Played 'I went to the supermarket and I bought' with my friends today... but with a sex shop, and this is what we got...
I went to the sex shop and I bought: Anal lube, butt plugs, a cock ring, a dildo, ear muffs, fanny flaps, gash implants, high heels, interesting pornos, jizz cream, kangeroo porn, lee's first porno, marshmellow flavour condoms, a necrophilia starter kit, orgasm juice, a penis enlarger, Queerology (the karma sutra for gays), a rhino shaped dildo, sexarama2 on DVD, a tranny, an ugly sex doll, vaginal exorcism (by kristian slater in 2005) , a wanker, an x-ray of someones penis, a yoyo shaped like boobs, and a zoology starter kit (a how to guide on how monkeys have sex in the wild in winter.)
Aren't we creative?
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
As much as I love him....
So I had a little drinky poo and a catch-up with a mate today. I know it's hard to believe I have mates... but sometimes people surprise you. Plus I paid him to be my friend.
ANYWAY. Enough about my social failure. We were talking and I realised he kept saying one phrase that was making me more and more angry...
"Well.... yes and no"
NO. THAT IS NOT A PHRASE. THAT IS A PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. I refuse to take that as an answer to any question I put to you, mainly because my questions are SUPER FRIGGIN' HARDCORE and need direct responses so I can fire more questions at you. Conversation work much better that way. If I ask you a question that has one of two answers and you give me both answers... I'm likely to not really understand WHAT THE FUCK YOUR ON ABOUT and get very very ANNOYED.
If, when he bought me a drink, which he did, because I kept beating him until he agreed to it, he had asked me 'What do you want to drink?', which again, he did, imagine his reaction if I had responded with:
"Well....coke and lemonade and blackcurrent and orange and lime and beer and wine and vodka and sherry and whiskey and rum and sambuca and absynth and water and J2O and brandy and port and a WKD and a VK and an alcohol free becks."
Clearly that's a FUCKING STUPID response.... NO-ONE drinks alcohol free becks.
ANYWAY. Enough about my social failure. We were talking and I realised he kept saying one phrase that was making me more and more angry...
"Well.... yes and no"
NO. THAT IS NOT A PHRASE. THAT IS A PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. I refuse to take that as an answer to any question I put to you, mainly because my questions are SUPER FRIGGIN' HARDCORE and need direct responses so I can fire more questions at you. Conversation work much better that way. If I ask you a question that has one of two answers and you give me both answers... I'm likely to not really understand WHAT THE FUCK YOUR ON ABOUT and get very very ANNOYED.
If, when he bought me a drink, which he did, because I kept beating him until he agreed to it, he had asked me 'What do you want to drink?', which again, he did, imagine his reaction if I had responded with:
"Well....coke and lemonade and blackcurrent and orange and lime and beer and wine and vodka and sherry and whiskey and rum and sambuca and absynth and water and J2O and brandy and port and a WKD and a VK and an alcohol free becks."
Clearly that's a FUCKING STUPID response.... NO-ONE drinks alcohol free becks.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Shower Dimples
With all due respect mister shower designers.... you are ridiculous.
Yesterday morning I was having my annual shower and there was a particularly unpleasant sensation in my foot. Kind of like a stabbing pain. But blunt. And with no penetration. Like stepping on a stone. But I wasn't stepping on a stone. Because I was in the shower. And showers don't have stones in you fucking idiot.
No, I was stepping on a shower dimple. This is not the correct term for what I was standing on. But I really can't be fucked to write 'one of those lumpy bits that shower designers put on shower floors to stop you from slipping over'.
So I was experiencing an unpleasant sensation in my foot due to a health and safety measure. Kind of like having to wear a seat belt when your younger but your parents can't afford a booster seat because they already had purchase the crowbar to steal the car you're in, so you won't have any funds for the next year or so. And the seat belt is digging into your neck, like a machete slowly carving into your jugular. Except this was like stepping on a stone. The two experiences are frighteningly similar. AND, whilst slightly off topic. I fucking hate seat-belts. they are bullshit. Sure they'll save your life... but they're uncomfortable and break your ribs. And if your fucking stupid enough to drive your car that forcefully into something that you'd catapult yourself through the windscreen then its probably saving more lives by you being dead and off the road to be honest.
So I'm standing on this shower dimple that is preventing me from slipping, and I decide that actually, its so uncomfortable that I'm going to have to move my foot off of it, because it is ruining my shower. So I slide my foot off of the dimple. A combination of shower gel and smooth shower floor leads to me slipping against the shower wall... which also happens to be the door, so it falls away leaving me falling out of the shower onto the radiator behind me. To which blood and lather and shampoo and pubes go everywhere, and I'm not due to have another shower untill 2011.
Needless to say, showers are a death-trap. And I can't help but feel they would be a safer place if they replaced shower dimples with seat-belts. Fucking morons.
Yesterday morning I was having my annual shower and there was a particularly unpleasant sensation in my foot. Kind of like a stabbing pain. But blunt. And with no penetration. Like stepping on a stone. But I wasn't stepping on a stone. Because I was in the shower. And showers don't have stones in you fucking idiot.
No, I was stepping on a shower dimple. This is not the correct term for what I was standing on. But I really can't be fucked to write 'one of those lumpy bits that shower designers put on shower floors to stop you from slipping over'.
So I was experiencing an unpleasant sensation in my foot due to a health and safety measure. Kind of like having to wear a seat belt when your younger but your parents can't afford a booster seat because they already had purchase the crowbar to steal the car you're in, so you won't have any funds for the next year or so. And the seat belt is digging into your neck, like a machete slowly carving into your jugular. Except this was like stepping on a stone. The two experiences are frighteningly similar. AND, whilst slightly off topic. I fucking hate seat-belts. they are bullshit. Sure they'll save your life... but they're uncomfortable and break your ribs. And if your fucking stupid enough to drive your car that forcefully into something that you'd catapult yourself through the windscreen then its probably saving more lives by you being dead and off the road to be honest.
So I'm standing on this shower dimple that is preventing me from slipping, and I decide that actually, its so uncomfortable that I'm going to have to move my foot off of it, because it is ruining my shower. So I slide my foot off of the dimple. A combination of shower gel and smooth shower floor leads to me slipping against the shower wall... which also happens to be the door, so it falls away leaving me falling out of the shower onto the radiator behind me. To which blood and lather and shampoo and pubes go everywhere, and I'm not due to have another shower untill 2011.
Needless to say, showers are a death-trap. And I can't help but feel they would be a safer place if they replaced shower dimples with seat-belts. Fucking morons.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Paper, rock and this game really really sucks
So paper, rock, scissors (or paper, scissors, stone as it is known by some morons) is an old classic that everyone knows how to play. If you don't know how to play then leave. Get out. Right now. Go.
I know you're still reading even though you have no idea how to play, so I'll explain to you. Each player, after a count of three, simultaneously creates one of three symbols with their hand. each of the three symbols beats another symbol and is beaten by another symbol, making every symbol equal in strength. Well at least it would... if the men didn't always go for rock, because subconsciously they like to compare themselves to something hard. And women always go for scissors because they like to compare themselves to something sharp. And nerds like me always go for paper against a man and rock against a woman because they are aware of these facts and think it makes them clever. It doesn't. it makes them stupid, moronic, and it makes it very clear that they have too much time on their hands.
But then stupid, moronic, 'too much time on their hands' nerds like me actually start thinking about how BOLLOCKS this game is. The principle is paper wraps rock, scissors cut paper, and rock blunts scissors. But if your rock blunted my scissors... then my scissors are not going to cut your paper at all! And depending on the size of your rock... my paper may not wrap it! And how is wrapping a rock beating it anyway... the main body of what still remains consists mainly of rock. Surely a rock could be used as a paperweight... to hold the paper down and stop it from using its amazing wrapping power... And cutting paper doesn't actually kill it... because besides the fact that none of these frigging objects are alive, cutting paper in half actually multiplies it... leading to many smaller sheets of paper, which may well be able to gang up on the scissors in an epic battle between good and evil, and eventually and defeat it with a right hook and a pickachu's thunder attack.
So actually... this game is BULLSHIT. Especially seeing as last time I played I chose scissors and the moron actually pulled a piece of paper out and sliced it between my incredibly accurate scissor mime, giving me the most painful paper cut I ever got. So infact, paper beat scissors.
WHAT A LOAD OF CHEESY COCK WANK
I know you're still reading even though you have no idea how to play, so I'll explain to you. Each player, after a count of three, simultaneously creates one of three symbols with their hand. each of the three symbols beats another symbol and is beaten by another symbol, making every symbol equal in strength. Well at least it would... if the men didn't always go for rock, because subconsciously they like to compare themselves to something hard. And women always go for scissors because they like to compare themselves to something sharp. And nerds like me always go for paper against a man and rock against a woman because they are aware of these facts and think it makes them clever. It doesn't. it makes them stupid, moronic, and it makes it very clear that they have too much time on their hands.
But then stupid, moronic, 'too much time on their hands' nerds like me actually start thinking about how BOLLOCKS this game is. The principle is paper wraps rock, scissors cut paper, and rock blunts scissors. But if your rock blunted my scissors... then my scissors are not going to cut your paper at all! And depending on the size of your rock... my paper may not wrap it! And how is wrapping a rock beating it anyway... the main body of what still remains consists mainly of rock. Surely a rock could be used as a paperweight... to hold the paper down and stop it from using its amazing wrapping power... And cutting paper doesn't actually kill it... because besides the fact that none of these frigging objects are alive, cutting paper in half actually multiplies it... leading to many smaller sheets of paper, which may well be able to gang up on the scissors in an epic battle between good and evil, and eventually and defeat it with a right hook and a pickachu's thunder attack.
So actually... this game is BULLSHIT. Especially seeing as last time I played I chose scissors and the moron actually pulled a piece of paper out and sliced it between my incredibly accurate scissor mime, giving me the most painful paper cut I ever got. So infact, paper beat scissors.
WHAT A LOAD OF CHEESY COCK WANK
Take that Take That...
I gotta admit it. Take That's new album is as lovable as a miniture kitten riding a miniture tortoise and mewing. And for this reason Take That, I FUCKING HATE YOU.
Now, my music taste generally sucks. When people are listening to the 'in' tunes, I tend to be jamming out to soundtracks from video games and movies... on my own... in my room... pretending to dance with this guy called Pete... but remember, he's not real (i'm 'on my own, in my room" remember?! keep up you twat!)
So when i downloaded Take That's album with the intention of going "Whats all the hype about? oh look, generic boy band songs, i wanna kill myself. DELETE", i was having a generically nice day.
Then i listened to the said album.
AND IT WAS FUCKING INTENSE!!!! What the fuck Take That!? And so now my life is ruined....
I played the album again REALLY LOUDLY, and my house mate heard. She ran upstairs, realised it was take that and then ran down the stairs screaming in pure horror, falling and hitting her head. Because of incredible loudness of my music I couldn't hear her fall, so it was fine cos I didn't care. Then because of my excessive jumping around to the AWSOMENESS of the album, I got hot, so I opened my window... Then all the neighbours heard and were so horrified by the amount of take that-ness that they called the police. When the police came around, I couldn't hear the sirens over my AWSOMELY loud music, so I just kept raving, leading the police to lob a smoke grenade through my window. I was then both blinded and aware that something weird was happening, so I headed down my AWSOME stairs in my AWSOME house listening to my UBER-AWSOME album, and because I couldn't see anything, fell over my unconscious and 'brain-bleeding all over the floor' housemate, smashing my nose on the wall. By this time, the police were on high alert because of the continuous Take That factor in the street, and the SWAT van came out. So SWAT men were shimmying up to my window, my nose was covered in blood and my housemate was dead on the floor. But did I care? HELL NO! Because the album hand just finished... and then STARTED AGAIN! :-D :-D
The police barged down my door, came in and grabbed one of my arms. I was jumping around with a HUGE smile on my face. The combination of smoke bomb, blue flashing lights and blood dripping down my face created an incredible rave/mosher type atmosphere. I turned to the policeman and said
"Can you believe this?! It's awsome! But its Take - "
The SWAT men reached my room and exploded my computer. The music stopped. My ears rang and an eerie silence filled my head. I entered a horrific rage...
I grabbed the policeman in the bollocks and twisted. I then tried to run up the stairs, screaming Take That lyrics to compensate for the lack of music. Tripping once again over my house mate, I fell up the stairs, falling into a SWAT man who was now coming down the stairs. As i fell into his legs, he fell forward on to me. My face smashed into the step, my crotch into my housemates head, and the SWAT man fell on top of me.
I woke up in hospital. I had bandages everywhere. my leg appeared broken, as did my arm. My face was evidently all bandaged up, and my nose felt crunchy. I had a drip, which I assume was giving me some sort of pain relief. I buzzed the nurse immediately and said
"Do you have a copy of Take-That's new album?"
She took my pain relief away. She never gave it back. She's a bitch. I hate her. I hate Take-That.
Now, my music taste generally sucks. When people are listening to the 'in' tunes, I tend to be jamming out to soundtracks from video games and movies... on my own... in my room... pretending to dance with this guy called Pete... but remember, he's not real (i'm 'on my own, in my room" remember?! keep up you twat!)
So when i downloaded Take That's album with the intention of going "Whats all the hype about? oh look, generic boy band songs, i wanna kill myself. DELETE", i was having a generically nice day.
Then i listened to the said album.
AND IT WAS FUCKING INTENSE!!!! What the fuck Take That!? And so now my life is ruined....
I played the album again REALLY LOUDLY, and my house mate heard. She ran upstairs, realised it was take that and then ran down the stairs screaming in pure horror, falling and hitting her head. Because of incredible loudness of my music I couldn't hear her fall, so it was fine cos I didn't care. Then because of my excessive jumping around to the AWSOMENESS of the album, I got hot, so I opened my window... Then all the neighbours heard and were so horrified by the amount of take that-ness that they called the police. When the police came around, I couldn't hear the sirens over my AWSOMELY loud music, so I just kept raving, leading the police to lob a smoke grenade through my window. I was then both blinded and aware that something weird was happening, so I headed down my AWSOME stairs in my AWSOME house listening to my UBER-AWSOME album, and because I couldn't see anything, fell over my unconscious and 'brain-bleeding all over the floor' housemate, smashing my nose on the wall. By this time, the police were on high alert because of the continuous Take That factor in the street, and the SWAT van came out. So SWAT men were shimmying up to my window, my nose was covered in blood and my housemate was dead on the floor. But did I care? HELL NO! Because the album hand just finished... and then STARTED AGAIN! :-D :-D
The police barged down my door, came in and grabbed one of my arms. I was jumping around with a HUGE smile on my face. The combination of smoke bomb, blue flashing lights and blood dripping down my face created an incredible rave/mosher type atmosphere. I turned to the policeman and said
"Can you believe this?! It's awsome! But its Take - "
The SWAT men reached my room and exploded my computer. The music stopped. My ears rang and an eerie silence filled my head. I entered a horrific rage...
I grabbed the policeman in the bollocks and twisted. I then tried to run up the stairs, screaming Take That lyrics to compensate for the lack of music. Tripping once again over my house mate, I fell up the stairs, falling into a SWAT man who was now coming down the stairs. As i fell into his legs, he fell forward on to me. My face smashed into the step, my crotch into my housemates head, and the SWAT man fell on top of me.
I woke up in hospital. I had bandages everywhere. my leg appeared broken, as did my arm. My face was evidently all bandaged up, and my nose felt crunchy. I had a drip, which I assume was giving me some sort of pain relief. I buzzed the nurse immediately and said
"Do you have a copy of Take-That's new album?"
She took my pain relief away. She never gave it back. She's a bitch. I hate her. I hate Take-That.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Neglect
I again appear to have neglected my blog, mainly due to me being a douche. So sorry for that...
I need to have a quick rant about my job. well. not really about my job. more about some people that do my job so FUCKING SLOWLY.
Its not even a hard job.
I'm an usher at the local theatre. Easiest job ever. Your lines consist of:
"sit down, shut up, watch the show" and then at the end you say "cheers, now get out" and clear up all the shit that they left behind. then you go home being paid for 4 hours work when really you only did about 1 hours work.
Problems arise when a stupid fat bitch on your team is sooooooooooooo slow at clearing up. The show finished, it was 9:15. Imagine you are working in the stalls (that's the bottom bit, stage level, for you un-educated folk) and everyone has just left, you have 300 seats to make sure are clean. you go along clearing up drinks, sweets, lolly sticks, mysterious substances (both brown and green) and as you get to the last 20 seats you realise that they spilled popcorn all over the floor. Bastards. But you brave it. you get your hands and scoop up all the popcorn. it seems like a never ending mountain, and with each scoop your hand gets more and more sticky, making this task all the more challenging. you wipe the sweat from your brow, smearing exploded corn particles all over your face, making you undesirably sticky and incredibly unattractive. But its your job. you need to do it. you need the money so you can afford everything your heart desires, like food and toilet paper. your not allowed to desire anymore, cos that's pushing it and at the end of the day, it ain't gonna happen no matter how much popcorn you clear up.
Having done that you can rest assured in the knowledge that it has taken you longer to clear 300 seats than it has for the girl upstairs to clear 100.
WELL YOU'D BE FUCKING WRONG!!!!
She is waddling down to the bar (the other end of the venue) to get a dustpan and brush. You casually ask her WHY she is walking slower than a cripple (minus the wheelchair) down to the bar, and she tells you, in a very cheerful way (because she really really REALLY enjoys her job) that someone seems to have spilt popcorn on the floor... so she NEEDS a dustpan and brush to sweep it up. WHAT THE FUCK. The bitch is so fat she probably spent her life eating popcorn of the floor, fucking hell. so then you walk with her, slower then your dead grandma walks, to go and get the dustpan and brush and then walk with her slower than the snail you just squashed under your shoe walks all the way back to the site of the crime, where you witness this mountain of popcorn she needs to sweep up.
You see 5 kernals.
5.
*explodes*
I need to have a quick rant about my job. well. not really about my job. more about some people that do my job so FUCKING SLOWLY.
Its not even a hard job.
I'm an usher at the local theatre. Easiest job ever. Your lines consist of:
"sit down, shut up, watch the show" and then at the end you say "cheers, now get out" and clear up all the shit that they left behind. then you go home being paid for 4 hours work when really you only did about 1 hours work.
Problems arise when a stupid fat bitch on your team is sooooooooooooo slow at clearing up. The show finished, it was 9:15. Imagine you are working in the stalls (that's the bottom bit, stage level, for you un-educated folk) and everyone has just left, you have 300 seats to make sure are clean. you go along clearing up drinks, sweets, lolly sticks, mysterious substances (both brown and green) and as you get to the last 20 seats you realise that they spilled popcorn all over the floor. Bastards. But you brave it. you get your hands and scoop up all the popcorn. it seems like a never ending mountain, and with each scoop your hand gets more and more sticky, making this task all the more challenging. you wipe the sweat from your brow, smearing exploded corn particles all over your face, making you undesirably sticky and incredibly unattractive. But its your job. you need to do it. you need the money so you can afford everything your heart desires, like food and toilet paper. your not allowed to desire anymore, cos that's pushing it and at the end of the day, it ain't gonna happen no matter how much popcorn you clear up.
Having done that you can rest assured in the knowledge that it has taken you longer to clear 300 seats than it has for the girl upstairs to clear 100.
WELL YOU'D BE FUCKING WRONG!!!!
She is waddling down to the bar (the other end of the venue) to get a dustpan and brush. You casually ask her WHY she is walking slower than a cripple (minus the wheelchair) down to the bar, and she tells you, in a very cheerful way (because she really really REALLY enjoys her job) that someone seems to have spilt popcorn on the floor... so she NEEDS a dustpan and brush to sweep it up. WHAT THE FUCK. The bitch is so fat she probably spent her life eating popcorn of the floor, fucking hell. so then you walk with her, slower then your dead grandma walks, to go and get the dustpan and brush and then walk with her slower than the snail you just squashed under your shoe walks all the way back to the site of the crime, where you witness this mountain of popcorn she needs to sweep up.
You see 5 kernals.
5.
*explodes*
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Things that UN-make my day
So today's kinda important for one reason or another and so I treat myself to a shave. Shaving is by far my LEAST favorite hygienic thing to do, just because its about as boring as watching Orlando Bloom (don't get me wrong, he's pretty to look at... but he kinda sucks), and because you always miss a bit which makes you look like a complete twat. Also, I am always very aware that I am bringing a very sharp object very close to my face. Of course, razors being interesting things... the MORE sharp objects on a razor the BETTER the razor... I can only assume this is because people like the thrill of almost cutting their own throats three times a week...
My hatred for shaving aside, this morning I was feeling pretty confident about the death defying stunt ahead of me being a success, and hence was in moderately good spirits. However on the can for the shaving gel i saw two words... which have made my day into a living hell.
One of them said 'Extra', the other one said 'Creamy'
I can see why this would confuse you, I was confused too! Why would anyone want their shaving gel to be 'creamy'? I then proceeded to shave as planned pondering the difference the 'extra creamy-ness' would have on my face. About halfway through my shave (after doing both sides and leaving a designer beard and mustache combo of shaving foam on my face) I stop and realize that this extra creamyness is doing nothing for my face. It then strikes me that the only thing that ever needs to be 'extra creamy' is food products, particularly cream based food products. I then proceed (like any normal yet confused human being) to squirt shaving gel into my mouth like I was eating a can of squirty cream.
Needless to say, it was FUCKING HORRIBLE, and made my entire throat feel like it was burning. I felt like I was going to be sick, the room was spinning, it burned right up to my nostrils, and worst of all it gave me hiccups and indigestion. I then tried to continue with the rest of my shave whilst chewing a Rennie.
The rest of the shave WOULD have been fine if the 'extra creamy' shaving foam hadn't fucked with my head, found its way down my throat and given me hiccups, because next thing I know every down stroke I take with my death implement (that's my razor for those of you who are retarded and can't keep up) I hiccup and cut my face. However I need to plod on with the shaving because otherwise, as I mentioned earlier, I would have looked like a complete twat. So I finish shaving my face, cutting myself with every stroke. And now I have to prepare to go to a funeral with a designer beard and moustache combo made of a mixture of blood, scabs and waterproof plasters (Which is more false advertising because they aren't waterproof at all, the fuckers just fall off.)
The moral of the story? People who work in advertising are cunts. Only use the word 'creamy' for shit that can be ingested. Fucking retards.
My hatred for shaving aside, this morning I was feeling pretty confident about the death defying stunt ahead of me being a success, and hence was in moderately good spirits. However on the can for the shaving gel i saw two words... which have made my day into a living hell.
One of them said 'Extra', the other one said 'Creamy'
I can see why this would confuse you, I was confused too! Why would anyone want their shaving gel to be 'creamy'? I then proceeded to shave as planned pondering the difference the 'extra creamy-ness' would have on my face. About halfway through my shave (after doing both sides and leaving a designer beard and mustache combo of shaving foam on my face) I stop and realize that this extra creamyness is doing nothing for my face. It then strikes me that the only thing that ever needs to be 'extra creamy' is food products, particularly cream based food products. I then proceed (like any normal yet confused human being) to squirt shaving gel into my mouth like I was eating a can of squirty cream.
Needless to say, it was FUCKING HORRIBLE, and made my entire throat feel like it was burning. I felt like I was going to be sick, the room was spinning, it burned right up to my nostrils, and worst of all it gave me hiccups and indigestion. I then tried to continue with the rest of my shave whilst chewing a Rennie.
The rest of the shave WOULD have been fine if the 'extra creamy' shaving foam hadn't fucked with my head, found its way down my throat and given me hiccups, because next thing I know every down stroke I take with my death implement (that's my razor for those of you who are retarded and can't keep up) I hiccup and cut my face. However I need to plod on with the shaving because otherwise, as I mentioned earlier, I would have looked like a complete twat. So I finish shaving my face, cutting myself with every stroke. And now I have to prepare to go to a funeral with a designer beard and moustache combo made of a mixture of blood, scabs and waterproof plasters (Which is more false advertising because they aren't waterproof at all, the fuckers just fall off.)
The moral of the story? People who work in advertising are cunts. Only use the word 'creamy' for shit that can be ingested. Fucking retards.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The tragic death of the mobile...
Again I havn't wrtitten in a long long time. But thats because I have generally been happy with the way the world is... Who am I kidding? I was so pissed off with the world that my brain exploded and i've been in hospital for the last two months. But i'm back and raring to go with a shiny new rant.....
Anybody who knows me in person (god help you) will probably have herd me rant about this before because it is a little pet peeve of mine....
Mobile phones are a god send. No more do we need to stick to arrangements we have made, because we can send a text to cancel and leave our freind in the lurch! Genius. But my main problem with mobile phones is thier battery life... When a mobile phone is about to die it delights in telling you just how close to death it is. But like an irritating family member it won't just tell you once, it will tell you OVER and OVER again. Now, humans are intelligent beings. We know this because when we are about to die, we conserve our energy in trying to last an incredibly long time, and only expend our energy in saying something of great importance, (such as a combination to the family safe, or the fact that he isn't even your real dad). Mobile phones seem to have a death wish, and when about to die they play a little fanfair and flash all of thier lights to signal how much they are dying. The equivilent to your dying grandfather leaning forward and whispering these final words into your ear "Did you know...... i'm dying?". And when your phone is having a little miniture death rave in your pocket, its too exhausted to be able to tell you that you got a text from your friend and he's standing you up. So you end up waiting for your friend.... all day.... looking like a total prick. Thanks.
Anybody who knows me in person (god help you) will probably have herd me rant about this before because it is a little pet peeve of mine....
Mobile phones are a god send. No more do we need to stick to arrangements we have made, because we can send a text to cancel and leave our freind in the lurch! Genius. But my main problem with mobile phones is thier battery life... When a mobile phone is about to die it delights in telling you just how close to death it is. But like an irritating family member it won't just tell you once, it will tell you OVER and OVER again. Now, humans are intelligent beings. We know this because when we are about to die, we conserve our energy in trying to last an incredibly long time, and only expend our energy in saying something of great importance, (such as a combination to the family safe, or the fact that he isn't even your real dad). Mobile phones seem to have a death wish, and when about to die they play a little fanfair and flash all of thier lights to signal how much they are dying. The equivilent to your dying grandfather leaning forward and whispering these final words into your ear "Did you know...... i'm dying?". And when your phone is having a little miniture death rave in your pocket, its too exhausted to be able to tell you that you got a text from your friend and he's standing you up. So you end up waiting for your friend.... all day.... looking like a total prick. Thanks.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Another Update for Geeks.
Okay, so I havn't written anything for ages, and there is a MASSIVE list of reasons that will both stun and amaze you. For this reason, I shall not tell you why I havn't written anything on my blog for almost two months, because I do not want you to be either stunned or amazed. I will instead reform back to my old style of writing and have a big old rant.
Video games take up a big chunk of my life. I enjoy them, and they provide a brilliant relief from the horror that is everyday life. This is why when a video game gets it horribly wrong, I get very very angry.
I understand some people are not going to be very familiar with video game lingo, and so i shall try and explain why i was so angry as simply as i can. I was playing a game where you control an army of wonderful creatures, that go around terrorizing the poor people that work in factories and mine shafts in order to gain resources to create more creatures to terrorize more poor labourers. So the concept is very simple. However there are also other players, going round terrorizing said workers for said mines and factories, and this is where your army comes in, because you don't want these people terrorizing the people that you were going to terrorize, or WORSE, they may be terrorizing the people that you already terrorized, and hence stealing your mine/factory. Is everyone still with me? Good. (And if your not still following then you are obviously retarded and should go and suck on a block of wood or something and leave me alone.)
I had been playing this ridiculously cyclic game for quite a while, and my army had a brilliant array of mystical creatures. I was particularly proud of my dragons that were made of black boners.... i mean bones, and breathed green jelly all over people to make them die. They cost a fortune in resources but somehow, mainly through my brilliance, i had managed to accumulate 14 of these amazing beings, and i was decimating people left right and center. I was so happy i jizzed in my pants without even using my hands.
Imagine my delight when out of the blue comes a computer controlled player with only 11 dragons. Some of you may be confused as to why i was delighted about this, but it's really very simple. I had more dragons than him. And dragons really could only be beaten by more dragons. And this player was in control of alot of mines, and so if i beat him, i would own all of his mines. Its kinda like monopoly but with gold pieces instead of paper money, and more monsters, and violence, and no banker, and no fiddly green houses that get stuck up your nose, and no arguments about who gets to be the fucking dog.
So i joyfully attacked this CPU, and his army of dragons came strutting up to me looking like a nerd who just got laid, so i sent my dragons straight at him to make them less smarmy. I lauch an all out attack and kill ONE of his dragons. I thought.... "Okay, maybe this isn't gonna be so easy, but i'm bound to win, i've got more dragons". So i sit there grinning to myself and wait for him to take his turn. He launches an all out attack against my dragons and kills ALL OF THEM.
WHAT THE FUCK?! Seriously. It's very simple you fucking retarded game designers.... I HAD MORE DRAGONS. Therefore i should win. Where the fuck were you when they covered video game FAIRNESS at uni you fucking pricks? I HAD MORE FUCKING DRAGONS. Sort it out you fucking morons.
Making this realisation, i then continued to rip my computer monitor off of my desk and throw it on the floor, before jumping up and down on it repeatedly, pissing on it like a dog would on a lamp post (as if to say "Take that lamp post, yeah! i'm pissing on you, and there's nothing you can do about it, you don't even have legs to chase me you fucking cripple lamp post.") and then slowly sobbing to myself and reaching for the vodka.
Almost two months later i stopped sobbing, put the vodka bottle down amongst all the other empty vodka bottles, and repurchased my monitor, enabling me to once again write on my blog as well as write the fucking cunty game developers a very angry letter very clearly stating thus:
"I HAD MORE FUCKING DRAGONS YOU ARSEHOLES"
Video games take up a big chunk of my life. I enjoy them, and they provide a brilliant relief from the horror that is everyday life. This is why when a video game gets it horribly wrong, I get very very angry.
I understand some people are not going to be very familiar with video game lingo, and so i shall try and explain why i was so angry as simply as i can. I was playing a game where you control an army of wonderful creatures, that go around terrorizing the poor people that work in factories and mine shafts in order to gain resources to create more creatures to terrorize more poor labourers. So the concept is very simple. However there are also other players, going round terrorizing said workers for said mines and factories, and this is where your army comes in, because you don't want these people terrorizing the people that you were going to terrorize, or WORSE, they may be terrorizing the people that you already terrorized, and hence stealing your mine/factory. Is everyone still with me? Good. (And if your not still following then you are obviously retarded and should go and suck on a block of wood or something and leave me alone.)
I had been playing this ridiculously cyclic game for quite a while, and my army had a brilliant array of mystical creatures. I was particularly proud of my dragons that were made of black boners.... i mean bones, and breathed green jelly all over people to make them die. They cost a fortune in resources but somehow, mainly through my brilliance, i had managed to accumulate 14 of these amazing beings, and i was decimating people left right and center. I was so happy i jizzed in my pants without even using my hands.
Imagine my delight when out of the blue comes a computer controlled player with only 11 dragons. Some of you may be confused as to why i was delighted about this, but it's really very simple. I had more dragons than him. And dragons really could only be beaten by more dragons. And this player was in control of alot of mines, and so if i beat him, i would own all of his mines. Its kinda like monopoly but with gold pieces instead of paper money, and more monsters, and violence, and no banker, and no fiddly green houses that get stuck up your nose, and no arguments about who gets to be the fucking dog.
So i joyfully attacked this CPU, and his army of dragons came strutting up to me looking like a nerd who just got laid, so i sent my dragons straight at him to make them less smarmy. I lauch an all out attack and kill ONE of his dragons. I thought.... "Okay, maybe this isn't gonna be so easy, but i'm bound to win, i've got more dragons". So i sit there grinning to myself and wait for him to take his turn. He launches an all out attack against my dragons and kills ALL OF THEM.
WHAT THE FUCK?! Seriously. It's very simple you fucking retarded game designers.... I HAD MORE DRAGONS. Therefore i should win. Where the fuck were you when they covered video game FAIRNESS at uni you fucking pricks? I HAD MORE FUCKING DRAGONS. Sort it out you fucking morons.
Making this realisation, i then continued to rip my computer monitor off of my desk and throw it on the floor, before jumping up and down on it repeatedly, pissing on it like a dog would on a lamp post (as if to say "Take that lamp post, yeah! i'm pissing on you, and there's nothing you can do about it, you don't even have legs to chase me you fucking cripple lamp post.") and then slowly sobbing to myself and reaching for the vodka.
Almost two months later i stopped sobbing, put the vodka bottle down amongst all the other empty vodka bottles, and repurchased my monitor, enabling me to once again write on my blog as well as write the fucking cunty game developers a very angry letter very clearly stating thus:
"I HAD MORE FUCKING DRAGONS YOU ARSEHOLES"
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Body Language....
Body Language......
The Language of the Body......
I can't believe you get psychologists and sociologists studying this crap. Seriously, what a load of WANK. I was in a workshop on it today, and my god was it hilarious. Did you know if my hand is open with the palm facing upwards while I'm speaking it means I'm on the same level as you, or below you, and if my hands the other way up it means I'm being assertive and am in a position of power? Apparently that's a fact.Nevermind the fact that I am obviously far supirior to you but have hideous, green, oozing, genital warts that have spread onto the backs of my hands from me polishing the old gherkin...and am therefore am not going to show them to you... infact, what i might do, is put my grotesque hands into my pockets.
NOOOOOOOOOO! Putting your hands in your pockets makes you look like a lower class slob with no qualifications except that one GCSE in art which you only got because you blew the teacher! You must NEVER EVER put your hands in your pockets.... fucking JOG ON!
NOOOOOOOOO! Never jog anywhere, or walk too fast as it implies that you are far to busy and important to help people. Well NEWSFLASH lady... I AM too fucking busy to help people.... that's why I'm FUCKING JOGGING! Twat.
NOOOOOOOOOO! Don't get angry and use bad language as it shows you are an angry person who uses bad language....... DOES IT???? REALLY?????? WELL FUCK ME SILLY I HAD NO FUCKING IDEA!
NOOOOOOOOO! You should never use sarcasm as it is a form of mocking, and makes other people feel upset and diminished.
Okay then lady. What CAN I do???
Well.... apparently, I can hold my arms in front of my body, with my head looking up and my gross warts staring every customer in the face and occasionally squirting green fluid at them. That way I can win the "Employee no one wants to touch, or go anywhere near, of the month" Award. Thanks. Useless fucking woman.
OH! Wait! Here's my last tip (and my personal favorite). If you ever want to be more persuasive towards someone, they are far more inclined to do it if you touch their elbow.
.....
......
.....
THEIR FUCKING ELBOW?!?!?!?! If some twat came up to me and grabbed my elbow and said "Fancy a shag?" I don't think the fact he grabbed my elbow is gonna have much significance on my decision to be honest. I think I'm gonna think he is a freak. And run away. Now if someone came up and grabbed my balls and said "Fancy a shag?" It'd be a far more successful story. Not because I'd say yes. More because I'd be very aware that he was likely to catch my warts and hence, piss myself laughing.... all over his hand.
Serves him right the dirty fucker.
The Language of the Body......
I can't believe you get psychologists and sociologists studying this crap. Seriously, what a load of WANK. I was in a workshop on it today, and my god was it hilarious. Did you know if my hand is open with the palm facing upwards while I'm speaking it means I'm on the same level as you, or below you, and if my hands the other way up it means I'm being assertive and am in a position of power? Apparently that's a fact.Nevermind the fact that I am obviously far supirior to you but have hideous, green, oozing, genital warts that have spread onto the backs of my hands from me polishing the old gherkin...and am therefore am not going to show them to you... infact, what i might do, is put my grotesque hands into my pockets.
NOOOOOOOOOO! Putting your hands in your pockets makes you look like a lower class slob with no qualifications except that one GCSE in art which you only got because you blew the teacher! You must NEVER EVER put your hands in your pockets.... fucking JOG ON!
NOOOOOOOOO! Never jog anywhere, or walk too fast as it implies that you are far to busy and important to help people. Well NEWSFLASH lady... I AM too fucking busy to help people.... that's why I'm FUCKING JOGGING! Twat.
NOOOOOOOOOO! Don't get angry and use bad language as it shows you are an angry person who uses bad language....... DOES IT???? REALLY?????? WELL FUCK ME SILLY I HAD NO FUCKING IDEA!
NOOOOOOOOO! You should never use sarcasm as it is a form of mocking, and makes other people feel upset and diminished.
Okay then lady. What CAN I do???
Well.... apparently, I can hold my arms in front of my body, with my head looking up and my gross warts staring every customer in the face and occasionally squirting green fluid at them. That way I can win the "Employee no one wants to touch, or go anywhere near, of the month" Award. Thanks. Useless fucking woman.
OH! Wait! Here's my last tip (and my personal favorite). If you ever want to be more persuasive towards someone, they are far more inclined to do it if you touch their elbow.
.....
......
.....
THEIR FUCKING ELBOW?!?!?!?! If some twat came up to me and grabbed my elbow and said "Fancy a shag?" I don't think the fact he grabbed my elbow is gonna have much significance on my decision to be honest. I think I'm gonna think he is a freak. And run away. Now if someone came up and grabbed my balls and said "Fancy a shag?" It'd be a far more successful story. Not because I'd say yes. More because I'd be very aware that he was likely to catch my warts and hence, piss myself laughing.... all over his hand.
Serves him right the dirty fucker.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Preggers?
So I went to the doctors today. Uni Doctors. And honest to god, two thirds of the waiting room population were visibly pregnant. Which means that it was likely that two thirds of the remaining un-visibly pregnant waiting room population were probably invisibly pregnant. and it makes you think.... why the hell would you get pregnant at uni? Surely that's just plain irresponsible? And secondly... HOW the hell did you get pregnant at uni?
Ok... so you're probably thinking that that's daft question. University is all about sex, of course you're likely to get pregnant. Well actually.... no. When you get to uni the very first thing you are taught is that every single other uni student probably has the clap, or syph, or AIDS, or scabies, or herpes, or some sort of green gooey discharge, and with that briefing you are given ten THOUSAND free condoms. You then live through your first week of uni thinking "Meh, they were probably lying, and I'm far to pissed to wrestle with a condom now". You then spend you're second week of uni worrying about the fact that it feels like you're pissing razorblades, and then the next 6 months of uni as that 'Guy/girl who slept with that guy/girl and got the clap/syph/AIDS etc....' And your sex life is OVER at uni.
But if you were sensible and tried to wear the freshers week condoms, (WHICH by the way... are NOT too small for you, that is a design so that the thing doesn't fall off...because it's not supposed to fit it like a fur coat... you fucking dick heads), then you probably live by them, because you know the above mentioned guy who slept with that girl who had the clap/syph/AIDS etc. and don't wanna end up like them. AND because you constantly get given more free condoms!!! Chlamydia screening? No thank you. But you get a free Chuppa Chups! No, seriously, I'm fine. But you get a big bag of FREE CONDOMS! ....
Yes... I know what you're thinking... you would have jumped straight in at the lolly pop. That's what I did. Plus my mate did it before and got a keyring too.... and it GLOWED IN THE FUCKING DARK.... which coincidentally... the condom also did. Which is something else I don't get... surely you put on a condom to put it IN somewhere.... where you're not gona be able to see it??? And surely having your/your partners dick glowing bright green is a bit of a turn off.... and would look all too similar to the STI's that you're trying to prevent yourself catching?! SERIOUSLY FUCKED UP!
And whilst in the waiting room (jumping back a bit) One lady came over to a pregnant woman and said "What are you here for? You're not due back for another 2 weeks." Turns out she'd popped in so she could get a form signed and be given some free food vouchers..... The nurse lady said "we don't make appointments just to fill out forms" and the woman said "yeah... but I'm missin out on money then ain't I?". Nurse " Do you work?" Woman "No." "Does your partner work?" "No." "You know these forms can be sent off right up until the baby is born, there's no rush.""Yeah but I'm missin out on money then ain't I?". I'll tell you what, I felt sorry for that poor child that hadn't even come into existence yet. So I went up to that woman and I punched her in the womb. Then she couldn't get her vouchers because she didn't qualify. Sucks to be her. Selfish bitch.
Ok... so you're probably thinking that that's daft question. University is all about sex, of course you're likely to get pregnant. Well actually.... no. When you get to uni the very first thing you are taught is that every single other uni student probably has the clap, or syph, or AIDS, or scabies, or herpes, or some sort of green gooey discharge, and with that briefing you are given ten THOUSAND free condoms. You then live through your first week of uni thinking "Meh, they were probably lying, and I'm far to pissed to wrestle with a condom now". You then spend you're second week of uni worrying about the fact that it feels like you're pissing razorblades, and then the next 6 months of uni as that 'Guy/girl who slept with that guy/girl and got the clap/syph/AIDS etc....' And your sex life is OVER at uni.
But if you were sensible and tried to wear the freshers week condoms, (WHICH by the way... are NOT too small for you, that is a design so that the thing doesn't fall off...because it's not supposed to fit it like a fur coat... you fucking dick heads), then you probably live by them, because you know the above mentioned guy who slept with that girl who had the clap/syph/AIDS etc. and don't wanna end up like them. AND because you constantly get given more free condoms!!! Chlamydia screening? No thank you. But you get a free Chuppa Chups! No, seriously, I'm fine. But you get a big bag of FREE CONDOMS! ....
Yes... I know what you're thinking... you would have jumped straight in at the lolly pop. That's what I did. Plus my mate did it before and got a keyring too.... and it GLOWED IN THE FUCKING DARK.... which coincidentally... the condom also did. Which is something else I don't get... surely you put on a condom to put it IN somewhere.... where you're not gona be able to see it??? And surely having your/your partners dick glowing bright green is a bit of a turn off.... and would look all too similar to the STI's that you're trying to prevent yourself catching?! SERIOUSLY FUCKED UP!
And whilst in the waiting room (jumping back a bit) One lady came over to a pregnant woman and said "What are you here for? You're not due back for another 2 weeks." Turns out she'd popped in so she could get a form signed and be given some free food vouchers..... The nurse lady said "we don't make appointments just to fill out forms" and the woman said "yeah... but I'm missin out on money then ain't I?". Nurse " Do you work?" Woman "No." "Does your partner work?" "No." "You know these forms can be sent off right up until the baby is born, there's no rush.""Yeah but I'm missin out on money then ain't I?". I'll tell you what, I felt sorry for that poor child that hadn't even come into existence yet. So I went up to that woman and I punched her in the womb. Then she couldn't get her vouchers because she didn't qualify. Sucks to be her. Selfish bitch.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Enquiry Centre.....
So, an Enquiry Centre was staring at me the other day. Practically FLIRTING with me. It was saying "Go on! Ask me anything *wink*". And at first I was quite embarrassed, but then I took her out for cocktails and everything was good...
But seriously, jokes aside, an Enquiry Centre SHOULD be somewhere you can go to ENQUIRE about anything you wish. In an ideal world, that is exactly how it would work. But as we all know by now this is not an ideal world, and things do not do exactly what they say on the tin. Infact, as I recently found out, all an "enquiry centre" does is wait for you to go in and enquire, and then tell you where you should go if you want your enquiry to be answered. Which is FUCKING STUPID! I KNOW if I need to enquire about finances, I should go to a financial enquires centre. Or if i want to enquire about my health, i would go to a health enquiry centre (a.k.a the doctors.) BUT if I have two separate things I need to enquire about, say... finance AND health, APPARENTLY I would be wrong to assume that a general "enquiry centre" would answer my questions, because what the enquiry centre does is send me to financial enquiry and health enquiry centre's. Which I could have gone to anyway because I'm not FUCKING RETARDED!!!!
All this could easily be solved, simply change the name of the Enquiry Centre to Enquiry Enquiry Centre. Then there would be no more confusion. Except no-one would use it because who would want to enquire about enquiries? At the end of the day we can come to the conclusion that the only reason it is just called an Enquiry Centre, is so people DO get confused and go in there. If it was named the more accurate "Enquiry Enquiry Centre" it would have about as much business as a hooker with no head and a smooth patch.
But seriously, jokes aside, an Enquiry Centre SHOULD be somewhere you can go to ENQUIRE about anything you wish. In an ideal world, that is exactly how it would work. But as we all know by now this is not an ideal world, and things do not do exactly what they say on the tin. Infact, as I recently found out, all an "enquiry centre" does is wait for you to go in and enquire, and then tell you where you should go if you want your enquiry to be answered. Which is FUCKING STUPID! I KNOW if I need to enquire about finances, I should go to a financial enquires centre. Or if i want to enquire about my health, i would go to a health enquiry centre (a.k.a the doctors.) BUT if I have two separate things I need to enquire about, say... finance AND health, APPARENTLY I would be wrong to assume that a general "enquiry centre" would answer my questions, because what the enquiry centre does is send me to financial enquiry and health enquiry centre's. Which I could have gone to anyway because I'm not FUCKING RETARDED!!!!
All this could easily be solved, simply change the name of the Enquiry Centre to Enquiry Enquiry Centre. Then there would be no more confusion. Except no-one would use it because who would want to enquire about enquiries? At the end of the day we can come to the conclusion that the only reason it is just called an Enquiry Centre, is so people DO get confused and go in there. If it was named the more accurate "Enquiry Enquiry Centre" it would have about as much business as a hooker with no head and a smooth patch.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Supermarket....
Have you ever been in such a good mood and thought "Shit! I need some bread!". I have.
Have you ever then thought "I should go to the supermarket and buy that bread that I so desperately need! Especially seeing as supermarkets are places full of joy and happiness and a visit there will most definitely not spoil my mood!". I have.
If you haven't done this, NEVER DO IT! YOU ARE LYING TO YOURSELF!
This is because the supermarket is by far the most depressing place in the world. Say you go in there.... looking for bread, cheese, beans, potatoes, and peas.
Bread - It's the middle of the afternoon, and most of the daily bread has gone, you're left with cheap brown bread that tastes like cardboard, bread that has green moldy syphilis patches, bread that hasn't finished being made (a.k.a. granary bread), and then you have that one remaining loaf of 'nice' bread. The one you usually buy! Which would be incredibly lucky, minus the fact that it's squashed into the corner of the shelf, with a few slices missing because some kid got hungry walking round the shop, and their bad influence of a mother pulled out a slice or two for them to nibble on, leaving the bread bag open for the it to go stale, and consequently you would much rather eat the syphilis bread that put the stale, child molested, half missing loaf anywhere near your shopping trolley.
Your next mission is then to navigate around the supermarket, with your trolley with a dodgy wheel, which (as it happens) isn't bad luck on your part. You always feel like it's always YOU that gets the trolley with the dodgy wheel, NEWSFLASH, there is no trolley with the dodgy wheel, ALL trolleys have a dodgy wheel, so your fucked from the start to be honest. The evidence for this is around you. Everyone is SO miserable! This is mainly because they have a trolley with a dodgy wheel. But it is also because majority of them are elderly, and lets face it, the elderly are never happy. You always get caught in a trolley jam as well. Which is nice, especially when you get stuck behind the legendary 'farting granny' who never seems to move unless she uses her own bodily gases to propel herself forwards.
Cheese - So you finally get to the wall of fridges, and the temperature has dropped so significantly that you have to pick up a freshly cooked chicken before hand so that you can keep your hands warm and prevent frostbite. You're at the milk, so logically, cheese would be close by. No. Actually, the designers of the supermarket thought it would be HILARIOUS to put the cheese RIGHT DOWN THE OTHER END. Fucking marvelous. So you trek down to the other end of the wall of fridges, trying to control your trolley over milk spillages, yogurt spillages and farting granny residue, until you finally reach the cheese. Now cheese is a wonderful thing. It's one of the only things (apart from wine) that gets more expensive the more it goes off. But the problem with the moldy cheese, is that no-one really wants to see it... and so they wrap it in foil. But then people want to make sure it IS moldy enough for their tastes, and take the foil off. They then realise its the right moldiness, and get a new one off the shelf. Leaving the moldy cheese out in the open to breathe. And suffocate others with its feet like stench.
Beans - The tin can isle is my favorite. Its all shiny, and clean, and looks like a wonderful fortress. And you never know what you're going to find in a tin can either! You get the usual, beans, tinned fruit, custard, meatballs, spaghetti shapes and letters (so you can spell 'cunt' with your food at a young age and eat it before the parents see). The you get the bizarre, like SPAM, oiled peanuts, or blow up dolls. And someone has always ripped the labels off some of the tins, so you never really know whats in them, it could be cat food.... or it could be the blow up doll that your cat really wanted ;-) There's always a spillage on the tin can isle as well, which is confusing. Some moron must have come in with a tin opener, opened a tin because he didn't believe the label, and then thrown it on the floor when he realised it actually was tuna fish, and not them curried sultana's that he really really wanted. Either that or its a small kid with an axe.....
Potatoes - The veg isle is a homeless mans delight. Too often have I seen a hobo sitting down to a three course meal of bananas, grapes, carrots and whatever other veg is out loose in the veg isle, just eating it straight out of the displays, grinning from ear to ear as the juice dribbles down his face. His gross, unwashed hands caressing all the loose fruit that you are going to buy. It's wonderful! I love a bit of grime on my aubergine! Potatoes that are kept safe from wandering hobo hands are in BIG heavy bags, and come in one of two ways, washed or UN washed. Now call me a snob..... but why the hell would I pay for dirt? If I wanted my veg unwashed, I'd have a hobo on a leash that could go round fingering all my food...
Peas - Finally we get to the frozen foods isle. And by now you are depressed. Very very depressed. You can see the checkout's, and there is one without a huge huge huge queue. The person sitting on the till looks like she dropped out of school at age 8 with six kids and another on the way, but there's no queue, so you hurry to find your peas. The freezer isle is the complete opposite to the fridge isle, its like being in the Sahara as the freezers expel all the heat, so you slowly take more and more layers off as you wander down the isle. Unfortunately, the farting granny and the homeless man have had the same idea, and they are getting naked too. Now I don't know if you've ever seen a homeless man without his fingerless gloves on... but I reckon it's a criminal offense for them to NOT wear them because his hands were like the scrotum of a fat guy with the clap. Next he goes to undo his hobo jacket... and it's all to much for you, so you throw yourself into the pea freezer, looking for that bag of pea's you so desperately need.You have to fight through all the split bags of peas first, but pushing the little green snowballs around has sent your finger temperature into a spasm and you can no longer feel your hands. You start getting flashbacks of your shopping experience as you reach the bottom of the freezer, the hobo and his clap hands massaging a pair of melons, the farting granny and her arousing aroma, the little kid with the axe in the tin food isle, the moldy cheese that smelt like your Aunt Dorris, the milk and yogurt spilled all over the floor, and your trolley with the dodgy wheel. But finally, having almost completely fallen headfirst into the freezer, you find a bag of peas that isn't split. You get the bag out of the freezer, shed a few frozen tears of joy, and then kill yourself because some fucker has run off with your trolley.
Have you ever then thought "I should go to the supermarket and buy that bread that I so desperately need! Especially seeing as supermarkets are places full of joy and happiness and a visit there will most definitely not spoil my mood!". I have.
If you haven't done this, NEVER DO IT! YOU ARE LYING TO YOURSELF!
This is because the supermarket is by far the most depressing place in the world. Say you go in there.... looking for bread, cheese, beans, potatoes, and peas.
Bread - It's the middle of the afternoon, and most of the daily bread has gone, you're left with cheap brown bread that tastes like cardboard, bread that has green moldy syphilis patches, bread that hasn't finished being made (a.k.a. granary bread), and then you have that one remaining loaf of 'nice' bread. The one you usually buy! Which would be incredibly lucky, minus the fact that it's squashed into the corner of the shelf, with a few slices missing because some kid got hungry walking round the shop, and their bad influence of a mother pulled out a slice or two for them to nibble on, leaving the bread bag open for the it to go stale, and consequently you would much rather eat the syphilis bread that put the stale, child molested, half missing loaf anywhere near your shopping trolley.
Your next mission is then to navigate around the supermarket, with your trolley with a dodgy wheel, which (as it happens) isn't bad luck on your part. You always feel like it's always YOU that gets the trolley with the dodgy wheel, NEWSFLASH, there is no trolley with the dodgy wheel, ALL trolleys have a dodgy wheel, so your fucked from the start to be honest. The evidence for this is around you. Everyone is SO miserable! This is mainly because they have a trolley with a dodgy wheel. But it is also because majority of them are elderly, and lets face it, the elderly are never happy. You always get caught in a trolley jam as well. Which is nice, especially when you get stuck behind the legendary 'farting granny' who never seems to move unless she uses her own bodily gases to propel herself forwards.
Cheese - So you finally get to the wall of fridges, and the temperature has dropped so significantly that you have to pick up a freshly cooked chicken before hand so that you can keep your hands warm and prevent frostbite. You're at the milk, so logically, cheese would be close by. No. Actually, the designers of the supermarket thought it would be HILARIOUS to put the cheese RIGHT DOWN THE OTHER END. Fucking marvelous. So you trek down to the other end of the wall of fridges, trying to control your trolley over milk spillages, yogurt spillages and farting granny residue, until you finally reach the cheese. Now cheese is a wonderful thing. It's one of the only things (apart from wine) that gets more expensive the more it goes off. But the problem with the moldy cheese, is that no-one really wants to see it... and so they wrap it in foil. But then people want to make sure it IS moldy enough for their tastes, and take the foil off. They then realise its the right moldiness, and get a new one off the shelf. Leaving the moldy cheese out in the open to breathe. And suffocate others with its feet like stench.
Beans - The tin can isle is my favorite. Its all shiny, and clean, and looks like a wonderful fortress. And you never know what you're going to find in a tin can either! You get the usual, beans, tinned fruit, custard, meatballs, spaghetti shapes and letters (so you can spell 'cunt' with your food at a young age and eat it before the parents see). The you get the bizarre, like SPAM, oiled peanuts, or blow up dolls. And someone has always ripped the labels off some of the tins, so you never really know whats in them, it could be cat food.... or it could be the blow up doll that your cat really wanted ;-) There's always a spillage on the tin can isle as well, which is confusing. Some moron must have come in with a tin opener, opened a tin because he didn't believe the label, and then thrown it on the floor when he realised it actually was tuna fish, and not them curried sultana's that he really really wanted. Either that or its a small kid with an axe.....
Potatoes - The veg isle is a homeless mans delight. Too often have I seen a hobo sitting down to a three course meal of bananas, grapes, carrots and whatever other veg is out loose in the veg isle, just eating it straight out of the displays, grinning from ear to ear as the juice dribbles down his face. His gross, unwashed hands caressing all the loose fruit that you are going to buy. It's wonderful! I love a bit of grime on my aubergine! Potatoes that are kept safe from wandering hobo hands are in BIG heavy bags, and come in one of two ways, washed or UN washed. Now call me a snob..... but why the hell would I pay for dirt? If I wanted my veg unwashed, I'd have a hobo on a leash that could go round fingering all my food...
Peas - Finally we get to the frozen foods isle. And by now you are depressed. Very very depressed. You can see the checkout's, and there is one without a huge huge huge queue. The person sitting on the till looks like she dropped out of school at age 8 with six kids and another on the way, but there's no queue, so you hurry to find your peas. The freezer isle is the complete opposite to the fridge isle, its like being in the Sahara as the freezers expel all the heat, so you slowly take more and more layers off as you wander down the isle. Unfortunately, the farting granny and the homeless man have had the same idea, and they are getting naked too. Now I don't know if you've ever seen a homeless man without his fingerless gloves on... but I reckon it's a criminal offense for them to NOT wear them because his hands were like the scrotum of a fat guy with the clap. Next he goes to undo his hobo jacket... and it's all to much for you, so you throw yourself into the pea freezer, looking for that bag of pea's you so desperately need.You have to fight through all the split bags of peas first, but pushing the little green snowballs around has sent your finger temperature into a spasm and you can no longer feel your hands. You start getting flashbacks of your shopping experience as you reach the bottom of the freezer, the hobo and his clap hands massaging a pair of melons, the farting granny and her arousing aroma, the little kid with the axe in the tin food isle, the moldy cheese that smelt like your Aunt Dorris, the milk and yogurt spilled all over the floor, and your trolley with the dodgy wheel. But finally, having almost completely fallen headfirst into the freezer, you find a bag of peas that isn't split. You get the bag out of the freezer, shed a few frozen tears of joy, and then kill yourself because some fucker has run off with your trolley.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Birthdays....
It was nobodies birthday today. I do not have a hilarious tale of birthday shenannigans to tell. So if you came here looking for birthday shenannigans.... you can fuck off.
I want to merely ask about the origins of the 'Birthday Candles'. Yes, you read it correctly, the candles. Not the cake. I cudn't give two wanks where the cake came from. Hell, christmas has a cake, weddings have cake, christenings have cake, baptism cake, 'cheer yourself up cake', 'our little girl just started her period' cake (with extra jam), and on the complete other end of the spectrum (and I quote Russell Howard so I don't get in trouble) the 'menopause' cake, (dry with with NO jam). But there is only one cake where it is compulsery to have candles... the Birthday Cake!
So it's your kids first birthday where he is old enough to understand what the fuck is going on, and he's having a lovely time. He's got a shit load of presents, had a load of crap food, he's got his friends around him, and all in all he is crazily hyperactive. Then Mummy and Daddy bring out a cake they have spent hours slaving over to make look like the face of one of his favourite TV characters (because for some reason adults think that children delight in devouring thier childhood hero...) and it has a big burning saftey hazard sticking out the top... one for each year of your life, just so as you get older and older, there is more and more chance of something going wrong and them "we symbolize life candles" actually end up killing you. Can you taste the irony? No, you can't yet, cos you havn't eaten the cake....
So let's just say for example that the cake makes its way SAFELY to the table. Depending on how far away the kitchen was to the table, you will now have a directly proportionate amount of candlewax ruining your lovely cake. Then everyone has to sing happy birthday whilst everyone watches the above candlewax creep further and further across the icing, making your lovely boys 'Thomas the tank engine' cake look like it has developed a serious case of facial herpes.
The singing is finished, and now comes the icing on the cake (yes, the pun was intended, and no you may not laugh, it was awful.). Your over excited, hyperactive, foaming at the mouth child now has to blow out these candles, projecting his saliva all over the cake. To which everyone responds with "YAY!" and then "Who's for cake?" to which everyone replies "YEAH!!!!"... except me, because I would feel like eating that cake would be like making out with said child after consuming a mouthful of candles.
The last bit of dialogue is sometimes not as listed above, because sometimes the child has so many firiends, or siblings, that they also want to blow out the candles, so they are relit, adding more wax, and then re blown out, adding more saliva. Meaning one slice of that cake is like a big child orgy in my mouth.
And it gets worse as you get older as well, because by the time your child is 80, and you are long gone from contracting facial herpes of the thomas cake you baked him when he was little, there will be even more candles. And if the old peoples home (unfortunately) doesn't burn down to the ground, your child, who now has no teeth to prevent not only spittle, but actual DRIBBLE falling out of his mouth, will have to take several attempts to get all 80 of them candles out. Not to mention the candle wax percentage has rocketed, meaning that there is no longer any need for icing on the cake, because by the time you have brought it from the kitchen and the candles are blown out, the combined wax and old person dribble will have created a lovely thick pink layer of goo ontop of the cake, just how you like it. And then all the other old people get jealous and then THEY want to blow the candles out and.... well.... you know how that ends.
The final mystery surrounding the birthday candles is the SHEER BRILLIANCE of the 're-lighting candle'. We all remember when our parents first bought re-lighting candles to use (for example) on your Great Uncle Albert's cake and didn't tell us, and he had to blow and blow, covering the cake in copius amounts of saliva, and still the candle would re-light, then he would start licking his fingers and trying to get them to stay out by tapering the ends. And still they re-light. and then he would start taking them out and get shouted at by your parents because aparantly 'the magic candles only go out if you keep blowing them' and he shouldn't spoil the illusion for the kids. So he blows and blows AND STILL THE CANDLES RE-LIGHT. But he keeps blowing, on and on, never stopping for breath, because he must get these candles to go out. For the kids. He kept blowing. Never stopping for breath.
And that was how Great Uncle Albert died.
So if you are thinking of buying re-lighting candles for someone... just don't.
I want to merely ask about the origins of the 'Birthday Candles'. Yes, you read it correctly, the candles. Not the cake. I cudn't give two wanks where the cake came from. Hell, christmas has a cake, weddings have cake, christenings have cake, baptism cake, 'cheer yourself up cake', 'our little girl just started her period' cake (with extra jam), and on the complete other end of the spectrum (and I quote Russell Howard so I don't get in trouble) the 'menopause' cake, (dry with with NO jam). But there is only one cake where it is compulsery to have candles... the Birthday Cake!
So it's your kids first birthday where he is old enough to understand what the fuck is going on, and he's having a lovely time. He's got a shit load of presents, had a load of crap food, he's got his friends around him, and all in all he is crazily hyperactive. Then Mummy and Daddy bring out a cake they have spent hours slaving over to make look like the face of one of his favourite TV characters (because for some reason adults think that children delight in devouring thier childhood hero...) and it has a big burning saftey hazard sticking out the top... one for each year of your life, just so as you get older and older, there is more and more chance of something going wrong and them "we symbolize life candles" actually end up killing you. Can you taste the irony? No, you can't yet, cos you havn't eaten the cake....
So let's just say for example that the cake makes its way SAFELY to the table. Depending on how far away the kitchen was to the table, you will now have a directly proportionate amount of candlewax ruining your lovely cake. Then everyone has to sing happy birthday whilst everyone watches the above candlewax creep further and further across the icing, making your lovely boys 'Thomas the tank engine' cake look like it has developed a serious case of facial herpes.
The singing is finished, and now comes the icing on the cake (yes, the pun was intended, and no you may not laugh, it was awful.). Your over excited, hyperactive, foaming at the mouth child now has to blow out these candles, projecting his saliva all over the cake. To which everyone responds with "YAY!" and then "Who's for cake?" to which everyone replies "YEAH!!!!"... except me, because I would feel like eating that cake would be like making out with said child after consuming a mouthful of candles.
The last bit of dialogue is sometimes not as listed above, because sometimes the child has so many firiends, or siblings, that they also want to blow out the candles, so they are relit, adding more wax, and then re blown out, adding more saliva. Meaning one slice of that cake is like a big child orgy in my mouth.
And it gets worse as you get older as well, because by the time your child is 80, and you are long gone from contracting facial herpes of the thomas cake you baked him when he was little, there will be even more candles. And if the old peoples home (unfortunately) doesn't burn down to the ground, your child, who now has no teeth to prevent not only spittle, but actual DRIBBLE falling out of his mouth, will have to take several attempts to get all 80 of them candles out. Not to mention the candle wax percentage has rocketed, meaning that there is no longer any need for icing on the cake, because by the time you have brought it from the kitchen and the candles are blown out, the combined wax and old person dribble will have created a lovely thick pink layer of goo ontop of the cake, just how you like it. And then all the other old people get jealous and then THEY want to blow the candles out and.... well.... you know how that ends.
The final mystery surrounding the birthday candles is the SHEER BRILLIANCE of the 're-lighting candle'. We all remember when our parents first bought re-lighting candles to use (for example) on your Great Uncle Albert's cake and didn't tell us, and he had to blow and blow, covering the cake in copius amounts of saliva, and still the candle would re-light, then he would start licking his fingers and trying to get them to stay out by tapering the ends. And still they re-light. and then he would start taking them out and get shouted at by your parents because aparantly 'the magic candles only go out if you keep blowing them' and he shouldn't spoil the illusion for the kids. So he blows and blows AND STILL THE CANDLES RE-LIGHT. But he keeps blowing, on and on, never stopping for breath, because he must get these candles to go out. For the kids. He kept blowing. Never stopping for breath.
And that was how Great Uncle Albert died.
So if you are thinking of buying re-lighting candles for someone... just don't.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Molehill to mountain....
Ever go out for one little thing and end up on an EPIC adventure?.... no, me neither.
But last night I DID go out for one little thing and end up on a mediocore adventure...
I was sposed to be going out for dinner with an old friend, at at first I really couldn't be arsed because I was pretty determined to do some work that evening, but I thought 'what the hey!' and went out because I am SOOOOOOO hardcore. So we went out for dinner and were having a nice calm time, untill we saw some OTHER people that neither of us had seen for a long time either... then dinner turned into drinks, drinks turned into a club... and as often happens after that, the club turned into A COMPLETE DISASTER. There were six of us at this point, plus me, and we were having a great time, except 5 of us had been there since 9, and two girls weirdly turned up at about half midnight and took control of the whole night, leading us to a club none of us had ever heard of, and then expecting us to just follow them. Unfortunately, circumstance had it that we had no choice to follow them, seeing as two of us were staying at thier house, and of the three remaining, one of them was the birthday boy and was quite up for going. But then after paying an ridiculous amount of money to get into this feeble excuse of an establishment, two of us (the two staying at the two girls who just turned up's house) felt a little sick and just wanted to go home. The two girls that just turned up didnt want to go home, because they'd just turned up. The rest of us were more than happy to go home (but were a little peeved that we just payed money to get into somewhere we were only in for an hour). and to make things worse, birthday boy's girlfriend has just called up to shout at him! Yipee!!!
Now... the issue in this story is all about who was in the right. The two that felt sick couldn't leave because they needed to stay at the two who turned up late. The two that turned up late had the power because if they didnt want to go home... the other two obviously couldnt go with them. But is that fair? Surely if you offer someone a space in your house its because you want that person to come out and hence they are your friend? and surely if everyone else wants to go home... you should follow suit? All the evidence points to this very clear fact. Letting someone stay at your house because they live 40 miles away shouldn't give you power, and if you act like it does, you are obviously a dickhead that doesn't deserve the friends you've got.
But last night I DID go out for one little thing and end up on a mediocore adventure...
I was sposed to be going out for dinner with an old friend, at at first I really couldn't be arsed because I was pretty determined to do some work that evening, but I thought 'what the hey!' and went out because I am SOOOOOOO hardcore. So we went out for dinner and were having a nice calm time, untill we saw some OTHER people that neither of us had seen for a long time either... then dinner turned into drinks, drinks turned into a club... and as often happens after that, the club turned into A COMPLETE DISASTER. There were six of us at this point, plus me, and we were having a great time, except 5 of us had been there since 9, and two girls weirdly turned up at about half midnight and took control of the whole night, leading us to a club none of us had ever heard of, and then expecting us to just follow them. Unfortunately, circumstance had it that we had no choice to follow them, seeing as two of us were staying at thier house, and of the three remaining, one of them was the birthday boy and was quite up for going. But then after paying an ridiculous amount of money to get into this feeble excuse of an establishment, two of us (the two staying at the two girls who just turned up's house) felt a little sick and just wanted to go home. The two girls that just turned up didnt want to go home, because they'd just turned up. The rest of us were more than happy to go home (but were a little peeved that we just payed money to get into somewhere we were only in for an hour). and to make things worse, birthday boy's girlfriend has just called up to shout at him! Yipee!!!
Now... the issue in this story is all about who was in the right. The two that felt sick couldn't leave because they needed to stay at the two who turned up late. The two that turned up late had the power because if they didnt want to go home... the other two obviously couldnt go with them. But is that fair? Surely if you offer someone a space in your house its because you want that person to come out and hence they are your friend? and surely if everyone else wants to go home... you should follow suit? All the evidence points to this very clear fact. Letting someone stay at your house because they live 40 miles away shouldn't give you power, and if you act like it does, you are obviously a dickhead that doesn't deserve the friends you've got.
Friday, March 05, 2010
Ooo'er....
So today I get a free moment to write some blog, and over the past couple of days I've had a couple of moments where I've said to myself "I can moan about that in my blog!!!"... but I've forgotten what most of them were, so instead I shall talk about online gameplay in the current generation of game systems...
Why are online players such twats? Seriously, they are just retarded. I think when you access online gameplay you should have to do an IQ test just to make sure your behaviour is socially acceptable, because some people are just retarded. GTA4 has a brilliant setup of online game modes, so if you wana shoot stuff, you can shoot stuff, and if you wana drive round happy, you can drive round happy. Wanna drive round angry? Brilliant! We've got a separate game mode for that too!!! BUT... because retards own game consoles (because they can afford them as the government pays you money to be retarded these days), all of these brilliant modes get SMOOSHED together, and you get angry drivers on the calm driving mode, and people that want to shoot the shit out of you on the "Lets live harmoniously" mode... This is irritating to say the least.
But it doesn't stop with the governmentally funded retards either, you also get the other end of the spectrum... the HACKERS. Now these guys are BRILLIANT, thats all that can be said, they have the creative genius to hack into the games coding, and edit it so it works in thier favour, which would be great, if they did it in a way that wasn't completely obvious... for example make the game run so you have unlimited grenades, because as soon as the other players realise you keep respawning with grenades which you shouldn't have, they don't want to play any more! It's simple... people don't like playing with cheats...
The moral of this story is - The concept of bringing people all over the world together through gaming is a charming notion.... however we do have to accomodate for the retards in this world, and hence it is no longer a charming notion, but more like an oppertunity to start feeling suicidal prematurely and wanting to take the world and all the people in it with you.
Why are online players such twats? Seriously, they are just retarded. I think when you access online gameplay you should have to do an IQ test just to make sure your behaviour is socially acceptable, because some people are just retarded. GTA4 has a brilliant setup of online game modes, so if you wana shoot stuff, you can shoot stuff, and if you wana drive round happy, you can drive round happy. Wanna drive round angry? Brilliant! We've got a separate game mode for that too!!! BUT... because retards own game consoles (because they can afford them as the government pays you money to be retarded these days), all of these brilliant modes get SMOOSHED together, and you get angry drivers on the calm driving mode, and people that want to shoot the shit out of you on the "Lets live harmoniously" mode... This is irritating to say the least.
But it doesn't stop with the governmentally funded retards either, you also get the other end of the spectrum... the HACKERS. Now these guys are BRILLIANT, thats all that can be said, they have the creative genius to hack into the games coding, and edit it so it works in thier favour, which would be great, if they did it in a way that wasn't completely obvious... for example make the game run so you have unlimited grenades, because as soon as the other players realise you keep respawning with grenades which you shouldn't have, they don't want to play any more! It's simple... people don't like playing with cheats...
The moral of this story is - The concept of bringing people all over the world together through gaming is a charming notion.... however we do have to accomodate for the retards in this world, and hence it is no longer a charming notion, but more like an oppertunity to start feeling suicidal prematurely and wanting to take the world and all the people in it with you.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
2 Days....
Well, its been two days since the last blog post... so I'm needing to rant a little bit. The rant from Sunday surrounds bar crawls. We were on a bar crawl sunday night, and were having an absolutely EPIC time, before we left the house. As soon as we left all sorts of shit was going on. We left later than the crawl started, (naturally, cos we live with girls who decide its a BRILLIANT idea to start getting ready just as we should be leaving....), and were already wrecked, so decided to sprint round the first 2 bars that we'd missed. As we got to the first bar, it was closing. WHAT THE FUCK?! It was half past 9... a bar should NEVER shut at half past 9. But we thought "Fair enuf" and moved on to the next one. We get into the next one and it is empty, but this is one of the only bars that wasn't a huge dissapointment. We had the quickest drink ever known and stumble on to the next bar, which is where we caught up with the crowd. Unfortunately, this ment waiting half an hour for drinks, but never mind... When we finally got our drinks you had a 50/50 chance of drinking it, either the glass hadn't been washed and was so sticky it melded itself onto your hand, OR they'd washed it without drying it and it was so slippy you picked it up and automatically dropped it... I drunk mine because it stuck to my hand. My friend didn't because hers was wet still and sliped out of her hand and smashed into millions of tiny pieces that were hence scattered throughout the galaxy. So in true traditional style, we legged it. Next bar, again waiting ages for a drink, and by the time we were served I needed the toilet soooooo bad that I took my drink with me. Now, why in bar's do they always think about the toilets LAST? Because if they thought about them first, they wouldn't be in such a ridiculous place would they? These toilets were an epic journey that no drunk man could ever be prepared for, and by the time you'd actually found the toilets (to the back of the pub, turn 180 degree's and find a magical door that is hidden round a corner, go down a spiral staircase and follow the corridor round a full 270 degree's hence arriving at the toilet not only half pissing yourself but also very dizzy), you had to overcome one last trial... deciding which toilet is the ladies and which is the gents when both signs are blank... Taking a random gamble, I went left, and was successful (unless they've started puting urinals in the ladies toilets now for them 'talented' ladies?). However after I came out, I had to stand there for half an hour as a human signpost directing people to the correct toilets. In the end, i got pissed off. And took someones marker pen and defaced the entire area surrounding the toilet so that it was very VERY clear which toilet people should use. But, as a drunk man, I needed both my hands to do this, and I was still holding my untouched drink that I had purchased, not to recently any more. So I picked the nicest looking girl waiting outside the toilets for her friend and asked her incredibly politely "Would you mind holding this while I make it obvious where people need to pee?" and she was very nice and held my drink for me with a smile. WELL OF CORSE SHE HELD IT FOR ME! AND OF CORSE SHE SMILED!!! No-one turns down a free drink do they? Needless to say, when I returned, my drink was hardly enough to be considered a drink... more a very depressing looking brown dribble in the bottom of a glass. And again, needless to say, I had not had a very good experience in this bar either. Moving on to the next bar, it was about a 15 minite walk, and then a 15 minite queue, and then as soon as we set foot in there a glass smashed rite in front of my feet after being thrown right across the bar. FUCK THAT! Next bar was like a giant tent, and hence smelt of camping, mouldy pants and athletes foot. So we left there pretty quickly as well, especially as it was getting more and more busy as people realised the previous bar had violent tendancies. Next was the end point, the club. But looking at the time, it was not even 12, and so we figured we'd go home and drink some more for free, then walk back to the club at around 1-ish. So we did, and on the way home a bunch of girls came along and started to steal my clothes. Now, I enjoy fancy dress nights, but when I have to buy the same tie 3 times because every time I go out wearing it it gets stolen, i am not gona let it get nicked. And this girl grabbed it.... so I ended up bartering with a girl FOR MY OWN CLOTHES... what a tramp. I got the tie back, and we went home, when a friend of mine thought it would be a great idea to by the new Michael Jackson film (also known as "Michael Jackson: Now He's Dead We Can Make Money!") using my account on my playstation. Brilliant. Her reasoning for buying it... "I didn't know what it did, so I just kept fiddling with it till something happened." Well if she uses that philosophy in life, shes bound to go far... with 12 kids and a fine for benefit fraud. We left to go back to the club at one, got there at quater past one, and were turned away because they wern't letting any more people in. Apparantly they were "closed." YOU DONT CLOSE TILL THREE YOU WANKERS!? Why stop paying customers from coming in with two hours left to go?! People are so fucking retarded.
The moral of the story is..... WHENS THE NEXT BAR CRAWL!?!?!?!? Cos I can't wait! :-D
The moral of the story is..... WHENS THE NEXT BAR CRAWL!?!?!?!? Cos I can't wait! :-D
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The first boring day....
Wow.... four days on and I get to a block in writing a daily blog.... Literally nothing fun or exciting has happened today, apart from the fact i've stayed in my PJ bottoms and not put a top on. Which sounds like the makings of a good day right? A lazy day where we don't even need to get dressed... not really fun or exciting is it? Yet when someone asked me what I'd done today and I said "Absolutely nothing"... they say "It's alright for some!". Well actually no. It's not alright for some. It's not actually alright for any. It's actually awful. If you were really envious of me doing nothing and being bored shitless all day... then I dread to think what you did!!! So I asked them. "So what did you do today that was so bad?" and they said "Not much... Went shopping with my friends, bought some clothes, went to pizza express, found some money down the side of my chair, came home and it was really tidy because someone had cleaned the house while I was out, and now i'm getting ready to go out and get wasted.".... It's a hard life ain't it? Cunt.
Friday, February 26, 2010
E-mails
Okay, so tonight I'm gonna go and see my other half in a play... Yay! It was lucky because I almost didnt manage to get tickets, but I managed to book them before they sold out, however it was only two days ago, and so there isn't really the time to send them to me... But do not fear! because a helpful email will be sent to you that you can print out and take with you that will act as your ticket! Hooooray! So I bought the tickets... and recieved three e-mails. Yep, not the one handy email i was expecting, but three very UN-handy emails, all giving useless information which I am pretty sure is not going to get me into this play... Which leads me onto how POINTLESS most automated e-mail sevices are. Some of them are incredibly handy, but most of them tell you things you already knew, like what I used to pay for my tickets, or where my tickets are being sent. I know what I used... BECAUSE I BLOODY USED IT! If you are seriously too incapable of remembering what you used to pay for things, or where you sent something, then thats your own problem. I don't think us normal people should be sent ridiculous e-mails reminding us what we did just moments after we actually did it. And if you are going to send us an email full of useless information, can you send us ONE email full of useless crap, because in sending us three emails full of useless crap, we have to take time out of our day to look at each of them individually and say "Oh look! its another email of useless crap", because heaven forbid if you just delete that email without checking that it is useless crap, it won't be, it will be notification of a rather large re-embursement that you need to recieve by replying to that email, which you won't do, because you assumed it was useless crap and just deleted it. Automated e-mail systems are ruining the e-mailing fun for everybody, and for that, I am NOT grateful.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Survival of the gym...
WTF just happened in my life?! One moment I was on the cycling machine... next thing I know I couldn't see and im dripping like a tap. The only solution I could think of was to collapse on the floor, so thats what I did. I dunno how long I was down there, but some woman came over to me from the treadmill to check if i was alrite. I told her I was, and she randomly asked me again, and I told her I was fine (again), and that I just needed to get my energy back, to which she replied "I'll just go get someone then." Now this is the reason people get virus's on thier computer. I understand that is a big leap in convosation topic, but I swear to you they are linked. I keep getting these lovely people come up on msn trying to add me as a friend. And being a wonderful person as I am, I always oblige and click 'add'. Now these people are wonderful!!! Truly brilliant!!! First, they ask me if i'm a man, and no matter what I reply with they always come to a conclusion that I want to see them naked and ask me to follow a link. Now, because I'm not a four year old mentally retarded sheep, I can see this is a virus... HOWEVER if i was friends with the girl from the tredmill, and was used to her twisted convosation patterns and thought processes like "He's told me he's fine twice.... maybe that means he needs help...", I mite find a thought pattern like "I asked him if he was a man, and he told me to fudge off cos he was on farmville having a WHALE of a time!!!! So, OBVIOUSLY he wants to see me rub my titties on webcam!" quite acceptable... Hence I have only to conclude that those mentally retarded sheep virus's are made only for that girl from the treadmill's friends, who (lets face it) really don't deserve access to the internet anyway...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
So...... blogging eh?
So all these people are getting these blog things and I figured "You know what... its been a while since I did anything remotely creational... and I fail at keeping a diary... so I might as well keep a bloggy thing.... plus I need somewhere to put all my random thoughts into." So then i came over to this place and set up an account.... and hence the epic journey begins...
Thought of the day revolves around mothers.... How do they manage to make you feel like it would have been better if you had never been born all the while you are living at home and then as soon as you leave home, they miss you so much they speak to you for an hour and a half on the telephone... AND REFUSE TO LEAVE!? What is that all about?! How many times do you have to say "Alright mum I have to go now!" before they stop telling you about how the fridge broke in the shop or how your father caught worms off of next doors cat? I'll tell you how many times, because I counted, THIRTEEN. No word of a lie boys and girls, thirteen times I had to say that line before I could finally remove that handset away from my ear and allow myself to shutdown and reboot....
If anyone has anything to add to this thought, give us a comment! (By us I mean me.... mild scitzophrenia starting to appear I think) :-) And i think that will do for my first blog entry....
Thought of the day revolves around mothers.... How do they manage to make you feel like it would have been better if you had never been born all the while you are living at home and then as soon as you leave home, they miss you so much they speak to you for an hour and a half on the telephone... AND REFUSE TO LEAVE!? What is that all about?! How many times do you have to say "Alright mum I have to go now!" before they stop telling you about how the fridge broke in the shop or how your father caught worms off of next doors cat? I'll tell you how many times, because I counted, THIRTEEN. No word of a lie boys and girls, thirteen times I had to say that line before I could finally remove that handset away from my ear and allow myself to shutdown and reboot....
If anyone has anything to add to this thought, give us a comment! (By us I mean me.... mild scitzophrenia starting to appear I think) :-) And i think that will do for my first blog entry....
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