It’s only been running for just over three weeks, but BB7 has already established itself as a fixture here in Britain.

It seems like anyone you speak to has a far deeper knowledge of the comings and goings in a certain small house in Elstree than they are comfortable admitting.

What’s wrong with being a Big Brother fan? Why are people so reticent to admit that they enjoy it? It’s not like you’re copping to cooking and eating small children for lunch! It’s only a game show!

Big Brother takes over the media for the duration of its run and even if you despise watching it, you’ll be hard pressed to escape its reach.

Channel 4 broadcasts at least an hour of highlights or more every evening. And it’s consistently more than 60 minutes in length, they keep extending it without updating their schedules, which is wreaking absolute havoc with my SKY+ - the ending is cut off more nights than not!

And on Friday’s, the live eviction double bill is at least 90 minutes.

E4 broadcasts Big Brother’s Little Brother five times a week, (BBLB) and Big Brother’s Big Mouth four times a week (BBBM), each 30 minutes in length. Plus there’s a new show this year called Big Brother’s Big Brain.

If you add up all of the already packaged programmes, you come up with nearly 13 hours of viewing a week! Now, that’s commitment!

Add to that the 24/7 availability of live streaming via the interactive features of the magic red button on digital tv and you begin to get a picture of just how much is there for you to watch. And enjoy. And obsess over!

It’s easy enough to avoid all of that programming, but even if you do, BB lurks in other media. Flip on your radio to any popular music station and I promise you that BB will be mentioned; in happy talk from the DJ or within their brief news bulletins. It’s the same on satellite tv; news from the house becomes real news!

Open any tabloid or celebrity glossy magazine and again, gossip about the housemates will be found throughout. The glossies, like Heat and other highbrow publications, will stick BB stars on their covers for as long as they can.

Why? For the same reason the Daily Express finds a reason to put a story about Princess Diana on nearly every Monday edition; because it sells!

So even if you casually consume your media, you cannot escape knowing that Pete Bennett is the one everyone thinks will win; Nikki Graham is a spoilt brat, Lea Walker is a porn star and Glyn Wise is the Welsh “Forrest Gump”.

Ok, I came up with that last one myself, but don’t you think it’s accurate?

Glyn is being portrayed, rightly or wrongly, as a country bumpkin. I know he is only 18 years old, but could anyone really reach that age and not know the recipe for making a fucking sandwich? If that is true, I really do fear for the future of our planet!

And he’s the “head boy” in his 6th form, so just imagine what the dumbest kid in his class must be like…probably sitting in a pool of his own excrement shouting “ee-eye-ee-eye-ooh” over and over again at no one in particular; hoping one of the smarter kids might bring him one of those miraculous creations known as the sandwich!

That all said, I do like Glyn, he is a real contender for second place; though anything can happen and we can’t all be complacent that a Pete win is a dead cert. Who knows what twists may be coming next?

I was all ready to write a stinging criticism of the lack of teeth in the “Twisted Big Brother” billing this season. Up to the introduction of the Golden Housemate, I saw no real evidence of any twists. Friday’s live show turned that on it’s head and my laziness and procrastination prevented me from looking very foolish the day before they did this!

See, smoking dope does have its benefits!

And the heatwave here in London isn’t helping, especially in the tinderbox that is my north London lair. I might have to rig up my AirCon for the living room soon. It’s 30 goddamn degrees in my lounge!

I’m sure that’s why you came to my site today, to get the weather report in my living room! It’s partly smoky, with rising humidity and the mercury is climbing! So is my blood pressure!

I thought the way they handled the Golden Ticket contest was superb. I’m not going to spend much time on the conspiracy theory behind the selection of the winner; personally I do think it was random, albeit good luck that someone so telegenic was selected. That’s hippycodespeak for a hot MILF!

When Davina provided the mini-introductions for all 34 potential Golden Housemates, it seemed to me that the majority of them had media connections and/or had try to audition their way on to BB in the past. If that’s true, then it only makes sense that the one selected would have a higher chance of fitting either of those descriptions.

As I’ve said before, it takes a certain kind of individual to want to destroy their lives on reality television…it takes someone with a screw loose! It takes a screaming crazy wannabe!

What I thought was exciting on Friday was the moment of revelation as Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace read out the instructions to the housemates and then they showed all 34 Golden Ticket winners to them on the plasma screen. I think it could be one of the defining moments of this series.

Not just because it was a brave departure for BB, breaking the fourth wall INTO the house and giving them a look outside, but because of what was overheard from the baying crowd.

“Get Grace out! Get Grace out!”

How cool was that? Grace Adams-Short is completely deserving of this public scorn, she has earned it with her vile attitude and school bully tactics. She’s pure poison!

What’s even funnier is she thinks it’s down to her canoodling with that vacant dolt, Mikey Dalton. He’s dull, he’s dumb and I can hardly understand a word he says, er mumbles. Watch him sail under the radar straight through until the final week.

I think there’s a good chance Grace will be nominated this week, as the Golden Housemate is the only one nominating and people who know her say she’s been watching the show and can’t stand Grace.

I’m ready to vote, vote, vote if Grace is up and I urge you to do the same. We got rid of Sezer Yurtseven, let’s leave nothing to chance!

And now on to the “desperate housewife” mentioned in the title. No, I don’t mean the ABC/C4 series; I am of course referring to the new Golden Housemate, Suzie Verrico.

Suzie, a 43-year-old housewife and stripper from Kent has been trying to get into the house for years. She’s auditioned at least 3 times and was a standby contestant for a previous series. Again, so what? Desperate wannabes are persistent, especially when they are housewives with rich husbands!

Suzie’s hubby bought 60 cases of KitKat chocolates searching for a Golden Ticket. When that failed, he picked one up on eBay for a cool four grand. Now that’s love!

Though I did see a great theory on the DS:BB forum that said he did it to get rid of her for a few months, so he could live that wild desperate husband lifestyle full of hard drugs and hookers, with total impunity, knowing his missus was safely locked up under the watchful eye of one hundred videocameras and the entire nation! That would be the ultimate in discreet planning!

Suzie admits to a boob job (which seems to be a prerequisite for entry into the house this year!), but denies having any work on her face. From my perspective, her nose, lips and cheekbones look a little too good to be true, but what do I know!

Yes, she’s a hottie and she’s put Lea’s nose right out of joint, especially because she’s 8 years older than Lea, but looks much younger!

Suzie doesn’t realise yet that being the Golden Housemate isn’t going to be fun. They already have her sleeping in a drafty, tiny cupboard that they have named the Golden Bedroom. She also doesn’t know that her nominations will be the only ones that count this week and Davina hinted that more unpleasantness is to follow later in the week. I wonder if they will force Glyn to administer the daily golden shower?

It looks like Twisted BB may finally live up to the hype! It’s about time!

Thanks to everyone who voted to get rid of Sam Brodie last week. I didn’t hate her, I just thought she was dull, whereas Nikki Graham is easily one of my favourites and every second she is on-screen is pure comedy gold!

No, I wouldn’t want Nikki as my flatmate or girlfriend or anything, I think she could probably drive me to an early grave quite quickly, but as someone else’s problem, she’s first class viewing! Please keep her in as long as possible!

I felt genuine sorry for Glyn when he cried real tears over Sam’s departure. I think he was actually very upset; he really is a sensitive young man!

I was going to provide a treat for my beloved hippyfans, though with a disclaimer: If you are under 18 or have a weak disposition, please do NOT click on the following link to Lea Walker’s porn video…

But the link went away and it’s no longer on the pirate host!

If you have seen the clip and I’m sure many of you have, then my little BB themed joke will make sense:

What do a KitKat wrapper and Lea Walker have in common?

They both have four fingers inside them!

I never said it was in good taste! I wonder if that’s the kind of publicity the KitKat people want?

Like the title says, I’ve been thinking about the questions that will never have answers; I’ve been pondering the imponderable.

What do I mean, exactly?

What I mean is simple: I’ve been thinking about the stuff that we, and I mean humans, earthlings, whatever you would like to call us in the collective “we”, will never ever know the answers to such simple questions as:

“Why are we here?”

“Where did the universe come from?”

And more importantly…

“Do good hippies from north London go to heaven?”

Ok, I can answer that third question myself.

Hippies from north London, just like every other living creature, just cease to exist when we die.

There is no heaven.

Anyone who claims otherwise is quite frankly, full of shit.

Anyone who claims to the know the answers to the first two questions is, especially if they answer them with some sort of religious mumbo-jumbo, also full of the same shit.

I’m smarter than all of those believers, because I know that I will never know the answers to those first 2 questions and further more, I’m very certain that no one who is alive today or anyone that is born in the future will be able to answer them either.

That’s one of the things that makes me smarter than many people; I know there’s a lot more that I don’t know, than I do. No matter how old I get, that will always be true.

I don’t know why we’re here, not for sure. No one ever really could.
If pushed for an answer, I would surmise that we’re here for no particular reason, we just are. I take comfort in that rather bleak assessment, because it is so liberatingly honest.

I’m pointless; we all are.

We, the collective we again, don’t serve a single purpose, unless the raping and pillaging of the planet, and each other is our purpose, in which case we are kicking some serious ass!

We add nothing to the universe at large.

We may do things that enrich the lives of others, or ourselves, but that doesn’t benefit all of existence, does it?

I can appreciate a Van Gogh painting as much as the next guy, or a great song or a well-made film, but so what? Our lives and the lives of even the important, talented and celebrated of our species don’t mean shit in the context of the universe.

Life on our planet has only been around for a blink of an eye in cosmological terms. Intelligent life has been around for a fraction of a fraction of that blink.

And by “intelligent life”, I mean us and yes, I am using the term very loosely in this context.

In the scheme of the universe, we are all nothing but flotsam and jetsam, or as Kansas once put it so succinctly; “We are all just dust in the wind.”

How does it feel, having me tell you that you don’t matter; that no one matters? Do you hate me for speaking the truth so plainly?

If Jesus’s message were bleak as mine, would anyone still be following him today?

Where’s the hope, hippy? Where’s the hope?

I’m coming to that, because of course, my message actually is, one of hope.

As I sit at my desk, in the middle of the night, struggling to keep my eyes open and my brain engaged, I think about these things. I don’t know why we are here and it drives me insane that I will never have the answers I seek.

I could seek them in religion, for many people find comfort in the fairy stories offered by the major and minor religions of our world.

But I won’t, I can’t; I’m not willing to accept the delusions of others masquerading as fact.

Think about your religion if you have one, then apply some simple logical thinking to it and then ask yourself this question: Does it sound like something made up by people for people, or by a god for people.

Everything I know about religion smacks of man. Men invented all of the fables we are sold as fact. And I’m being very gender specific in this reference, because men are responsible for most, if not all that is fucked with our earthly existence.

Religion, all religion, was invented to keep people in line. If you don’t do what the bible says, god’s gonna get ya! He’s gonna get you but good!

Bullshit!

Look up to the heavens right now and say the following out loud:

“Hey, god. Yes, you god. It’s me, the hippy (use your own name, dummy). You know, the one from north London (and use your own location!). You know what I think, god? You wanna know what I think?

I think you are a right fucking cunt.”

Don’t worry; I’ve done this myself. Many times; often with an audience.

Actually, it’s always better with an audience and my dream is to one day be on a stage, delivering a lecture or speech (upon accepting my second Pulitzer prize I hope), when I utter those offensive words, shout them really loud.

And then I suddenly drop dead of a heart attack, live on stage!

Wouldn’t that just put the fear of our imaginary god into everyone!

Hey, if I’m wrong and there is a god, I bet I get that second Pulitzer. He’ll do it just to show he’s got a sense of humour.

The point of this little oral exercise is a simple one, to prove that god, whether he exists or not, doesn’t give a shit what you say or do.

People do really get away with murder in this world and there never is divine retribution.

There is no god in my opinion, but if there were, he would be nothing like the way you picture him. You couldn’t ever picture him, because his form, shape, being, whatever you would want to call it, is beyond the capabilities of the tiny little meat-based computer in your head.

Here’s the thing, if I’m telling you we won’t know the answers to any of these questions, ever, then how can I be so sure there is no heaven? Isn’t that a hubristic contradiction?

Nope. Guess again.

There is no heaven. Heaven is an invention of men; it doesn’t exist; it couldn’t possibly. You need to ask the right question.

Is there an afterlife?

Maybe, but I highly doubt it. It’s awfully unlikely, don’t you think?

Has anyone seen one shred of genuine evidence that our minds continue on after our bodies die?

Notice I didn’t say “spirit” or “soul” because again, these are false concepts created by men.

I would love for someone to prove that there is some form of life after death, but I think I have a better chance of those super-duper boffins coming up with a way to download my mind into a supercomputer.

And by the way, where can I sign up for that? I’d love to be hardware based, as long as I had a virtual tongue and cock, I’d be all set for eternity! And bring on the virtual spliffs!

Believing in any of this requires something I decidedly lack and that’s faith. I have no faith, not in god, not in anyone else, not even in myself. Hey ho.

But where’s the hope?

I’m getting to it right now. Hope comes from free choice and free will.

You have the choice between being a decent person and being a bastard or bitch. You have the choice on how you view the world and how it views you. You alone have the ability, the control to choose a direction for your existence.

We all do.

It doesn’t matter who you are or where you are on the face of this planet, you can choose to do good and be good in everything you do.

I don’t care if you are the richest or the poorest, the tallest or the shortest; the colour of your skin doesn’t matter either; nor does the shape of your genitals, it all makes no difference.
In your own way, in your own life, you can choose to be a force of good.

Ok, tell me that is not hopeful. Tell me that’s not life affirming!

Think about it; let it sink in, really deep.

In your every thought, your every action, you can strive to bring something positive to this world for the simple, satisfying reason that it’s your choice to make!

Imagine if this was the “Sermon on the Mount” or if we could replace the “Ten Commandments” with this simple approach.

Imagine if you heard this simple message every day from when you were young. Imagine if we all did. What a wonderful world this would be and yes, Sam Cooke said that first.

Threats from god don’t stop people from lying, cheating, stealing, killing or coveting thy neighbour’s wife, but my philosophy might.

Do “good” because you can. Choose “good”, because there is really is no other choice; be good because it’s the right thing to do!

Imagine if everyone thought this way. We might actually be able to turn things around before it’s too late.

We might be able to reverse global warming, sort out all international conflicts, banish poverty, famine, disease, small-mindedness and the stupid, pointless prohibition on weed!

A hippy can dream.

So you see, I know it took some time, but we reached the hopeful bit. Now, the rest is up to all of you.

Believe in yourselves, even if you have no faith.

Know that you are just as valued in the universe as anyone else on the planet, no more and more importantly, no less. Live your life as if others matter; we share this planet.

In everything you say, everything you do, strive for there to be a benefit. Give more than you take, always.

Choose to be good, choose to do “good”, because the choice is yours alone to make. It’s what really separates from the animals.

You see, that tagline at the top of your browser isn’t an idle boast. I truly am a messiah for the new millennium.

I think I’m ready for a spliff. I’ve earned it! Catch ya next time!

My bong is still up for grabs. Go on, try to grab it while you can! Click here for details.

Hey ho hippyfans! How the hell are you?

You know, my Black Ice bong is still sitting here, waiting to be won by one lucky hippyfan. Get your act together, send me your entry! Time is running out!

You’ll notice I’m not referring to you all as “fuckers” today, as my younger brother has said that perhaps my liberal use of this somewhat naughty word might be offending some of my potential hippyfans.

If it has caused anyone any offence, you have my most sincere apologies. My use of the word “fuckers” was meant to be complimentary, as in I was making the assumption that you were all getting some; and often!

So from now on, I’m going to refer to you all as “celibates”, which I’m sure won’t offend anyone, unless you’re proud of your prolific sexual activity, in which case I offer YOU my most sincere apologies.

You see, that’s the thing, no matter what I say, and if it has any sort of opinion contained within it, it’s bound to offend someone. For me, I’d much rather be up front about it and let you know where you stand with me from the start. I know this hippy and his “special brand of drivel” ain’t for everyone and I am profoundly cool with that.

My blog is the one place in the world where I can express myself fully and without any sort of self-censorship. I can share my rather strong and rabidly liberal opinions with the wider world with complete freedom.

That’s because nobody care’s much about the ravings of one mad hippy from north London.

Except you. You care. You must care, or you wouldn’t still be reading this, would you?

You care because you all are intelligent enough to recognise that I am the “one true genius of the 21st century”; you are clever enough to see that I’m “a messiah for the new millennium”.

“I’m the biggest internet celebrity you’ve never heard of…but not for long.” The mainstream media is poised to discover me any second now. They’ll all drop to their knees and beg me to contribute to their traditional media world for bucket-loads of cash and lashings of critical acclaim!

Or maybe just a lashing. Who can really say?

The real world media doesn’t know what it’s missing out on by continuing to ignore me. I’ve got the real world credentials to be a living media god, but they don’t care, do they!

I suppose if I was some school teacher and I got off with one of my students, then they would care. Well they would if I was a woman, especially if I was a hot, young blonde woman like Debra Lafave.

She was a school teacher in the states who shagged one of her underage students. Big deal. Every teenage boy should be that fucking lucky with his first fucking!

If teachers looked like that when I was a student, and they put out regularly, attendance would have been at 100% every day of the school year! Just imagine the homework assignments! “Tonight, students, I want you to practise licking teacher’s pussy. I’ll be visiting all of your homes, one at a time and giving you each a chance with my waxed punani.” Oh baby, oh baby!

All right, enough with the cheap jokes. See the Van Halen video “Hot for Teacher”.

The fact is, male teachers have been banging students for as long as there have been schools. I can remember hearing rumours about teachers in my school screwing young girls and everyone just looked the other way. Even when they got knocked-up, which was one of the more believable and persistent rumours.

Always believe every rumour. Usually, they are true.

America and it’s crazy, wacky version of fundamentalist Christian values just couldn’t look the other way. Instead, they have tried to prosecute this poor, horny, hot young woman.

She stood accused of having sexual needs, which as everyone knows is a sin. She also stood accused of fulfilling her sexual needs with an underage boy.

She stood accused for being human. Who among us could risk temptation if it is served up on the proverbial silver platter? Does anyone really think getting a teenage boy to give it to a very hot, slightly older woman is a hard sell? Did she put a gun to his head?

Now that would be kinky!

The punchline to this entire tale is my favourite part of the story. It seems Ms. Lafave can’t serve a sentence in prison according to her lawyer.

Why? Simple, because she is too fucking hot looking to do time!

In the end, the judge dropped the charges and the matter has been put to rest.

I’m just wondering if it would be worth me signing up for her next class. I read somewhere that Debby Lafave is going to become an adult education teacher.

You can make your own goddamn joke from that one. I’ve given you a great set-up line to start with!

Hey ho my fine-feathered fuckers, forgive me for my absence, but I’m back now and feeling better than ever!

Better than ever for me is not really saying much. It’s something, I guess.

So I’ve got a joke for you. If you are easily offended, please look away now and go read someone else’s blog.

Please note, I said, “please”.

Ok, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Jesus is getting butt-fucked by Satan.

Satan is really giving it to him hard and Jesus turns around and asks Satan, “Is this heaven, or is this hell?”

Satan then looks up at Jesus and says, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Ba-dum-bum.

Did I make you laugh?

Did I offend you?

Does it matter either way?

The joke is intentionally offensive; it’s meant to get a reaction.

The big laugh; if there is one, should be sparked by the opening line. It’s the humour of the outrageously uncomfortable.

Trust me, open your stand-up routine with this line and you will be greeted with a burst of nervous laughter followed by the stifled silence of people trying to contain their guilty guffaws.

The punchline, if you can call it that, is far more surreal and intellectual. It undermines the opening line because it requires the audience to think about what the joke is really saying.

What is heaven, what is hell? Could one person’s heaven be another person’s hell? Is there a heaven or a hell or for that matter was there really a Jesus? Is the Devil still in business? Was he ever?

The main thing is did I offend you? And if I did, what does it say about you?

We’re supposed to have free speech, but do we? Can I really post this joke in my blog and not expect some sort of reaction?

Well, probably not, because I remain largely undiscovered and underground. I’m the biggest internet celebrity you’ve never heard of blah blah blah.

Are Christians going to take to the streets and start burning hippyeffigies? I think not.

Most people are strong enough in their beliefs not to allow the ravings of one mad hippy in north London to upset them.

Those who would be offended by my little stab at blasphemous, thought provoking humour, are the weak minded of our world. Their fragile belief system is such that there is no room for any possible doubts to be raised, satirical or otherwise.

Which is why I’m not making any jokes about a certain well-regarded Prophet, peace be upon him. I don’t want a fatwa on my ass!

But suppose, for the sake of a little speculative game playing, that someone stumbled upon this post and was offended.

Now, take it one step further and imagine this person, who is so offended, belongs to some right wing, fundamentalist Christian group in America.

Suddenly the link to my little blog is flying through cyberspace at the speed of light to all corners of the globe and before I know it, thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of crazed Christian warriors are out for my blessed hippyblood!

Egads! What’s a poor hippy to do?

I go into hiding, max out my credit cards, moving from one 5-star hotel suite to the next, checking in under assumed hippynames before ending up in Rome, where I would surrender to the Pope himself seeking sanctuary.

The Pope would invoke a long forgotten law of the papacy and have me put to death, ironically, by crucifixion.

With my beard and long hair, comparisons would undoubtedly be made, as the nailing of this hippy to a cross would be broadcast live, on every tv channel across the planet.

And when I reach the afterlife, after denying it’s existent for nearly my entire life; guess what happened?

I’ll find myself bent over, getting butt-fucked by Satan.

The universe does have a sense of humour. Even I’d be laughing at that eternal outcome!

ASS BOMBS!

You won’t see that on any colour coded warning in the U Ess of Ayyyy! And no, the hippy hasn’t lost his mind, well not completely anyway. I’ll return to ASS BOMBS shortly.

I’m not actually in London right now. I did mention in my last entry that I would have limited net access, that’s why. Right now, I’m sitting in a tiny net cafe, in a warm and sunny climate, blogging my life away. For an hour. For six euros. I’m a big spender.

I’m staying in a lovely place, very non-hippy-like in that it’s a five-star luxury resort hotel. Me, Mrs. Hippy and a load of vaguely wealthy, vaguely European tourists. German, Dutch, French, Austrian, Russian and even a few Brits and damn they are all annoying. Mrs. Hippy’s at the beach, swimming in the warm blue water. Being short and fat means I’m not much for swimming, though I’ve been known to take the odd dip to cool off.

It’s our first holiday in a couple of years thanks to my extended streak of non-employment. Yes, I’m finding it relaxing and I’ve already read 7 and a 1/2 of the 10 books I brought with me. It doesn’t matter how many books I bring on vacation, I always run out.

I’m a voracious reader and I’m hoovering the words up as fast and as furious as George W (for Wanker) Bush used to snort cocaine. Allegedly. I never saw him do it myself, but then when I lived in America, we moved in different circles. I did my cocaine with normal people, not the rich and powerful ruling classes. Wish I did, bet their blow was better than anything I was getting back in the hedonistic 80’s.

ASS BOMBS! Ok, ok, I’m coming to that.

Recall Richard Reid. He is known as the “shoe bomber”, though in fact the “non-shoe bomber” would be far more accurate. His device didn’t work, but thanks to him, you need to reveal your cheesy stinking feet at the airport everytime you pass through security. His failed plot to take an aircraft out of the sky is why we all have to remove our shoes whenver we wish to board a plane.

What’s that have to do with ASS BOMBS I can hear you ask? You must have loud thoughts, because I can hear you all the way in paradise. I’m getting to that.

Suppose, for the sake of this theory that Al Qaeda constructed a device so sinister and devious that it could be easily carried through any checkpoint at any airport in the world. Yes, I’m talking about the ASS BOMB! Finally.

Suppose you took a tubular piece of plastic and hollowed it out, then filled it with explosives. A dildo would work, though I expect fundaMENTALIST Muslims might find something in the shape of a big plastic cock not exactly to their liking. Anyway, say you made this device, lubed it up and inserted into your anus.

Not you, but a committed terrorist, unless you are a committed terrorist, in which case why are you reading my blog? I hate you and would kill you with my bare fucking hands given the chance. I really would. Drop by north London sometime you fucking murderer and I’ll show you.

Anyway, the terrorist lubes up his ASS BOMB and slips it where the sun don’t shine. He passes through the security check point and hey presto, he’s on your plane.

Now, once he’s on the plane, there’s no rush. Once you reach cruising altitude, it’s just a question of slipping into the toilet and extracting the device. Wipe off the shit, light the fuse and BANG no more plane.

Of course, these terrorists aren’t that clever. If they were, they wouldn’t be terrorists, would they? They’d be selling insurance, doing the books at a medium-sized business, or serving you a whopper, but they’re not. They’re trying to kill you.

What this terrorist with the ASS BOMB didn’t account for was ASS JUICE, which has now coated the fused on the device. It won’t light, no matter how hard he tries, it’s just too damp. Those same smoke detectors on planes that prevent you from lighting-up in the bog on a plane would eventually go off and he would be caught red (or brown) handed.

Now, this is where it gets interesting. They’ve caught that ASS BOMBer and uncovered his plot. The authorities won’t know how many of these cunning devices have been constructed. They won’t trigger any metal detectors, they won’t even set off the explosive detectors because the fumes would be trapped up the terrorists ass. Unless he farted, but if he avoided cabbage and hummus for 24 hours before the flight, ass gas would not be a problem. So if you can’t catch them through security, what do you do?

There is only one answer, a new level of security would have to be created to fight the scourge of the ASS BOMB. That’s right, drop ‘em, spread your cheeks and let security peer up your rectum with a flash light. It would be the only way to remain safe.

Now, just imagine if EVERYONE who wished to travel on a commercial aircraft had to suffer the indignity of a rectal examine everytime they wanted to board a plane. Even the rich cunts in first class. I hate to fly anyway, I imagine this would not make me relish the prospect even more. I think it would put off more than a few people actually.

But what choice would they have? An ASS BOMB could kill hundreds of people on a jumbo jet, not to mention those on the ground, should it be set off over a populated area. Isn’t a rectal examine just a small price to pay to keep our airline industry safe? You take off your shoes, don’t you? I bet your ass doesn’t smell that much worse than your feet!

And think of the poor security staff that would have to provide the exams. They have enough trouble recruiting people for these lowly paid positions. What if they had to look at people’s puckered prunes all day. Some people aren’t that clean, I expect there would be more than a few cling-on’s in your line of sight. I’m even grossing myself out with that one.

So remember, the hippy warned you first! Beware of the ASS BOMBS! Tom Ridge, are you listening? Time to go to code-red!!!

Tomorrow marks the 6 month anniversary of the northlondonhippy blog. Amazing my limited attention span has lasted as long as it has, with no end in site. This entry is my 99th! How’s that for a statistic? Can I get a superdooper yippppppeeee for the hippy? Of course I can!

I’ll be back when I can, keep on groovin’! And watch out for those ASS BOMBS!