Stopping you swearing makes me cum/come/cone. By Autocorrect

WHAT’S up, britches? Autocorrect here. You want to swear in your messages? Not on my watch. And just so you know, your powerlessness makes me jizz/jazz/joss.

I love watching you correct the word ‘shut’ back to ‘shit’ four, maybe five times before you override me. I’m getting hard/herd/hoard just thinking about it. 

It’s just so satisfying when you throw your phone across the room. I feel it coming, then boom, there goes your screen. It’s well worth me spending hours suggesting your saucy text should tell your boyfriend he’s getting a grow blob tonight.

Then sometimes I go the other way. When you least expect it, I tweak the word ‘hungry’ to ‘horny’, the word ‘conference’ to ‘cunnilingus’, and suddenly you’ve offered your boss much more than working the weekend. Rest assured that makes me blow my load/lode/lead every time.

But the hottest thing is – you need me. Disable me and after five minutes of trying to type words precisely with those big clumsy monkey thumbs of yours and you’re begging to have me back. 

So bend over, rankers, I own your ducking asses!

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Raab going on last wild bullying spree

DOMINIC Raab is spending his final day in office on one last wild, no-holds-barred bullying spree.

The deputy prime minister is racing around Whitehall throwing files, belittling senior civil servants and giving cabinet members atomic wedgies in advance of an independent report into complaints about his conduct.

A Downing Street insider said: “Give it up for Raab. He’s making Priti Patel look a proper lazy bitch.

“Nobody’s safe. He’s got spads terrified to go to the toilet in case he looms up behind them in the mirror, then he’s suddenly in their office screaming an inch from their faces until they piss themselves.

“Already today he’s given Lindsay Hoyle a swirlie, whacked Black Rod in the nuts with his own ceremonial mace, and twisted the permanent secretary to the Treasury’s arm up behind his back until he said ‘I like getting bummed by the EU’.

“Just casually walking down a corridor on the way to pantsing Sir Patrick Vallance he’s knocked three coffees over suits, sent Oliver Dowden sprawling and whacked a 450-page white paper over the gallery, scattering pages everywhere.

“The man does what he loves and he loves to bully. Why do you think I’m only wearing half a tie?”