Two boobs good, four boobs better

So, we’ve had a lot of feedback from the ball-scratching crotch-scratching public since we launched the site last wednesday. Most of it was good, however, some of it was not so good. It would seem that some of our visitors believe that Boob.ie is somehow gender-biased; that we are only serving the interests of the male population. We hereby refute this notion in the strongest possibly way. To prove to our doubters that we do not discriminate based on gender, we present to you this short video for the ladies to enjoy.

Gentleman, please look away now:

Who says money can't buy you love? By love, I of course mean sex.

A middle-aged traveller is queuing at the dole office to collect his cheque. As usual, he’s getting dirty looks from those around him and so when he finally gets to the top of the queue, he exclaims to the teller:

“Y’know, I’m pissed off collecting dis dole. I hate all dis waitin’ and queuin for a few bob every week, I want to be out earning me own few quid. I’m looking around, tryin as hard as I can but there’s no jobs going anywhere”

“Well actually”, replied the teller, “there’s a position after becoming available just this morning. It would involve chauffering a wealthy old businessman around in his Bentley, usually just to and from the golf course. Oh, and you also be helping him look after his 18 year old daughter. She refuses to stay in the mansion with him and he hates the thought of her being alone, so you would be expected to share the luxury guesthouse with her seven nights a week. I must warn you though, she’s a horny little minx, a proper sex addict. I’d say you’ll have your hands full in more ways than one! The pay is €1600 per week and you would be free to use the Bentley as your own car in your free time.”

The traveller can’t believe his luck, he’s dumbstruck by what has just been told. He stands there, open-mouthed for a few seconds before stuttering “Wh-wha… r-r-r-really?!”

“No”, came the reply, “but since you started the bullshitting, I figured I’d continue.”

This morning on the way to work I drove into the back of a car, at some lights, whilst not really paying attention.

The driver got out… he was a dwarf.

He said, “I’m not happy…”

I replied, “Well, which one are you then?”

A husband, one bright sunny morning, turns to his lovely wife, “Wife, we’re going fishing this weekend, you, me and the dog.”
The wife grimaces, “But I don’t like fishing!”
“Look! We’re going fishing and that’s final.”
“Do I have to go fishing with you… I really don’t want to go!”
“Right I’ll give you three choices… 1, You come fishing with me and the dog… 2, You give me a BLOW JOB…. or 3, you take it up the ass!”
The wife grimaces again, “But I don’t want to do any of those things!”
“Wife I’ve given you three options.. You’ll HAVE to do one of them! I’m going to the garage to sort out my fishing tackle, when I come back I expect you to have made up your mind!”
The wife sits and thinks about it.
Twenty minutes later her husband comes back, “Well! What have you decided? FISHING, BLOW JOB, or ASS?”
The wife complains some more and finally makes up her mind, “O.K. I’ll give you a blow job!”
“Great!” He says and drops his pants. The wife is on her knees doing the business. Suddenly she stops, looks up at her Husband, “Oh! It tastes absolutely disgusting… It tastes all shitty!”
“Yes!” says her husband “The dog didn’t want to go fishing either.”

7.51: Hit snooze button, note presence of big breasted woman snoring in the bed, second sleep.

8.01: Wake. Prepare for intercourse. Wake bedding partner. It’s the wife, fully naked but ‘wearing’ her birthday present. New tits. Must tells lads. Have sex.

8.03: Finish sex. Yawn. Morning ablutions and shower using double cocoa mocha-skin super shaving exfoliating man goo. Recommended by Dwight Yorke. In Icon Magazine.

8.15: My breakfast: Fruit. Cereal. Tea. Orange Juice. Wife’s breakfast: Coffee. Cigarette. Cigarette. Slice of tomato.

8.30: Leave for work. “Bentley or Merc?” Choose Bentley.

8.45: Note remnants of bird shit on windscreen of Bentley. “Must buy new Bentley.” Hope Sky Sports News reporters don’t cop it for their five-minutes-before-the-hour gag reel.

9.05: Arrive at training ground. Note presence of young, up and coming striker from non-league club, on trial, drives a Ford, offer encouragement, secretly sneer.

9.15: Start training. Do the starfish, jumps, zig-zags – break for isotonic sports muck – more zig-zags, something with traffic cones (stolen on night out), game of heads and volleys, last man back, boss cops it and blasts defending from set pieces, practice zonal marking (still don’t get it but can’t tell gaffer) – more isotonic sports muck – fuck around with team-mates in front of Sky Sports News cameras (camaraderie, innit!), five-a-side, tweak hamstring, ice.

10.00: Rest of day to kill. Snooker with best mate, innit.

12.00: Scan The Sun, Football 365, The Mirror, Icon Magazine, Four Four Two, Closer and Heat for mentions of me and/or the wife.

12.40: Spot chairman hiding from cameras/players seeking new contracts.

13.00: Leave training ground, head for Children’s Hospital. Inform press.

14.14: Leave Children’s Hospital. Have mostly spent time in nurses’ station passing on phone number for group sex session with new signings from Portugal (show them the English way of life, innit).

15.00: Home. Sky Sports News. Breaking news ticker – FUCK! Caught with pants down. Injunction overturned. Turn around, missus is crying.

15.16: Missus is still crying.

15.46: Missus is still crying. Watch Countdown. Note to self: Fuck Rachel.

16.00: Missus is going to her mum’s.

16.16: Compose statement to the press expressing remorse. “Trying to work things through with the wife – pressures of captaining one of the biggest teams in the country – deeply sorry for what I’ve caused – possible sex addict…” Note to self: Pass on to solicitor to iron out typos.

17.16: Adidas sponsorship deal gone. Tag Heuer sponsorship deal gone. McDonalds deal gone. Must cut down on Bentleys.

18.10: Take dog for walk. Perfect Roy Keane stare. Press just laugh.

19.00: Dinner: Beans. Sausages. Eggs. Bacon. Mushrooms. Mushy peas. Gravy. Yorkshire pudding. Leftover cold pizza. Dessert: Rice pudding. Liquid: Can of Budweiser.

19.30: Purge.

19.45: Wife calls. “How could you (sniffle, couple, splut) to US??? (something else) and your FUCKING SLAAAAGS!” Wife hangs up. Relief.

20.00: Pick up mobile. 87 messages. None from nurses. Fuck.

20.10: Wank.

20.25: Put bins out. Note waiting press. Give them the finger. “In for a penny…”

21.00: Another can of Budweiser. Playstation. Bored. Porn. Bored. Sky Sports News. Not losing captaincy, club’s being supportive, News Of The Screws to REVEAL ALL. Bored.

21.45: Go to ‘secret drawer,’ dress up as Margaret Thatcher in leopard skin thong, fail to cheer self up, sleep.

It is important to have a full understanding of the specifications of your power tools. With this in mind I am making this instructional video available:

So I’ve been living outside of Dublin for about two years now and I’ve noticed a few differences, some large some small.

For instance people up here just stop driving without warning and get out of their cars.  They just stop.  Get out and stop.  I was stuck behind a car that did this and I saw a Garda and thought he might move the car on.  Instead, he handed the guy that got out of the car a tenner and asked him to get him smokes while the Garda offered to watch the fucking car.

That’s a pretty big difference where I come from.

The small difference, to me anyway is that everyone has a claim of land somewhere.  For example, we have a stream running through our front garden.  The guy who lives a half a mile down the road owns the ditch it runs through, which is in our garden.

Zoning issues that would confuse Bertie and have Liam Lawlor’s ghost asking questions.

Anyway, nothing we can do about that now.

The weird thing that has been happening over the last while is that at about midnight every night, just after kicking out time at the local pub, there is a woman who appears at the cattle grid at the end of the drive way.

She stumbles, mumbles, drops her beer bottle and proceeds to hike up her skirt hunker down and take a piss right under our post box.

The first night I went out to see what she was up to she moved on before I got to her but turned around to shout something at me.  The accent and slurring made it quite hard to decipher, but I thought that would be the end of it.

The second night it happened I went out to her while she was mid stream and told her quite firmly to move on.  She nearly fell on her arse trying to un crouch herself,  but it was dark and she was pissed so I gave her one of my spare high visibility jackets and told her to be careful on the road.

Once again she shouted abuse and faded into the shadows, as her steaming stream trickled on to the road.

Last night though I had had enough and was waiting for her to arrive, which she did.  Like clockwork, she arrived at the cattle grid with her swaggering steps and half drunk beer.

Shake it more than three times and you're up to something

“Oh, so you’re ahead of me t’nigh are ya?”

“I’ve had enough of you pissing on my drive way”

“Tough shit, I’ve been pishing here since before you were even a thought”

“Maybe, but the amonia levels are shocking, I might need a protective suit just to stand here with you”

That remark went straight over her head and she looked me straight in the eye and wriggled her granny pants to the ground, bunched her skirt around her waist and squatted down to once again mess with the PH balance of my stream.

She never looked away and even with the shiver that ran up her back at the last drop she never broke contact with my eye line.

“There, what are ya gonna do now?”

“I’ll have the Gardaí waiting here tomorrow night, or at the very least a wind breaker.  My shoes are ruined”

“Bollox”

And off she went triumphantly down the road again.

I went to the Garda station this morning and they weren’t very sympathetic.  Apparently there’s nothing I can do.

Squatter’s rights.

Please tell your tits to stop staring at my eyes

Well folks, we’re not even up and running a week and we’ve already had our first submission of real boobies.

Some people said it would never happen, that Irish ladies would not in a million years show us their boobies.  At least not without a fair few cocktails.

These magnificent laced up lubblies come in from Jayne in Dublin.  Her boyfriend told her about the site and bullied persuaded her to show us what she has.

There you have it lads, the ball is rolling.  If you think your missus has what it takes to grace the pages of boob.ie, then ask her nicely to let us see them.  Bras are optional, but evil.  They give you herpes, we have it on a reliable source.

Ladies, do it for your man.  He’ll love the fact that his woman is flashing the world.  Plus he’ll buy you a box of Quality Street, because ladies love chocolate.

Email your photos to inbox@boob.ie

Hurray for boobies!

Soon we're all going to look this cool, all the time.

James Cameron might just be the most important man in history.

In the few short weeks since Avatar broke all sorts of records for ‘cinematic’ this and ‘moshun picshure’ that, the whole world has gone into a 3D FRENZY!!

Keeping reading “Avatar’s Instant Legacy”

According to the World Economic Forum Ireland is no longer top of the list for being a small open moist barely legal economy. We have been overtaken by Asian sluts Singapore and Hong Kong. Frankly I’m not surprised, being partial to some eastern promise. A fact that once got me forcibly removed from Spearmint Rhino in Vegas.

When asked an expert from the Institute for Economic Sluttiness said “If you look at the global financial meltdown as a bad dose of the clap, Ireland’s got a bad dose, everyone knows it, so to get any action Ireland needs to have serious protection to offer the Johns, Durex extra safe or equivalent, until the course of antibiotics has completed and the infection has been pissed out of the system it’s going to continue like that. But once the all clear comes though Ireland’s cry of ‘Stick it up me gowl’ will echo alongside the ‘Me so horny’ refrains from the east.

To put proof to the pudding that everything the EU tells us is more gospel than Michael Jackson showing up on an episode of Most Haunted, Talk To EU with ZooDigital are running a massive competition.

They’re looking for two blaggers, and let’s face it, we’re Irish it runs through our veins, to make their way through 16 EU countries in 20 days attempting to complete 12 tasks.  Oh and here’s the best bit.  ALL EXPENSES PAID!

Baz Ashmawy (some dude) and Siobhan O’Connor (Nyom nom nom) pictured to celebrate the launch of Eurotrip

"Captain Britain" wasn't quite as successful as his cross-atlantic counterpart

“Your name is on the list”