A Collection of Instantaneous Inclinations

Monday, 13 December 2010

The Human Race: An Example of Shoddy Workmanship On God's Part

I was walking around earlier and noticed that my hands were a bit cold. It was then that the thought occurred to me that the human race are an example of shoddy workmanship on God's part. Reason being, if I was walking around in my completely natural state, a.k.a stark-fucking-bollock-naked, as naturalists argue that I ought to, my entire body would have been as cold as my hands. This seems to me to be a fundamental flaw in our design. It's not even that cold outside and I would've been in a right state. To be perfectly honest I would've been shivering my tits off. And yet, do any of us see the common household cat or dog shivering their tits off in this current climate? No we fucking don't. My cat for one has been strolling in and out of doors as if they were both of the most perfectly agreeable temperature, not even bothering to exclaim 'Cor, bit nippy outside isn't it?' upon her re-entry into the house. I'll tell you why, it's because God put a bit of work in and designed her properly. He was a bit clever and gave her some fur, which would even get a bit thicker as things got colder, thus being perfectly adapted to her natural climate without the need for a coat or anything.
What I'm trying to say is, when the day came around for God to design the human race, he couldn't be fucking bothered. He pushed the boat out initially by making us bipeds (presumably so that we could play football easier), but then after that he began slacking.
"So are you going to put fur on them then God?" asks his angel secretary. God sighs and has a sit down, clicks the t.v on.
"Nahhh..." he says. The angel looks bemused.
"..What, really? Well are you going to give them some sort of means of keeping warm then? Like, I dunno, whatever the fuck lizards do or some shit?"
"Yeah yeah in a minute."
"Well are you going to or not?"
"Look I'm nackered alright?"
"God I really think you ought to..."
"Fine!" he huffs in the manner of a sulking teenager, and zaps some hair onto us.
"God you've only done the scalp and a few other choice areas which I won't go into because I'm a bit prudish. That's hardly sufficient to..."
"Look, I'm sure they'll figure out a way of sorting it out."
And indeed, we did. We had to fucking make clothes, as if we didn't have anything better to do like trying to fucking survive. To make matters worse, unless we sleep in a fucking comfortable bed we end up with a bad neck in the morning. I've never seen a fucking duck complaining about having an aching neck after they sleep by tucking their head under their wing in a preposterous manner, and yet if our head is positioned slightly askew when we go to bed it's stiff-neck o' clock the next day. Yes indeed my fellow humans, we are the living example of the 'it'll probably sort itself out' attitude.
What does a tiger do if it's a bit hungry? It uses it's God-given strength and agility to go and fuck up another animal and eat it raw.
What does a human do? It constructs a hunting weapon because we're nowhere near quick enough to catch up with any other animal on Earth and looks around for ages for something because our sense of hearing and smell is nowhere near good enough to track others animals instinctively, then when we're lucky enough to catch something we have to cook it before we eat it otherwise we'll get the shits, and if you don't fancy that you can go forraging for stuff that will also most likely give you the shits.
Basically, we got fucked over. I reckon the reason God sent his son down to cheer us up is because he felt so bad for making us an absolutely terrible race of creatures, and then we nailed him to a cross for some fucking reason, probably because he rubbed our noses in the fact that he could turn water into wine and we can't.
"Fucking hell. It takes us ages. We have to grow grapes, then pick them, then put them in a massive tub and step on them and stuff. We're a joke. At least donkeys can make a fucking funny noise, what the hell can we actually do?" many were heard to lament.
So yes, I hope that I've proved that the human race is a piss-poor attempt at a species on God's part. However, saying that, we learnt how to make electric guitars and they're fucking wicked.
(Kirk sees a rabbit in the distance tearing out a scorching solo on a self-made electric guitar which is better than an American Fender)

Fucking hell.

I Wanna Be Your Lover, Says Prince

I've noticed a trend in the lyrics of popular music. For the most part, they are declarations of the protagonist's feelings, or proposals for some form of activity to occur (usually sex, even prior to marriage).This strikes me as a somewhat selfish.
There ought to be more consideration for the other person's feelings when it comes to the protagonist's utterances. It strikes me that the person they're singing to might not always want to make sweet love immediately or hear about how much they love them. They might have had a fucking long day, and they might appreciate it if somebody took an interest in their hardships for once rather than just assault them with a series of vulgar boasts.
'I Wanna Be Your Lover' by Prince is a prime example of the kind of thing I'm talking about. This young lady he's singing to didn't ask for this barrage of truths on his part. She might have just wanted to talk about the episode of the Simpsons that was on yesterday. Instead, we get a tyrannical outburst from the tiny song-smith, a frankly repugnant repetition of the fact that basically he wants to get her knickers off. Why doesn't he ask her how she'd feel about this situation?
Here are my suggestions for improvements in the lyrics.
"I ain't got no money
I ain't like those other guys you hang around,"
Being a bit unfair on her friends, aren't you? If you have any respect for her as a person than you ought to give these fellows she hangs around with the benefit of the doubt, seeing as she clearly deems them worthy of her company. Also, she didn't ask about your financial situation. She might be suffering some monetary woes herself, but you wouldn't know that would you, because you didn't bother to ask.
Improved version: "Hi, how are you? You alright for money at the moment?
How are your friends? They seem really nice but I've never spoke to them."
See, that's much better isn't it? Here's another example:
"I wanna be your lover
I wanna be the only one that makes you come running
I wanna be your lover
I wanna turn you on, turn you out, all night long make you shout."
Highly inappropriate and verging on chauvinistic. It should have been more like this:
"Would you like to go and get a drink sometime?"
There, much better. Just bear these things in mind in the future, songwriters. People you're writing songs about are not objects, they have thoughts and feelings too.

Sunday, 19 September 2010

Library (Lie-berry)

I've been working at my local Civic Centre recently, and on my lunch break I have been known to frequent the adjoining library for use of their computers. During these half-hour periods (yeah I only take a half-hour lunch. It's a matter of personal preference) I've noticed that the exact same people are there every single day, banging away on the computer keyboards. Consequently, I have been led to ponder as to what the fuck they're doing on the computers every single time and why none of them appear to have jobs. One of the regulars, who shall hereby be referred to as Mr. Comb-Over coz he's got an obscene comb-over, always has a rucksack with him and he jabs at the keyboard so hard you would think he had a personal vendetta against it. Due to my mind craving for some excitement after the previous hours I have spent staring at Microsoft Excel, I've come to the conclusion that he murdered his wife (who is in the rucksack) because she kept rinsing him for his shitty comb-over (think Bobby Charlton timesd by a million) and he keeps going on the computers to try and locate a decent dumping ground by searching on Google. He's probably hitting the keyboard so hard because he's so nervous about searching for a dumping ground for corpses.
I've also seen this cold-blooded killer in my local Wetherspoons, where no-doubt he often openly brags about how he murdered his wife.
"Oh yeah?" asks the other Harrow Wetherspoons regular who looks like Santa Claus. (He really does.)
"Yeah. She's in my rucksack."
"Well why did you bring it with you?"
"What?"
"You should've just left it at home, why did you bring it to the pub, and to the Civic Centre library?"
"....Well I'm not sure actually..."
"You mug, I'm gonna call the police, it'll serve you right for being such a shit murderer," threatens Santa, retrieving his 3310 from his pocket.
"Aw nah Santa don't, don't be out of order!" Mr. Comb-Over pleads, tustling with Santa for the phone. During the brief scrap Mr. Comb-Over's comb-over starts flapping around wildly and begins to look much more like a strand of sea-weed.
"I was only joking," Santa says and puts his phone back.
"Yeah well I didn't even kill my wife anyway, Kirk made the entire story up because he was bored in his lunch-break."
"Cor...you just went and broke the fourth wall, you did."
"I never!"
"You bloody did, you interrupted the course of the fictional narrative with information that our characters would have no way of knowing. You broke the fucking fourth wall."
"Yeah well so what, what's the fourth wall ever done for me?"
Anyway, of course there are plenty of other regulars at my Civic Centre library on the computers, but he looked the funniest so I thought I'd just talk about him.
But yeah have you ever noticed how library sounds like lie-berry? Might be something to look into.

An Account Of The First Ever Lament

I take you to the days just after Adam and Eve got booted out of the Garden of Eden, which shall hereby by referred to as 'The Slightly Shit Age'.
So yes, thanks to Eve being a stupid bint (although to be honest the Bible was written in a ridiculously patriarchal time so we can't take its version of the events as fact, it might have actually been Adam's fault) humanity is left to wander about just outside the Garden of Eden, with nothing to do really. One particular human feels somewhat down about this situation. He has taken to wandering the wastes alone, reflecting upon his life, his emotions, and his current situation. His insular mood has progressed to the stage that he even feels the need to speak his thoughts aloud....
And, thus...history is made....
He puts a weary hand to his brow and lets forth what shall henceforth become known as a 'lament'.
"Oh woe is me; I long for my younger carefree days when I toiled in the luscious meadows of the Garden of Eden. My soul was brighter then, and my ambitions intact, untouched by the grounding realities of responsibility. Now, here I stand, a wearied and disillusioned 'man', with not a place nor a purpose..." he says in a really fucking moany voice. Another human overhears this thoroughly self-indulgent monologue and feels compelled to comment.
"What the fuck was that all about mate?" he asks, quite bluntly.
"Hmm?" the lamenter in question enquires.
"What you did just then. You kept going on about stuff to yourself in a melancholic fashion. I just wondered what the fuck that was all about?"
"Oh. Urm, I dunno really. I just felt a bit like....lamenting," he explains. Having to think on his feet for the word to describe this new activity, he glanced around and saw a lamp and a bag of cement, and combined the two words in haste. If you want to know what a lamp and a bag of cement were doing in this particular area at this particular time, press your red button now.
"Shouldn't you be doing something more useful with your time?" the man asks.
"Well what's it got to do with you anyway?"
"Well nothing I suppose, it just seemed like it was a bit of a waste of time."
God overhears this altercation and feels the need to step in.
"I'm going to have to stop you there, lamenting is a perfectly acceptable thing to do and I'm grateful for this young fellow for inventing it. Shakespeare is going to make an entire fucking career out of it one day, and without him people would have nothing to talk about in English GCSE classes, and thus the educational system would collapse," God explains. However, he only went and forgot that not everybody is omniscient, so the two humans are well and truly unimpressed by his listing of a whole bunch of things that haven't fucking happened yet.
"What are you on about mate?" one of them asks.
"Yeah, first you boot us out of the Garden of Eden for pretty much doing fuck all, admit it, and now you come down here and just talk a load of bollocksing shit. Where do you get off? What is your problem?" the other asks. Red-faces all round for the one-and-only God at this point.
"Urm...nah I was just saying leave it out coz lamenting is good, so..." he stammers, shuffling his feet.
From this point on, the muted silence of 'The Slightly Shit Age' was filled by the thousands of laments from its many occupants. Some were better than others. An example of a lament from a somewhat dim-witted human goes as follows: "This isn't as good as other things that have happened. I think I prefer some other stuff, but I dunno. I just feel a bit down."
However, things swiftly changed when somebody invented air hockey and the foundations of civilization as we know it were developed from this starting point. Over and out.

Porky Pig Needs To Fucking Chill Out

The scene, Warner Brothers' board room. The conversation:
"We need one more character," says Mr. Warner.
"Yeah alright," says an employee. The other Warner brother has nothing to add on the matter. He's far less keen than the other brother. In fact, he always wanted to be whatever the early 20th Century version of a rock star was. Probably a prick in a jazz band or something.
"Don't you think brother?" asks the keen Warner brother.
"Yeah," he says in a thoroughly droll voice. When recalling the board meeting afterwards, most of the participants mention the severely droll quality of this utterance, and liken it to the drollness of a motherfucking cow's moo or something.
"Well what sort of character, should it be another animal or a completely random human like Elmur Fudd or Yosemete Sam?" asks an employee. What the fuck do those two character get out of hanging around with a bunch of animals anyway? Bloody perverts.
"Urm...animal I reckon. Seems right. In truth I kind of regret the creation of Elmur Fudd because he's like somebody's creepy uncle or something, and I don't need that sort of rep for my company. I dunno why we made him sound like Jonathan Ross either," Mr. Warner muses.
"Who?"
"What?"
"Anyway, yeah okay, what animals haven't we used yet?" asks an employee who's getting a bit big for his boots. His boots literally don't fit.
"We haven't used.....snails, or a giraffe..." an employee suggests.
"Are you fucking winding me up? A giraffe? How the fuck are we supposed to anthropomorphisise that? He'd be so fucking tall, it'd look shit. And what would his personality be? 'Oh, I'm a giraffe, I'm a bit nervous and tall,' blah blah. Boring. Shit. Try again," says Mr. Warner. The employee who said it is sweating like mad now.
"Well...we wouldn't necessarily have to anthropomorphisise it...."
"Oh my lord, are you fucking serious? So what we've got a talking rabbit and his pet fucking giraffe? That just fucks everything up, why would the rabbit be able to talk and not the giraffe? That's even worse than that dog in Disney who isn't Goofy," Mr. Warner flips.
"Oh I don't know....I'm just trying to...." the employee flusters. The other Warner brother has started playing on his gameboy by now.
"How about a pig?" another employee chips in.
"Go on..." Mr. Warner encourages.
"Well yeah, a pig, called...Hammy Pig..."
"Nah."
"Porky Pig?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah a pig called Porky Pig and he's always well angry."
"Nah Daffy's quite angry."
"Hmm yeah. So's Donald Duck actually."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing, I'm just saying."
"Are you saying I ripped off Donald Duck? He can't even fucking talk, he sounds like he's been kicked in the throat."
"I didn't mean anything by it."
"I should hope not."
"Anyway, how about we give him a speech impediment?"
"But Daffy and Elmur Fudd have already got speech impediments," the previously flustered employee points out.
"Yeah but it cracks people up doesn't it?"
"Not really."
"Anyway yeah we can give him a stutter."
"Brilliant," Mr. Warner claps, "Draw him. Give him a gay little jacket as well I reckon."
"That kind of ruins continuity a bit. Why does he get clothes and the others don't?"
"Elmur Fudd's got clothes," the other employee says.
"I should fucking hope so," the lazy Warner brother chuckles.
"Oh NOW you pipe up," the keen Warner brother says in an annoying whiny voice.
"Oh here we fucking go," he sighs and accidentally puts a tetris piece in the wrong place and loses the game.
Basically, that guy was about to get the best score in tetris ever but he only just missed out on it because of the Porky Pig issue distracting him, which is why in his revenge he made it so that Porky Pig was generally a shit character and he never did anything funny. And it turns out the two Warner brothers weren't even actually brothers!!