Just for you... these are my final words.
I'm leaving. On a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.
Except I do know. I wont be back. But do not worry... I have RE-LOCATED!!!
'That Random Spot' has been given a NEW LOOK. It's now sexier than me!!! So follow me over there by clicking >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> HERE
Cheers for reading my shizzle on blogspot guys. I may shout and swear a lot and generally be angry, but it means a lot that you read it.
Peace out and all that!
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Logical Thinking
A conversation on the old Book of Faces with the author of 'Old Newwby', it makes alot of sense....
His general query was why my blog is superior to his blog in almost every way, apart from the fact his looks infinitely better cos he's a giant nerd. My response consisted of me generating a superb excuse for why I don't blog very often. Not because I'm lazy (which is the truth), but because if you write 17,000 blog posts a day... your gonna lose the funny....
As he is but a lowly heterosexual male, (arguably), I put this explanation into the best possible metaphor I could. I talked to him about sex.
"You know how sex is good.... and too much sex seems good..... but isn't because suddenly your cock is rubbed raw and stings like a beast. that is a prime example of 'too much of a good thing'. As a result... your sexual capabilities become less, because you have a sore cock. this is the side effect of 'too much of a good thing'. Too much funny writing tires your funnyness out, and then you just end up being shit in bed."
This is a perfectly understandable metaphor. Even for an arguably straight man. However his response made me think otherwise:
"I understood as far as 'sex is good', read as far as 'too much sex seems good' then decided to skip to the end, got the punchline and realised you were writing about having poor sexual stamina.
I can't sympathise."
This confirmed my theory that he is but a lowly and questionably heterosexual male. But disproved my 'too much of a good thing' theory.
Turns out his blogs just not funny because he's not funny.
His general query was why my blog is superior to his blog in almost every way, apart from the fact his looks infinitely better cos he's a giant nerd. My response consisted of me generating a superb excuse for why I don't blog very often. Not because I'm lazy (which is the truth), but because if you write 17,000 blog posts a day... your gonna lose the funny....
As he is but a lowly heterosexual male, (arguably), I put this explanation into the best possible metaphor I could. I talked to him about sex.
"You know how sex is good.... and too much sex seems good..... but isn't because suddenly your cock is rubbed raw and stings like a beast. that is a prime example of 'too much of a good thing'. As a result... your sexual capabilities become less, because you have a sore cock. this is the side effect of 'too much of a good thing'. Too much funny writing tires your funnyness out, and then you just end up being shit in bed."
This is a perfectly understandable metaphor. Even for an arguably straight man. However his response made me think otherwise:
"I understood as far as 'sex is good', read as far as 'too much sex seems good' then decided to skip to the end, got the punchline and realised you were writing about having poor sexual stamina.
I can't sympathise."
This confirmed my theory that he is but a lowly and questionably heterosexual male. But disproved my 'too much of a good thing' theory.
Turns out his blogs just not funny because he's not funny.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Chlamydia pants
I'm wearing new pants. Pants which I believe to be both morally, and sociologically WRONG.
As a student, I am very aware of the current health risks involving sexual intercourse. One quick thrust without a johnny, and WHAM, you've got pus and other miscellaneous discharge shooting out of every orifice, and then have to do the walk of shame in the morning to the STI clinic where everyone has the same symptoms and its a massive great food fight in the waiting room... except instead of custard pies, its infected jets of yellow grossness that looks like.... well.... custard.
Well at least that's how it happened for me...
I am pleased to say that my treatment went well, and I shall never ever dip my lolly in a hobo's bargain bucket unprotected EVER AGAIN... (unless my student loans run out and I'm desperate.)
I learnt Saturday night however, that there is a rare strain of chlamydia known as 'Spectral Chlamydia' that can lie dormant in your ball-sack and chow down on all your spermies. Meaning you can not make little growing fetus's with your woman friend. We all know why this is bad of course. It would be the END of the stem cell research program, and that would be pretty damn awful.
To combat this outbreak of 'Phantom Chlamyda', the local weirdo's who like collecting other peoples piss came to our club and were doing tests to locate the ghouls in our bollocks. Now I may just be a prude, but I am not pissing on demand for ANYBODY, and I feel my testes on a regular basis for abnormalities, and I had never felt any paranormal activity down there, so I was pretty sure I was safe. The only thing that bothered me is that they were giving away free pants...
The pants are red. The waistband is black, with white writing, sporting the slogan 'I've Been Tested'. People were pissing in a pot, and exchanging their urine for pants to tell the world they had been tested. TESTED FOR WHAT?! WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!?!? HOW DOES THIS MAKE YOU ANYMORE TRUSTWORTHY THAN A PERSON THAT HASN'T BEEN TESTED FOR A MISCELLANEOUS REASON?!?!?!?
Fucking retards.
PLUS. Even if they said 'I've been tested for paranormal chlamydia' that still gives you no additional information about the person wearing them. It doesn't say FUCK ALL about the results of the test! I was tested for allergies to peanuts. The results came back saying I was allergic. If I go round wearing boxers that say 'I've been tested' and people assume it means 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy' They'd be correct. But if they make the double assumption that 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy and it came back clear' then they fed me a peanut, I would be break-dancing on the floor in a very 'I-just-drunk-a-lot-of-bubble-bath' kinda way...
People who do the test for 'Ghostly Chlamydia' must also have some sort of insecurity that they may have it, meaning they probably do. So half the people walking round the club in these pants probably had a poltergeist in their fleshy walnut.
Needless to say, I wanted a pair. My social craving to be normal was rapidly growing, but it was having a little fight with my personal standards on pissing in a pot (and getting it all over your hands, because there is no way you can piss in such a thin tube without getting it all over your hands.) It was like the angel on my shoulder fighting the devil... except less gay... and with guns.
Then, a miracle happened. On top of the fruit machine were a pair of pants. Lying there... disowned. Like a puppy in a cardboard box left out in the rain next to a trash can. Except it was not a sad moment. It was like a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can when all you wanted was to find a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can. And let me tell you, it feels good.
I rushed over to the pants... sneakily looked around, there was no-one immediately close by. I swipe the pants and thrust them into my pocket. No-one punches me. I jump for joy as I realise no-one is going to dismember me for robbing their pants, and I then inspect the goods. There are no rips, no holes, nothing wrong with these pants at all. Apart from the bit where your meat sack would sit. That area was a bit wet... and gross. Images of Incorporeal Chlamydia Ectoplasm leaking out of the previous owners testicles filled my mind. I vomit. I get distracted by the lights of the fruit machine flashing. Cram the pants in my pocket, and tell myself I must wash the pants before I wear them. Then I go and get some tequila shots to celebrate.
I wake up in the morning. I have a headache. I am in bed, covered in my own vomit, wearing nothing but the gross ectoplasm pants. Ironically, I believe I caught chlamydia from pants promoting chlamydia eradication.
Fail. Just Fail.
As a student, I am very aware of the current health risks involving sexual intercourse. One quick thrust without a johnny, and WHAM, you've got pus and other miscellaneous discharge shooting out of every orifice, and then have to do the walk of shame in the morning to the STI clinic where everyone has the same symptoms and its a massive great food fight in the waiting room... except instead of custard pies, its infected jets of yellow grossness that looks like.... well.... custard.
Well at least that's how it happened for me...
I am pleased to say that my treatment went well, and I shall never ever dip my lolly in a hobo's bargain bucket unprotected EVER AGAIN... (unless my student loans run out and I'm desperate.)
I learnt Saturday night however, that there is a rare strain of chlamydia known as 'Spectral Chlamydia' that can lie dormant in your ball-sack and chow down on all your spermies. Meaning you can not make little growing fetus's with your woman friend. We all know why this is bad of course. It would be the END of the stem cell research program, and that would be pretty damn awful.
To combat this outbreak of 'Phantom Chlamyda', the local weirdo's who like collecting other peoples piss came to our club and were doing tests to locate the ghouls in our bollocks. Now I may just be a prude, but I am not pissing on demand for ANYBODY, and I feel my testes on a regular basis for abnormalities, and I had never felt any paranormal activity down there, so I was pretty sure I was safe. The only thing that bothered me is that they were giving away free pants...
The pants are red. The waistband is black, with white writing, sporting the slogan 'I've Been Tested'. People were pissing in a pot, and exchanging their urine for pants to tell the world they had been tested. TESTED FOR WHAT?! WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!?!? HOW DOES THIS MAKE YOU ANYMORE TRUSTWORTHY THAN A PERSON THAT HASN'T BEEN TESTED FOR A MISCELLANEOUS REASON?!?!?!?
Fucking retards.
PLUS. Even if they said 'I've been tested for paranormal chlamydia' that still gives you no additional information about the person wearing them. It doesn't say FUCK ALL about the results of the test! I was tested for allergies to peanuts. The results came back saying I was allergic. If I go round wearing boxers that say 'I've been tested' and people assume it means 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy' They'd be correct. But if they make the double assumption that 'I've been tested for a peanut allergy and it came back clear' then they fed me a peanut, I would be break-dancing on the floor in a very 'I-just-drunk-a-lot-of-bubble-bath' kinda way...
People who do the test for 'Ghostly Chlamydia' must also have some sort of insecurity that they may have it, meaning they probably do. So half the people walking round the club in these pants probably had a poltergeist in their fleshy walnut.
Needless to say, I wanted a pair. My social craving to be normal was rapidly growing, but it was having a little fight with my personal standards on pissing in a pot (and getting it all over your hands, because there is no way you can piss in such a thin tube without getting it all over your hands.) It was like the angel on my shoulder fighting the devil... except less gay... and with guns.
Then, a miracle happened. On top of the fruit machine were a pair of pants. Lying there... disowned. Like a puppy in a cardboard box left out in the rain next to a trash can. Except it was not a sad moment. It was like a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can when all you wanted was to find a puppy left out in the rain in a cardboard box next to a trash can. And let me tell you, it feels good.
I rushed over to the pants... sneakily looked around, there was no-one immediately close by. I swipe the pants and thrust them into my pocket. No-one punches me. I jump for joy as I realise no-one is going to dismember me for robbing their pants, and I then inspect the goods. There are no rips, no holes, nothing wrong with these pants at all. Apart from the bit where your meat sack would sit. That area was a bit wet... and gross. Images of Incorporeal Chlamydia Ectoplasm leaking out of the previous owners testicles filled my mind. I vomit. I get distracted by the lights of the fruit machine flashing. Cram the pants in my pocket, and tell myself I must wash the pants before I wear them. Then I go and get some tequila shots to celebrate.
I wake up in the morning. I have a headache. I am in bed, covered in my own vomit, wearing nothing but the gross ectoplasm pants. Ironically, I believe I caught chlamydia from pants promoting chlamydia eradication.
Fail. Just Fail.
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