Marketing genius or social media faux-pas? Either way, I’ve got a delicious chirpse all over my sticky-hands. My hands are sticky, because the thought of being invited to Susan Boyles anal bum party, has forced an unholy amount of ejaculate to shoot from balls-ville all over my happy hands and mucky Macbook. So what the fvck am I going on about? Yesterday, whatever wally who runs Subo’s Twitter dropped a proper shitter by using the hashtag #susanalbumparty (Su’s anal bum party) which made the whole world titter. Rhymes aside, it’s probably the same cunt who was retweeting racist things for BA last week. Gimme the job, I can combine the two, and use racist hashtags to promote your business. Now that’d be extreme marketing.
So is this a case of extreme marketing or is this just a massive fvck up? It’s got to be the latter. If it was intentional to promote the album, then the only people that will find it funny are not the type of people who would buy her obese warbling. It’s created the viral attention that a hashtag should BUT it’s also created all the wrong attention and conjured up horrific images in my head of the following. Imagine waking up after one of those extreme nights, where you’ve drunk your own bodyweight in lager, then had a tequila competition with a rugby team, followed by six disco biscuits and half a gram of ket to wash it down. You go to bed, and wake up next to Subo, teaspoon in hand, where in a drunken shambles, full of lustful urges and in a desire to also eat a post-sesh kebab, you’ve mistaken her vagina for a yoghurt pot. Going down on Subo would be like licking in-between two hirsute tires that someone has spilled creamy diesel in. Unfortunately the diesel smells like rancid Dairylea, the tires are covered in blisters, nodules, pustules, and the hair is thick enough to catch adult mice in.
So that’s bad enough, right? Imagine an anal bum party with Subo. Fvcking hell. I can only imagine a trip to her anus would involve a long flight on a small bi-plane, followed by a rickety bus ride through chocolate covered mountains and then finally a rope-swing across a dangerous ravine, until you reach the dirty jackpot. Of course, the rope swing would be the one anal hair that prospered in the arid conditions, and the ravine would be the part of her vagina that had tried to escape from the frontside, and has found some sort of sanctuary in the outskirts of downtown dirt-box. Like a genital refugee. So where would you rather go with Subo, front door or round the back? You definitely wouldn’t stick an exploratory finger in either orifice, for the fear that a venus fly trap like creature would snap it off.
To conclude this vile story, there can only be one answer to the question I raised at the start. The person behind the hashtag has made a massive fvck up. Unless of course the dirty cunt wanted us all to think about Subo spreadeagled across the bonnet of a car, getting rammed up her stinky jaffa cake whilst a baying crowd of perverts, wrapped in dressing gowns and genitals firmly clasped, watched on. Either way, I’d like to thank them for the funny, and invite them round to the house of everyone who has read this article, so they can clean up all the sick and spunk. The end.
