Old Knudsen is a troubled old man my friends ........ well thats what that Fresno judge said after the illegal weapons hearing, but what does he know? Also, if my psychiatrist goes on about anger issues again I'll smash his skull in and slice the flesh from his bones and feed it to my pet pot bellied pig.
If I had one of course...
Nah, don't worry about Old Knudsen, he is fine. Sure after a load of years in America and access to countless sharp knives, but with fuck all visas, doing the jobs Americunts didn't want to do (ones that involved effort) under the table and sometimes under yer Ma, the on the ball US immigration service found him and finally deported him. It all started to go wrong after I started dating old Sly himself. You didn't know he was ghey? Fuck off, you are jerking my chain! We still keep in touch, but it's mainly through our lawyers these days. He did all his own stunts in Rocky III.... don't make me laugh. Check out my buns is all I gotta say on that.
Maybe using Id's for the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency and Home land security that I had printed off me computer to shake down male hookers and get free pancakes at IHOP (International House Of Pancakes) wasn't such a good idea but it was good while it lasted.
Old Knudsen had long since had enough of America and wanted to get back to the UK as the trouble he had caused there was sure to be over though my home town of Killamongy is still too dangerous after that recent crop of ginger red-eyed babies popped out all saying "Ka-Chow ya cunt!"
Northern Bogtrotterville is the place Old Knudsen resides in now which is where me mammies side is from. It's not to be confused with the other Ireland, the real Ireland, noooo.... Norn Iron, as we local yokels call it is like Canada is to Americunt. A poor rather stupid half cousin. If you go out of Belfast in the only direction that won't take ya to proddy culchies and gheylick speaking bandits you'll get to the Ballyscud road and if ya stay on the path and avoid the full moon you'll get to the beautiful town of Castlerathdun .................. DO NOT make eye contact with anyone.
And when I say eye I mean that in the singular, not the plural.
Old Knudsen lived there years ago when it was only Castlereagh and the civilisation of KFC had not yet reached there but now its all fancy with its own public telephone box that doubles as a public toilet on a Saturday night. Norn Iron culture is fab! people are less guarded about the Troubles now and happily accept that we ghey cocksuckers as almost equals which is very sweet. Brown people and Slavs prowl the streets with hardly a second glance, well unless they go into a shop cos then they have to be watched.
The inside smoking ban is a nuisance because Old Knudsen likes to enjoy a fag or two as he waits for his Dr's appointment at the genital wart clinic, I have my own seat you know.
Anyway, now the busy shop owners and the like have to stand outside of their doorways and smoke like some kind of hazy nicotine advertisement. If ya can't afford any ciggies just walk down High street and inhale the aroma of stale smoke and the stench of shite coming from the local Masonic Hall. Durty Orange bastids.
About 95% of Masonic weemen are bleach blonds and most people are very sporty ............. well they wear nylon tracksuits. Let's move on and leave those cheap cunts behind us.
"All right there" is used as "hello" or as a "may I help the next customer please" smiles are for the weak and who wants to display shitty British dentistry at its best?
Everything closes at 5pm and by 5.30pm if yer still out yer fair game for the wolves and the old gheys. Nothing is open on Sunday as that is against the Bible, if you are out being a rascal on that day the local bullies will beat you to death with the soggy stump of your own ripped off arm, or worse, the Protestant vicars will suck you silly my friends.
Simple rules of the street it will only be a matter of time until the bullies and vicars are going home early to fucking well avoid me.
On a recent trip to the local supermarket I was delighted when a man with a tray of snacks came over to me and offered me one. You are probably thinking, 'what a lovely surprise' but it wasn't to me.
Throughout my adult life Old Knudsen has had many men offering him all sorts of goods and services. While waiting in line at the doctors office (me rash came back) the pretty receptionist asked, "whose next please?" he knew I was next, the dirty wee tramp. Then the other day in the chip shop the lady looked around at the customers who had ordered and looked at me and asked, "Are ya getting anything?" .......... sexual harassment right there damn it!
I suppose Old Knudsen's pleasing appearance simply made their day. Its difficult being so lovely difficult being what some crazed weemen and so many lovely ghey men want.
My therapist says its because Old Knudsen invokes the closet gheyness in men and they feel so conflicted at wanting Old Knudsen and hating themselves for it...... it could very well be so.
Old Knudsen welcomes a decline in his looks so maybe other blokes will finally stop judging him so harshly on what he looks like but that is never going to happen, even Old Knudsen's turds are sexy.
They hated Jesus for being beautiful and Old Knudsen has that same cross to bear.
Now Old Knudsen is no George Clooney. I'm unconventionally good looking in a bit of rough from behind kind of way, with muscular shoulders and a slight dusting of ginger fuzz covering my firmish buttocks and inner thighs.
But there are downsides to being pretty — the main one being that other men hate me for no other reason than my lovely looks. Having great wit, intellect and a huge flaccid cock is just icing on their hate cake.
Because of all the celebs who have stripped off for PETA Old Knudsen now equates animal cruelty to naked men and weemen. I like to fuck them and then eat them! As if Old Knudsen's wank bank wasn't disturbing enough.
Old Knudsen met a lovely young fella at a local social club, we got talking and I must say a little bit of flirting did go on. The night was getting late then he looked right into Old Knudsen's eyes and said, "I'm gonna have a piss than after that you wanna go back to your place for a night cap?". Old Knudsen is a sucker for manly charm so he agreed downing his drink to give him courage for what was to cum.
The walk home was difficult as he pinned Old Knudsen to many a wall in order to insert his tongue into his cavity filled mouth. "Ach I'm no just a piece of meat" said Old Knudsen feeling that yet again he was picked up for his beauty and not his brains. He unzipped Old Knudsen's pants and took a hold of his huge erect blood filled penis, "and what a fine piece of meat you have".
Old Knudsen blushed, he seemed ever so shy at the club, must be when the fresh Norn Iron air hit him.
The pair reached Old Knudsen's chateau and tumbled in. He sneezed as he caught a whiff of the ocean breeze air freshener, it was to mask the smell of cat piss as Old Knudsen's house is constantly invaded by a ginger tom from 2 doors down..... must have a fucking key the wee shite.
Old Knudsen looked at whats his name, his hairy chest and tight fitting pants, the tacky hand tattoos his dark eyes that see all but notices nothing but his own reflection. He allowed himself a cocky smile.
"You'll be walking funny tomorrow." said I.
"Ooooooh" he giggled "time to ride that big cock of yours?"
Old Knudsen reached behind him and locked the door. "No..... I'm gonna cut off yer feet."