Old Knudsen: The Real Old Bitter Balls

Blogging is boring and only for losers and ex crabbers with no life. See me on Facebook as I reveal more about the perverted lonely individual pictured above. Old Bitter Balls himself in all his glory. (Or should that be glory-hole?)

Special Thanks

My special thanks to the Port Authority, Ellis Island, NYPD, Philip Morris, Colonel Sanders, Gilligan and the Skipper, the guy who invented ghey pornography, the hairy legged washed up B movie star who lives upstairs, and of course his royal highness Pope John-Paul III. No thanks however to Uncle Sam and all those assholes at City Hall who deported me for the minor offense of molestation in the subway. Thank you to the Romanian / Peruvian/ Australian / British / American / Serbian army for training me in the deadly arts of Special Farces, self-rimming and making me a deadly keeler. Thank you to Barry's Tea, Tayto crisps and Arthur Guinness. A special thanks to my right hand for now being my only companion. I love you too Lefty, but not quite as much. Thank you to MJ for introducing me to hordes of her dried up lesbian pen-pals and the smell of her gas. I now have more stored gas fragrances than Estee Lauder. But most of all, thank you to me. Without Knudsen the world would be shittier than a Harlem crapper after a half eaten bucket of greasy fried chicken. Duller than a blog dedicated purely to kittens and horses. Worse than the Beatles animated car-tune movie, and lastly, more lonely than an ageing female Canadian blogger.

The Real Old Bitter Balls

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