot
Or maybe flayed, and then castrated...
…I thought all this, then masturbated,
The rest of the day, and all of the night,
And then knew I was fecking right,
Cos the sounds that came from hand and cock
When I came into my old grey sock,
Were considerably more bright and clever
Than any cnut on local radio – ever,
So please Plech, hear my plaintive song,
Chuck Local DJs in 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
And once they’re in, I’ll let them natter
With FIFA cockend, Joseph Blatter,
Or Sepp, as he’s known, the obvious gay,
Who justifies his massive pay,
By talking such unutterable shite,
Like scousers trying to say ‘Dirk Kuijt’
And adding twattish regulations,
Like punishing goal celebrations;
Banning all draws – that’s another aim,
‘Let silver goals decide the game’
You what? For feck’s sake, please just die,
With silver pins stuck in each eye,
Or eaten whole by a red setter,
Your view of football would be better
If blind, and dead, and yet I’d settle
For impaling you on a piece of metal,
Or even, throwing you headlong,
Directly into 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
For my third choice, I’ll be more brief
Like a hooker giving hand relief
But only for five fun-packed seconds,
Until the next hot punter beckons,
She only fits in five quick wanks,
‘Yeah, thanks!’ As shit as High Street Banks,
Who won’t give you the time of day
Although they take your hard-earned pay
And give you really shit amounts
Of interest, in their wank accounts
You know I’m right, you know they’re wrong,
Just fling ‘em into 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
And next to last, not watersports,
They’re shit and pissy though – Airports
It’s like the worst twats in the world
Into one place have all been hurled
To wait for a retarded plane
And slowly, surely, go insane
‘Did you pack your bags yourself?’
‘No, I employed a tiny elf’
‘Do you have a bomb in your bag?’
‘Yeah, just for you, you fecking slag’
It makes me mad to write about ‘em
The world is better off without ‘em
So, please Plech, don’t delay too long,
Just send ‘em into 1-0-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime.
And finally, if you decree
That the level of spasticity
Of any of those is not enough,
Then my final vote, though this is tough,
Is to you, Plech - you’d have to be
A fecking Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime if you can’t see
The spastication of my list
You’d either be insane or pissed
To reprieve them from that hellish place
Where Drogba sucks on Kenyon’s face
And Keegan has a game of Jenga
With Sven, and Tord, and Arsene Wenger,
While Diarra, or should I call him Yatta,
Sucks off the devil, and then Sepp Blatter.
So don’t too anything too drastic,
Declare all four of my things spastic.
Last is the best sincher.sincher said:
brilliant
that's a masterpiece sincher said:
sincher that is tremendous! An instant classic post!!
Quality.
RIP Sincher
i await Plech giving a verdict on himself
Terribly dissapointing post from Sincher
Plech, we have been patiently waiting to see the verdicts. Especially the verdict on yourself!
Will get onto it...I've been on a bit of a bender
In the sense of, session, not Richter
In the sense of, session, not Richter
It's best to leave those Richter-type benders to marcos... he gets jealous!!Plechazunga said:
C'mon Plech. Get the finger out!
I hadn't eaten in 30 hours till just now...and now I've stuffed myself and feel ill
Er...will get onto it tomorrow
Er...will get onto it tomorrow
Slacker. I 2nd the motion to throw Plech into a room full of Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime (ie. The transfer forum)
Awww leave him alone..its his birthday!golden_blunder said:
RedCanadian said:It's best to leave those Richter-type benders to marcos... he gets jealous!!
i don't want to replace richter, he`s doing just fine in the gay department
1. Local Radio DJs
A savage local DJ cull!
A bloodbath, wrought, of course, in Hull!
Well, I must say, that does sound tempting -
But wait, would that not be pre-empting
The crucible of arbitration
Which must comprise our whole great nation?
Let me explain: if I consign
These DJs mongwards, 'fore their time,
To meet with dread annihilation,
Who will chatter to the nation?
If I drown Locals, in a bidet,
Who'll become a National DJ?
If he'd been sent to Spastic Heavens,
There would now be no Chris Evans;
If he to Spastic Hell had fallen
Who would be our Peter Allen?
If torn to bits by wolves he'd been,
We'd be bereft of Alan Green...
Hold on!...Yes, die, with grotesque violence!
Verdict: Spastic Ah, sweet silence!
And when you've finished with the DJ, hang this absurd cnut
2. Sepp Blatter
Sepp Blatter is a cnut, no question
A bigger cnut than Charlton Heston
Combined with evil Gordon Gecko
And Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao, and Deco
And Chitty Chitty's Child-Catcher
Both City's Ben, and Maggie Thatcher
And, tossing in a vile chromosome
Macaulay Culkin, off of Home Alone
Lector, Vader, Skeletor
And Rehash, off the place next door;
And yet, is bald, corrupt and fat dick
Blatter actually a Spastic?
Well, let's see, while we post hot air
He's a multi-millionaire
He goes to any game he likes
Plays golf with Eric, Keane and Shmikes
The halls of power know his footfall
The fecking twat's in charge of football
The Verdict, then: though he's a penis
Not Spastic - rather, Evil Genius.
"I granted a special exemption to Liverpool, with a nice Chianti"
3. High Street Banks
High Street Banks can feck right off
Like Lazio said to Dino Zoff
I'd sooner swap my wife, and car-keys
For Sincher's, than go back to Barclays
You fecking cnuts, I'm not impressed
With boring rates of interest
Or with the fact that I can't phone
My local branch, to have a moan
If I really want some guy
In Calcutta, or Mumbai
Explaining, like a post-labotomy
Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime, how little cash I've got to me
I'll start a thread on here, and natter
To mehro, or amolbhiata
It took the fecking clueless spaztards
Over a year to send a cashcard
Right, the deed is done, I've said it
You're overdrawn, slags, no more credit,
It's time to close up your account
Verdict: Spastics. You're going down.
The Barclay twins, shortly after I issued them with exploding CBEs
4. Airports
In general, places of transition
Can happily go to perdition
Bus-stops, tube-stops, stations, car-parks -
I hope they're gnawed to death, by aardvarks
In airports, though, I feel quite calm
There's little reason for alarm
(So long as, like me, you're Caucasian -
If you happen to be Asian
You'll most likely be blacklisted
Interrogated, charged, and fisted
For no real reason, like L'Etranger)
Plus, there's always Pret a Manger
I really don't want that to die -
Egg and tomato, on fresh rye
Orange juice, a bag of crisps
As well as which, there's also this:
Airports are where you get on planes
Without them, we wouldn't have got to Spain
In 99, and won the cup
Verdict: Not Spastic - shut up.
In Sincher's ideal world, this would never have happened
5. Me
Now calm down, Sinch, don't be upset
We know what happens when you get
Excited - you leap round the room
Boning, till your head goes Boom.
How could I, who've annihilated
So many spastics, be spasticated?
And how could you, a spaz, who's bent
Be mongifaction's instrument?
Anteaters aren't scoffed by ants
Mahouts aren't trained by elephants
Hunters don't get shot by deers
Gay-bashers aren't bashed by queers
Cocks don't gobble down fellators
Man did not create Creators...
Hang on, yes we did, oh feck
What have you done there, old Plech?
Something's going very wrong
The end of me, and 1-O-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime!
It's all happening much too fast!
Shit! Can't stop it! Verdict: Spast-
A savage local DJ cull!
A bloodbath, wrought, of course, in Hull!
Well, I must say, that does sound tempting -
But wait, would that not be pre-empting
The crucible of arbitration
Which must comprise our whole great nation?
Let me explain: if I consign
These DJs mongwards, 'fore their time,
To meet with dread annihilation,
Who will chatter to the nation?
If I drown Locals, in a bidet,
Who'll become a National DJ?
If he'd been sent to Spastic Heavens,
There would now be no Chris Evans;
If he to Spastic Hell had fallen
Who would be our Peter Allen?
If torn to bits by wolves he'd been,
We'd be bereft of Alan Green...
Hold on!...Yes, die, with grotesque violence!
Verdict: Spastic Ah, sweet silence!
And when you've finished with the DJ, hang this absurd cnut
2. Sepp Blatter
Sepp Blatter is a cnut, no question
A bigger cnut than Charlton Heston
Combined with evil Gordon Gecko
And Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao, and Deco
And Chitty Chitty's Child-Catcher
Both City's Ben, and Maggie Thatcher
And, tossing in a vile chromosome
Macaulay Culkin, off of Home Alone
Lector, Vader, Skeletor
And Rehash, off the place next door;
And yet, is bald, corrupt and fat dick
Blatter actually a Spastic?
Well, let's see, while we post hot air
He's a multi-millionaire
He goes to any game he likes
Plays golf with Eric, Keane and Shmikes
The halls of power know his footfall
The fecking twat's in charge of football
The Verdict, then: though he's a penis
Not Spastic - rather, Evil Genius.
"I granted a special exemption to Liverpool, with a nice Chianti"
3. High Street Banks
High Street Banks can feck right off
Like Lazio said to Dino Zoff
I'd sooner swap my wife, and car-keys
For Sincher's, than go back to Barclays
You fecking cnuts, I'm not impressed
With boring rates of interest
Or with the fact that I can't phone
My local branch, to have a moan
If I really want some guy
In Calcutta, or Mumbai
Explaining, like a post-labotomy
Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime, how little cash I've got to me
I'll start a thread on here, and natter
To mehro, or amolbhiata
It took the fecking clueless spaztards
Over a year to send a cashcard
Right, the deed is done, I've said it
You're overdrawn, slags, no more credit,
It's time to close up your account
Verdict: Spastics. You're going down.
The Barclay twins, shortly after I issued them with exploding CBEs
4. Airports
In general, places of transition
Can happily go to perdition
Bus-stops, tube-stops, stations, car-parks -
I hope they're gnawed to death, by aardvarks
In airports, though, I feel quite calm
There's little reason for alarm
(So long as, like me, you're Caucasian -
If you happen to be Asian
You'll most likely be blacklisted
Interrogated, charged, and fisted
For no real reason, like L'Etranger)
Plus, there's always Pret a Manger
I really don't want that to die -
Egg and tomato, on fresh rye
Orange juice, a bag of crisps
As well as which, there's also this:
Airports are where you get on planes
Without them, we wouldn't have got to Spain
In 99, and won the cup
Verdict: Not Spastic - shut up.
In Sincher's ideal world, this would never have happened
5. Me
Now calm down, Sinch, don't be upset
We know what happens when you get
Excited - you leap round the room
Boning, till your head goes Boom.
How could I, who've annihilated
So many spastics, be spasticated?
And how could you, a spaz, who's bent
Be mongifaction's instrument?
Anteaters aren't scoffed by ants
Mahouts aren't trained by elephants
Hunters don't get shot by deers
Gay-bashers aren't bashed by queers
Cocks don't gobble down fellators
Man did not create Creators...
Hang on, yes we did, oh feck
What have you done there, old Plech?
Something's going very wrong
The end of me, and 1-O-Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime!
It's all happening much too fast!
Shit! Can't stop it! Verdict: Spast-
excellent
Nice going there Sincher. I wanted to taunt him about Liam Miller some more, but you had to go and have him destroy himself.
Great, yes. Well done
Great, yes. Well done
Plech, that's a fecking masterpiece, mate.
What a great thread this turned out to be. Though we could have abbreviated it all to 'Plech is a spastic, and knows it', I suppose.
Genius.
brilliant
RIP Plech!!
Martyred himself too. Truly a great spastic.
Getting wiser after each Birthday I see...
The End
beautiful.Brilliant
Fantastic
Excellent stuff!
Classics forum!
Definitely
- Status