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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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